Blog by Karen Moller

We are creatures of Romance so why are men so unromantic?

by Karen Moller. (excerpt from Ditched and be Ditched) When the love of my life dumped me the question wass what did I want? Certainly not for my-ex to just slip back into my life in his old twenty year unromantic thoughtless role. Mostly I didn’t want to be sitting at home on Saturday night with him writing poetry while I watched TV even if it was a good film or documentary; I wanted to be in it—well not actually in it, but out there being part of what was happening as I had been before I met him. I wanted my-ex to show me he loved me – not to just say he loved me. Did I really believe that he had now changed and if I took him back he would actually make an effort to show he cared in the way

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60th Venice Biannale

The 20 of April 2024 the 60th Venice Arte Biennale opens favoring artists who have never participated in the International Exhibition Every year at the Biennale I am more and more surprised by how far art is drifting way from what I think of as Art. In the end I can’t help asking that old question—what is Art? The purpose of art in the past was to bring a new vision, new way of inspiring us to look at the world we live in. Art inspired visual creation in graphic art, publicity, films, T.V. and even fashion and textile design as well as influencing our thinking. Certainly, curator think art is not something to hang on your wall and appreciate each day. The big money-making machine of galleries, museums and auction house have taken over the role of what is the

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Bewitched and Be-ditched – Chapter 1

The lover who just walked out your door Has taken all his blankets from the floorThe carpet, too, is moving under youAnd it’s all over now, Baby Blue                            Bob Dylan The world mocks the old fool in his last grasp, who runs off with a young floozy so this tale I’m about to tell is pretty much a classic laugh. And yet few men would be quite so foolish as my husband Edgar, who after a four-day sex orgy with a Columbian groupie dumped me his wife of twenty years. Whatever age men are, they tend to believe they are still young cockerels and up for a hump if a young chicken comes on to them. And yes, dear reader I hear you, why would Edgar, an 84-year-old, and not a dumbo, not be suspicious of the motives of a 42-year-old floozy who had a reputation for sucking up to old

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Sugar Daddy

Just for a laugh I am posting this brief synopsis of my new manuscript Bewiched and Be Ditched. I did not intend to make this true story a Boulevard comedy, but in its absurdity, it has the potential to make people laugh as they would for such a comedy. Here we have Edgar the husband, a brilliant, intelligent poet/singer, who after a four-day orgy with an uneducated religious Columbian groupie half his age, deserts his loving wife of twenty years. This ageing 84-year-old cockerel’s imagination has taken fire, and he thinks he can not only start his life all over again with this young chicken, but since he believes she has a direct connection with God and the Madonna, she will help him find his Christian identity. It seems likely he left it in a closet somewhere. Unable to confront

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The True Story

The writing of my new book was painful in the deepest way possible, slipping past defences to punch me in the mouth and make made me feel lucky to have survived.  just for a laugh I am posting this brief synopsis of the story of my new book. In this true Boulevard comedy, we have the husband, a brilliant, intelligent man who loves to discuss ideas but after a four-day orgy with an ignorant uneducated religious groupie half his age, he dumps his wife of twenty years his imagination takes fire. This ageing cockerel thinks he can not only start his life all over again with this young chicken but since she has a direct connection with God and the Madonna she will help him find his Christian identity which he’d probably left in a closet somewhere. He dumps his

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The unforgettable 1960s

Not long ago, I came across an old sketchbook filled with drawings, literary quotations, and conversations that I had noted in 1959, the year I arrived in Paris. Many years had passed, but I had not forgotten that treasured book and the notes I had made in the hope they might provide some guidance on how best to live my life. Leafing through the pages, recollections flooded back in jump cuts, images here and there, snippets from those early years still fresh in my memory. I mentioned to Cyclops, my friend of those early Paris days that I’d taken up my old sketchbook eager to make one last trip through our joint history, one last attempt to recapture with as much detail as possible those Paris days when we flourished in an atmosphere of undisciplined frolicking, an atmosphere highly favorable

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