When I’m 64…

Modeling after a hiatus

Mar 16, 2024

I have been a nude male model for over 25 years and, during the recent pandemic of these past few years, my sessions had been curtailed. Until recently.

There is a great venue in Ware, Massachusetts, a place called Workshop13, where many talented artists draw and paint from a live model every Monday evening.

The combination of turning that ripe age, coupled with the absence of presenting myself in my birthday suit for the duration of time made me hesitate to accept the invitation to model there once again.

I hesitated because for over two years I had not posed in the nude for any artist, and I felt that I was not worthy to stand on a pedestal for sundry artists, given my age and the noticeable atrophy of muscle mass that I had been known for.

The instructor, Mr. Roc Goodreau, inquired as to why I would forfeit such a session and I told him that I did not feel comfortable given my appearance, failing to maintain my Herculean physique. Yes, vanity raised its ugly head.

After a few days, I reconsidered. I told myself, “Hell, why not? Damn it, I can do this!”

And I did go there.

What did I glean from such an experience? That the artists embraced me, that I still managed to maintain my poise and pose, that it turned into a delightful evening, so much so I got another modeling gig forthcoming this coming Tuesday in Amherst, MA, for another artist gathering that accepted me into the fold.

Yes, I am now 64. But appearing nude at my age should not be a hindrance nor make one hesitate to presenting oneself as a model to artists.

This first appeared on my Substack page. Glad to be aboard and I look forward to reading more of what you have to write.

Take care. Be well.

Paul

Bird of Prey…

Bird of prey

Flying high

Flying high

Take me on your flight.

– Jim Morrison

I took the dogs down the trail in back on the tail end of a winter day, scattered pockets of snow lingered still in crotches of dormant trees, patches of snow spattered long fallow umber fields.

The dogs sniffed and meandered along the path, to the end where I piled pallets high for an outpost of sorts. From there I gazed at the distant field, ringed by bones of birch.

I saw movement in the sky. A lone red-tailed hawk glided effortlessly along brumal currents, a raptor simply enjoying the updrafts. I stood and watched the silent scene. No other movement save the rustling of canines behind me.

I watched, marveling at the beautiful bird as it circled and rose, wings unmoving, no flapping necessary. Suddenly it caught a current and still, without movement of wings, raced in a straight line above the tree tops, disappearing into the distance.

It was last light, only a hint of wan sun bathed the tree tops in the forest, the field below etched in shadows. Standing there, hands plunged into pockets, I was one with nature, embracing the wintry chill, marveling at the now lost vision of the hawk.

I turned and gazed down the trail, back to the house lying distant through tangled trees, at the slow spiral of smoke from the wood stove, knowing warmth and comfort awaited me and the dogs.

But for the moment, a few brief minutes, I reveled in the beauty of nature, a sense of calm enveloped me and I was at peace.

Such moments are healing, allowing a lone soul to return to the realm of the cosmos, to experience the ethereal, to be content.

I called for the dogs and we wended our back, back to the warm interior of our dwelling, leaving the serene scene with vestiges of sun still anchored on the crown of firs.

The entire scene, the raptor, the calm, allowed me to cherish such simple pleasures. I hope you, too, can experience the wonder and stay in the moment.

Copyright, Paul Grignon 2024

All Rights Reserved.

NANOWRIMO…

It is time once again, folks, for us to hunker down at our keyboards and bleed until we produce 50,000 words in 30 days. No problem, right?

For the uninitiated, NANOWRIMO is an acronym for National Novel Writing Month and it begins the first of November. And today is that day!

I have done it before, way back in 2011, and it allowed me to finish my MS, ‘Dark Veil of Providence’. Where has that book gone since? Well, I did submit it to a few agents over the years but nothing happened with that. So now I am embarking on an entirely different kind of novel and without further ado I must go and launch my new book!

Go to the link above and find out what it is all about. It’s fun, it’s grueling, it’s nerve racking, but in the end it can be quite rewarding. Hell, it’s only 1,600 words a day. How hard can that be?…

So, fellow writers, onward ho and here’s to your success!

Copyright, Paul Grignon 2022

All Rights Reserved.

Modeling…

In Memory of Pops…

I last saw my Dad 12 years ago, my wife and I celebrated his 78th birthday at our residence, just the three of us.

We were there in our tiny kitchen on Fiskdale Road, plying him with a grilled chicken salad and a glass or two of white wine. It was a lovely evening.

And yet.

And yet, four days later he was dead. He enjoyed (I imagine) a two-day getaway to Bailey Island, Maine, where our family has vacationed for decades.

He was there–seemingly out of blue–as he had not visited that lovely island in more than 30 years. Yet there he was, wine glass in hand, enjoying the calming ambience of the ocean and the healing scent of sea air.

I learned of his death when my Mum had returned that Saturday, finding him supine on the living room floor. (I have mentioned this before, in prior posts, but it remains worthy to note.)

Anyway, I will not belabor the details. Who the hell knows how he died? I know that now, on August 10, 2022, I am honoring my dear Pops with this post, something that speaks to my soul, something I need to say.

He was a mentor, a friend, a father. Sure, nothing was perfect. Some things he did as a Dad I question now.

But to hold grudges, after all these years? To question his ability to be a father to all of us seven siblings? No. That cannot be right. He did his best–as a human being–as a father, as a bread-winning man who kept his family fed and housed, without worry. I salute to my father, who sacrificed much in his life.

He was the silent type, it was of the age. He kept everything bottled inside. He only showed his true spirit only occasionally, when one too many glasses of questionable chardonnay passed his lips.

I knew I was his favorite amongst seven siblings. I am not quite sure why, but there it is. It presented much angst amongst the others, and yet I cherish the notion that he cottoned to me. I cannot really fathom why. Maybe because growing up I tried to talk to him while he was buried deep in work, papers scattered along the dining room table, him still in his suit and tie, pouring over documents, silent.

I would sit there, watching, and occasionally ask him questions. Not quite sure what they were but eventually he would answer, after long pauses that led me to believe my queries were for naught. But he eventually did answer.

I never envisioned my Dad in golf shirt and jeans. He was ALWAYS in a suit! But retirement was good for him. He was busier than ever, helping at the golf course, or helping reshelve books at the local library. He seemed to relish retirement.

Where am I going with all this? Just to say that, after 12 years of my dear Pops being gone, I still think of him every day and miss him very much. Every morning I say hi to him. Every single morning.

‘They’ say there are five stages of grief. Well, I suppose I am still on the rage part; I have not, in 12 years, reconciled the fact that he is gone.

Every morning–every morning–I say hi to him. Did I already mention this? Well, it is worth repeating. Whether it is in the form of a great blue heron, or the beautiful arc and caw of a magnificent crow, I say hello to my dear father.

Here’s to you, Pops! I still miss you terribly.

Wherever you may reside now, may a cigar be present as well as a superb glass of chardonnay.

Love ya, Pops!

Happy Birthday xox

Copyright, Paul Grignon, 2022 All Rights Reserved.

New Paintings!…

Hello, and thank you for stopping by. I have recently updated my ‘Paintings‘ page with new work from 2021. Please do stop by and peruse my offerings. Also, I have added the third chapter to my book on the Home Page as well. Chapters 1 & 2 can be found on my Dark Veil Page.

Thank you for being here and may you find some interest in any and all of my various Pages. Take care!

Nightmare’s End…

The entire world let out a huge collective sigh as the Orange Clown Buffoon President finally exited 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. Not a moment too soon.

As a white, privileged American, I apologize to the masses who have suffered under this supreme Idiot, capitalizing for all what he stood for: Xenophobia, Nativism, Misogyny, Bigotry, Hatred, White Supremacy…the list goes on and on.

Thankfully, the majority of Americans realized what a complete fool resided within the walls of the “White” house for far too long and now, his hideous visage and policies have vacated the premises.

We shall see what transpires during the transition with Mr. Biden. Will he, too, kowtow to the corporate elite, the deep state who pull strings with their pillaged billions, or will he deign to buck the status-quo and deliver campaign promises?

The world awaits and remains hinged on his every move. Will he prove nothing more than a shill, a pawn to the billionaires who have plundered the world and its resources, or will he stay in the fight to counteract the juggernaut of corporate greed?

Time will tell. I think that Americans, unfortunately, delve within the ranks who believe a change is possible within the realm of Insanity. After all, what is the definition of that word? Thinking and hoping that things will change even though it remains the same, day in and day out. Groundhog Day.

May the new administration PROVE not only to fellow Americans but to the entire world that we, as a nation, can indeed engage in the grand human experiment and co-exist in a calm, comfortable, and collective sense that we are all in this together.

One can only hope.

Mr. Biden, the world awaits your directive. May you banish the meaning of insanity.

The planet depends on your next move.

No pressure, though…

Copyright, Paul Grignon, 2021, All Rights Reserved.

A Good Samaritan…

During these strange and troubling and rather bizarre current times, I was momentarily brought into the reality of another human being’s suffering.

It was a small gesture on my part, but the moment of the Universe presented itself to me, something I could not simply ignore.

I could have gone on my way, to a dentist appointment, and not give a glance in the rear-view mirror.

But I did. And something had to happen.

You see, I was on my way to the Post Office, to drop off a letter in the box and, along the way, I saw this old woman struggling along the sidewalk. She had a cane, and her left leg was in a brace. I pegged her in her mid-eighties.

As I drove by her en route to the PO, I espied her predicament. Granted, the Post Office was a mere hundred yards away where she resided, at a Hampton Inn hotel. But after witnessing her struggle, I knew I had to help her.

Upon delivering my envelope in the yawning blue box, I backtracked and pulled into the Hampton parking lot. I got out and inquired if she needed help to get to the Post Office, offering a ride.

She asked if I was safe from Covid, and I inquired the same, and then I proceeded to help her into my truck, holding her arm, guiding her safely into my vehicle, two souls complete strangers.

I drove to the Post Office and helped her get out of the truck, guided her up the ramp and into to the store. She laboriously filled out a form, as she needed to post something for next-day delivery. The clerk informed her it would cost $26.75, and the woman balked, clearly distressed that it would cost so much. The clerk then informed her that if she wanted 2-day delivery, it would cost $7.75. The old woman agreed.

As she had to fill out a different form, I took out my credit card and paid the amount for her. She looked up at me and said, “Heaven still sends me angels.”

On the way back, she informed me that she was homeless, that her landlord had kicked her out of her house, and now she resided within the walls of the hotel.

I helped her back into my truck, drove her back, and helped her to the front door. She thanked me profusely, but that was not I wanted at all. I kept thinking that if it was my own mother, who is 82 years old, how I would do the same.

This poor woman, homeless, and living in a hotel, struggling to walk one hundred yards to the Post Office, how can one not offer help?

After I dropped her off and, on my way to the dentist, I thought about how lucky I am; a fine, healthy family at home, a roaring wood stove keeping us warm, a bounty of wonderful gift cards for Christmas, and a roof over our heads that we call home.

I am grateful for all that we have. The very least I could do was to be that Samaritan and help out this unfortunate soul.

As I led her to the front door, I bid her a better new year. She said, “God bless you, Son, and thank you.”

Along the byways to my appointment, I held tears in check, thinking about if my own dear mother was in such dire straits.

I hope that all who read my words think twice when passing an elderly person. They may appear stoic, self-sufficient, but you never know.

Pause. Take a break from your own life. You never know what will happen.

By the way, her name was Barbara. She wore a full length pink suede coat and jeans, with sneakers.

Barbara, I wish you well. Take care.

Copyright, 2021, Paul Grignon, All Rights Reserved.

Hesitation Blues, Part 2…

January 2^nd, 2021 

The new year is upon us, and as the second of January slowly slips away, what is in store for this brand-new year, what aspirations do I have to make this year the time where I tend to my dreams. 

For too long they have sat patiently on the burgeoning back burner, piled high and trembling, wondering if more dreams would climb aboard and threaten to topple the myriad of ideas and businesses that have caused much chaos in the cerebellum of their creator. 

So, Paul, what exactly is in store for 2021? Well? Any concrete ideas to set things in motion, or will it be more of the same, squandering precious minutes, weeks, months, accomplishing nothing?

Thinking is not doing, Paul Harry. It’s not quite the same, you know.  

The time to hesitate is through, no time to wallow in the mire. So said Mr. Morrison, and of course he was quite right. Inertia, hesitation, wallowing in the doldrums, always drifting along the Horse Latitudes—for decades!–have produced…nothing of consequence. 

So what will transpire this year? How can you release the bonds of the Internal Saboteur? How can you relinquish old, tired ways that have allowed the slippage of time, kept wandering in the corridors of indecision and self-loathing, of yearning to attain dreams yet realized but then succumbing to the numbing effects of alcohol or sheer laziness. 

How many times can you compose the same old tired story, Paul? Christ, you are approaching 61 years old. Sixty-one! It doesn’t seem possible. It’s like the old Pink Floyd song, “…ten years have gone behind you, no one told where to run, you missed the starting gun...”. 

Yeah, well, is that you, Paul? Still missing the starting gun to your dreams and ideas and whatever else lurks and quavers on that billowing back burner, way back there in the gloom? 

Well? I am waiting. I am that naysayer that resides within your mind, the lunatic that currently holds complete sway. 

The time to hesitate is through. May 2021 prove to be the exception. 

I truly want to release you from the chains you have forged for yourself. 

Set yourself free, Paul. You can do it. I know you can. I’m rooting for you! 

But wait. You know, how ’bout one more drink. Make it two. And what was on TV tonight, anyway?… 

Copyright, 2021, Paul Grignon, All Rights Reserved.

Dad’s 88th…

Wednesday, August 10, 2010

In seventy-two hours from this date in time, my father will have died. How, who knows. Today, August 10, 2020, marks his eighty-eighth birthday.

Found lying on his back in the living room, feet up on a chair, as though doing some sit-ups or other form of exercise. Who knows.

I believe in private, much to Mother’s dismay, Dad always tried to maintain some form of regimen, to stay in shape, making up for lost time when he used to wear a suit and tie. And now free, in retirement, he relished his solitary walks and exercise.

Perhaps he did die from a massive heart attack, as the EMT had suggested. Who knows. But one never really knows when there is no autopsy. “Too expensive!” my mother exclaimed. “Besides, he wouldn’t have wanted that.” Ah, speaking for the recently deceased.

(An oft-told tale here on my blog, about my father, but it still resonates for me, after ten long years.)

He was whisked away to a funeral home—temporarily, mind you—before taken to the crematorium, still in his attire when he died; Nike sneakers, overly-long shorts, and a golf shirt. No, no pressed suit and rose gracing his lapel. Just the sweat stains from his efforts before his heart exploded. At least, that is what I had heard. Who knows.

The aftermath, a pile of ashes, residing in a Tupperware container, placed into a grocery bag, the whole absurd package sitting upon a dust-laden hutch. And within a week it was nowhere to be seen; the contents had been unceremoniously dumped near the driveway, the final resting place of a wonderful man after 78 years on this earth. What a lovely demise for my dear father.

Now, when I venture to Mother’s, I jokingly (not really) ask her to move the Ford Focus, ever so slightly, so I can view my father’s grave from the living room picture window as I nurse a rancid tepid cup of Folgers coffee.

St. Andrew peers through dense foliage, weeds choking the ill-advised site where the ashes of my magnificent father lay scattered. There is no headstone. There is no tiny memorial there to ascertain why St. Andrew drowns in a confusion of suffocating greenery.

To you, Pops, always to you. I just wanted to acknowledge you on what would have been your 88^th birthday. How I yearn to hoist a glass with you on your day of days.

Dad, may you find peace of spirit—wherever you may truly reside now.

I love you, Pops. Always.

Copyright, Paul Grignon, 2020. All Rights Reserved.