Restart
12.11.23
Things are evolving. Turkey day was delightfully streamlined this year. I roasted a turkey breast dressed in bacon, found a jar of gravy in the freezer, stirred it into the drippings, it hit the spot. Simple perfection. My neighbor invited me for pumpkin pie and to meet her two new adopted cats. Then back to my paints and pens. There’s no commute.
The whole thing is to stay centered, relaxed and unopposed. There is a quiet relief here. Keep living your life like you mean it. Reinvent yourself, over and over. Restart. Restart. I get up, see if the sky is pink, wash the sleep from my eyes, make a cup of coffee, and write.
If I wake in the dark and can’t get back to sleep, which happens frequently, I stretch and exercise until I’m tired. If that doesn’t work I get up and write for a while. I’m not botherin nobody these days. It has always been about the writing. I can’t stop it. Drawing waits patiently on the balcony until the writing is done. Drawing demands a certain kind of romance, lighting, setting, a lag time, preparation. Writing barges onto any random page or scrap of paper, perhaps several at once; or here, on the virtual page. I have sketchbooks filled with writing. It’s the story of my life.
I scrounge for images to sandwich into these posts. I want it to be visually focused. That’s the point. I find things I had forgotten from long ago and sneak them in elsewhere, post-dated, and make up a story sifted from fifty pages of contemporaneous journaling. Somehow it makes sense, somehow there is a through-line that has a flow, from one post to the next. Sometimes there is an abrupt shift, or a repeat, or a gap centuries long when I stare off into the distance, watching crows in the tree tops and letting my coffee get cold again.
homework
11.30.2023
I think too much. It upsets people. What I say, what I don’t say. It upset grade school teachers and other hierarchical thinkers. I could read, I liked words, I knew some math, I was not good at erasing. My Dad was a Lithographer. I got an F in coloring because I tried mixing CMYK with RYB crayons. My Mom was a nascent poet and we submitted her poem as my homework. I thought it odd, but it made her happy. I wanted to know things. I asked the wrong questions. I irked people with agendas. I used to rock and sing to assuage my discomfort. I lucked out. We were too poor to have psychiatrists at school.
I am a Horizontalist. I remember the days of the ubiquitous bumper sticker that said “Question Authority”. For me it is/was not just a bumper sticker, but a call to arms, or at least, to smirk.
Recent years have brought up a lot of soul searching. Since the complaint that I Just Go (aka the Irish Goodbye) I have taken it as a badge of honor. It’s not every day and every event that I can breeze through and socialize. I want to get out and be public, but sometimes I revert, I lurk, the weight becomes too much. It’s the same down up down, maybe not as far down, maybe a different kind of up, where I won’t go Crashing afterward. Maybe I’ll crash and recover, discover what made me uneasy, what the trigger was. For a long time I felt trapped in the unease, the sense of safety gone, returning to my possum holm to check for bite marks and splinters. Are those teeth marks yours? Or mine?
Look at that. I made my parents proud. I made them allies. The sun is out, the convo is too loud, I have to go for a walk.
leaves in the gutter, late november 2023
it’s goodbye
11.11.23
Stepping over another threshold. I have a plan: Stability, Frugality, Resilience, Self Reliance. My broken ankle made me cautious. I spent every day that summer drawing, learning to tell a story. I’m not trying to keep up with a world spinning out of control. I have a different set of priorities. It’s just a splinter in my aura, I have my memories, I can rewrite. I win again.
I hung on too long. I literally haven’t been there for over a year, save a brief stopover to pick up some random insults, and a stealth run for acrylic paint and brushes. The last full entry in the studio log was October 2022, when I painted and stenciled the floor with the rat-chew blue. I stayed too long, accidently caught up in creative bliss. I think something broke that day. I saw the dark side of the Welcome sign. On Thanksgiving I stopped in, just to look. The last entry, December 22, 2022, another portal, I grabbed a few pens, and wrote it out: “what if I what if i what if I NEVER CAME BACK.”
It was a Gift, but the price was too high. It was sanctuary, solace, but not safe. It took me hours to settle in, get in the groove, and there in the Magic Zone someone knocks on the door to tell me I’m Stupid. “Weren’t you leaving?” but not in a friendly way–and it comes to a screeching, ragged halt.
The miracle evaporates and I am broken again, the plan for a window goes out the window. Sublime calm, peace, and beauty pops like so much bubble wrap. Abraham Hicks talks about how as a child you carry all the sparkly light of creation within you and the Dull Gray World wants to drug you to sleep. I learned how to speak, how to answer, to sit in a chair and shut up. I just won’t.
It has been a long difficult month since I got home. I had been running, driving, camping out, and now here I am with no escape from myself. Did not think it could get sadder. I think I am such a badass, and a firm “Never” seemed good in the moment. But it has brought all sorts of feelings to the surface, heartbreak, grief, madness. To hear that there was a slim chance, that I could go back to that forest, see my Roofing House again–visit and camp in my special private parking space. I can’t believe it came to this. It seems crazy. I must be crazy to let it go. it’s heartbreaking.
Echoes of Howe Street, how I was suddenly sent away. I was so broken then I collapsed on the kitchen floor in a panic attack, sure I was losing everything. Even that was critiqued. My shop from Hell, and the demise. There is no going back, and no end now for me, to this bad dream I can’t seem to wake up from. What a waste-yes, I’m stupid. It was never mine.
It’s unbelievable. It’s a gut punch. It was so precious to me. I tried so hard. I put so much work and love into it, but no, I’m done. I have no need for most of what what I\is left there. It’s brilliant, it’s beautiful, I am such an artist. I got out alive. Let someone else enjoy it now.
Octember
102723
Just wandering these days. Someone said I have no goals, no ambitions. Not true, I try to sleep through the night, sometimes do. Another painting class, a couple of gigs, a couple of open mics. It’s comfortable, not a challenge. I am drawing most every day, but it isn’t resolving into much I can photograph. Hands, feet, basic forms and shading, crows, yes. Enjoying the used sketchbooks I have gleaned from various thrift stores, scrappy and stained with resolutions from new years long past.
Life has been very hard since I came home, and I can’t seem to kick myself out of the painful past. I never mention the struggle I went through, but it almost obliterated me. I write too much, then read it, trying to make sense of it, regurgitating the same meal over and over. It’s not pretty. The Artist’s Way recommends one write three pages every morning, and I returned to that practice while I was on the road. I am beginning to get a flow going, but often drivel, what I did yesterday, what i’ll do tomorrow.
Lots of creative interludes, though, rewiring a chandelier, sorting photographs, more clever repairs with Sugru. I’m longing to get back on the road. One thing I don’t have is a level, private place to park the van. I truly miss my old life in many ways, but nevermind. There are pleasures here. Indoor plumbing. . steak and applesauce. Coffee with whipping cream.
The sound of an owl in the redwood tree some nights. Five crows frantically harassing a big hawk that landed there. Monarchs searching for the milkweed that I planted but have yet to sprout. I brought home bags of free compost and filled the scrap wood planter bed. Maybe I’ll have carrots next year.
In Kensington
10.13.23
I’m actually in El Cerrito, but the little hill is kinda far away, and the Pub and Circus are right out my window. Plus, the weather app keeps telling me I’m in Kensington. Plus, I like the way it sounds. I’m here to feed ducks and put them away at night, and there is a cat, but he only comes to be fed, then disappears. Things are wonky, and the eclipse is imminent. I brought my fake Fender bass and a toy amp, I’ve been pulling out 3 or 4 old tunes every day to see if I remember them. Yup.
Not finding the solitude I hoped for. Every day a hike, a visit, the Farmer’s Market, the little store, a trip to town to get my costumes and gear for the gig at the festival, and now, an unexpected rehearsal.
Not much time for painting, so I am learning to paint faster and not belabor so much. I bought a watercolor block on my way back from Sheridan, I had been wanting to try the 10mm x 25mm landscape format, and the bright pink cover was a must have. When I got around to opening it, I was shocked! to see black paper! It took me a couple days to get sorted out–I was sort of disappointed, I had a plan. So, okay. I’ve painted on black before, I like black paper. Black gesso used to be a thing I did. I searched out my gouache and came up with a photo from a old calendar to paint.
So, when it was done I cut it off the block, and what? Oops! White paper! It has been a very long time since I bought a watercolor block, I don’t recall the bonus black cover sheet. Now I am faced with the same challenge. White paper! Funny! Another pivot. I was sort of disappointed. I had a plan . . LOL.
Close to home
10.1.23
Back from the long drive. Some lovely stops along the way–before and after braving the thick smoke blowing west from the Anvil Fire–visible on the horizon over Floras Lake. Near Scotia I found a funky, sweet little campground in a stump forest. Definitely a change of season, chilly mornings and lovely nights for sleeping.
The trip to Oregon was spectacular, no further vehicular foibles, save the struggle to keep sufficient air in my tires. My neighbor loaned me a charger/compressor/inverter thing, and it took me a couple of tries (couldn’t figure out where I put the owner’s manual) to figure out how the digital air compressor worked. It had to cycle and check the pressure, then the button either needed to or did not need to be pushed again for the tires to fill. Very cool feature, the digital meter you set to the psi you need (65#), and it stores it, and shuts off automatically. Neat.
On the edge of October I have some local hangouts I have been/will be occupying. I went back to Varmint’s Garage and spent three nights and three days. Late Sunday for a 4 AM wakeup and drive to the surgery, then back–several delays had us home by about 3 on Monday. I’ll be spending a weekend about an hour up north for Open Studios and Margaritas; plus more thrifting, I suppose. Then a few days at home before I go to Duck-sit and catch some true solitude, and ponder where my next trip will take us.
As predicted I cut loose two extraneous sleeping bags, a duvet cover, a life vest, some cd’s. Snatched up a faux rattlesnake motorcycle jacket, a hat, two handblown red drinking glasses. I also picked up a couple of Sheffield pewter drinking flagons, inscribed in Gaelic, in case I find myself at another brew-friendly campout someday. I cut an inch more off my hair, too. It was driving me nutty how it stuck to the back of my neck. Someone said you can tell how bad a breakup was by how short you cut your hair. Not as bad as 1979 when I cut it to the thickness of my fingers against my scalp. But I was a drummer then, those were different times, as was the world I stepped into.
Letting Go
9.21.23
autumnal equinox. Eight years ago today! I lost my baby brother. Now the light southward shifts again. Am I coming out of my oblivion? Guess I don’t need that hidey hole no more. It is bitterly sad and painful but I will let go, I don’t need to live in the friendless dark damp and cold. The barking of dogs chased the owls away. The lights in the night feigned security, but drove me mad. It was open sky and the trees that made me feel safe, and solitude, and silence, and the flitting of bats overhead at cocktail hour.
Is there anything I can learn here? I was so destabilized, I thought I, we, were building something, I put so much–time, money, heart, belief–into what seemed to be a future. Now in the Now I find myself trying to build something alone, no idea what the plan is. Maybe just need to peel away the dead skin, and there I am.
I kept going back to fix it, to see what was left. My life in Canyon, my little studio there, my van parked in a quiet pocket where I could curl up and read a book, a rare treat I have trouble achieving now. Even there someone shaved the legs of the trees in the name of fire safety, laying bare a collapsing hillside. I still go back to the little fantasy island in my head, but I park my van on the street now, not level; exposed, not private. There used to be a lush curbside stand of redwoods out there, too, too bad.
I think I’ll hit the road, heading home, looking for a patch of forest to sleep under, and a drive-thru double cappuccino. Not a bad plan.
Up the Road
9.12.23
Taking off again. First I hand- and machine-finished my cowbox to carry clothes in the van while I was getting an idiot check at the mechanic–that was a bargain, it turns out. Just a loose battery cable, but in my blind spot up the road it could have been a disaster. I got some gorgeous eggs I didn’t have time to eat before I left, so I decided to take them along for the ride.
Dawdled up the coast to the campout at the Hog Farm where I was the Hermit at the Edge of the Wood. In the heat, I didn’t want to pull in too early. There were utility trucks parked in front of the entrance signs, so I drove back and forth and got stuck on a side road before they drove away and I found it.
So much good food, imbibement, excellent dj’s, bits of chat here and there, friendly folks; the accommodations over all were pleasant. The first day my activity tracker logged five miles. There were friendly lizards someone brought over from the woodpile that hung out chilling on the bar.
I put in three strenuous hours on the dance floor. Many calories expended, and alcohol (mostly mead) burned off–some of it while lugging an unnecessary tent, sleeping bags, chair, water, back to the van. At nights from my perch at the end of the meadow I could see the Milky Way.
Sunday morning I got a somewhat early start. I made coffee, gave thanks to the enormous Oak that shaded me, and continued on to Honeyman State Park, mostly empty post-holiday. A glorious dark night, a bit of rain around dawn, so I hurried to shift the tents and sleeping bags and other nonsense I thought I might need . . . to put the top down so it wouldn’t get wet. Over packed, over prepared, continuing North. Hope to shed some excess as I go. Probably pick up more as I go, as well.
woo woo landscape update
8.21.23
Well heck, it’s Stevie’s 75th birthday. I turned on my old PC to look for some music I have there, and the screen saver (remember those?) is all my old digital photographs from 2005 on. So many dear friends gone, it breaks my heart, but there are beautiful memories, wonderful trips, that brought us to this place. Gigs and travels and friendship, what bliss, what a perfect life we had.
Meanwhile I touched up the little landscape from the watercolor workshop, signed it, framed it and gave it to James for his birthday. He liked it so much, so I am glad to have someone enjoy it. I didn’t get a photo of it in the frame, but this is the final version. I added a wisp of sky and tiny trees to make the upper edge make sense. It’s stunning how that little change turned the hard upper edge into a flowing horizon. I also had to cut a bit off the sides- The watercolor block is 11×15″; try framing that, guys.
Sugru and clouds
8.19.23
A productive week- I’ve been wanting to do this since I got the van. There are 1/2″ gaps in the bumper on the edges of the tables and the counter. Long ago I had a Sugru package insert that showed the formula to make the exact color, 25% black and 75% orange, I think. I was unable to find single packets, I was unable to find orange. This week I tracked down a set with BROWN, black, gray, green, and white. I mixed 1/2 packet of black into the brown to get a passable color, and love the result. I also wrapped a screw to replace a missing knurble that holds the sliding door curtain in place. Hope it holds.
And another class that I started and got stuck on the first lesson, I’ll get back to it Monday.
walking much
8.12.23
Continuing my walks around town, I decided to see how far Market Hall is. A mere 1.7 miles to the south and east, with many a new delight along the way. Stopping into a junk/antique store, I immediately came upon an astonishing display of synchro-serendipity, not unlike finding the rabbit painting at my sister’s house. She and I have another shared memory, in addition to my uncle Frank’s Victrola in my grandmother’s attic where i recall dancing to “Dardanella” when I was 3, running to turn the crank to hear it again.
When I was little, and she was still at home (maybe the reason she left!) I had a little record player with a mirrored cylinder that reflected pictures on a record like a flip book. My favorite- the only one I remember- was “the little white duck”. I used to play it over and over, to see the little green frog hop, hop, hop off the lily pad. The B side was the little engine that could. I can see it in memory, but the tune did not stick forever in my brain like a tape worm.
So what is the first thing I see when I walk into the little antique junk store?
In the original box, by the way. With a replacement mirror thingy. No, I didn’t drop $100. I could have, but really, I have no room for another box.
A rewarding walk over all, 3.4 miles, with a free cat, koi, and helpful graffiti, plus a piece of cake and some cream for all tomorrow’s coffee.
Fallow Summer
8.5.23
I spent nearly a week house sitting. It was a sublime, quiet, peaceful mystery, as if I were at a beach house or a b&b, and my only task was to read and feed birds and take naps and fill pages in my journal. I added end-papers from an image I found online for a course in designing patterns for children. A challenge to find the base color and build up the image, took two days.
I’m not painting much. I have not got settled in from all my travels. Here at home I am still unpacking from Oregon, there is barely a spot not covered with papers and debris. The place I stayed was so serene, with two small white tables without distraction–I snuck out for one event, a guided meditation watercolor workshop with the woo woos. I painted a bit of a tree scape, a sort of remote viewing of a piece of property I went to visit later in the week on the Russian River. The two projects fed each other.
I have eschewed the festivals this summer, and when home I spend time in the garden. I built a planter bed from inherited lumber, not quite sure where I am going to want it to be, over by the fence near the roses, or closer to the hose bibb, so I don’t forget to water. Then I need to start collecting leaves and soil and compost.
I will go on another camp out or two before the rains come, likely even take my bass–I’m just not ready to emerge from my cocoon. Don’t know if I will ever be.
Leaving Willamina
7.13.23
Home at last. It has been a full month since i left.
Two days of driving past beaches and redwoods, looking to return to the coastal trip I intended in the first place, but more than anything just wanting to get home. About halfway I boondocked a dark trailhead parking lot with no discernible NO CAMPING sign. Up at dawn, I made coffee, drove to the nearby rest stop for indoor plumbing, a cat bath with cold water and a wet towel. Then on to Brookings, gas, grocery outlet (blue eggs! Marin Sun Farms beef!), a drive-thru cappuccino, and back on the road.
So sorry to go–I didn’t spend enough time at the museum. Never made it back to taste more of the brilliant clear red cherries. That color will always make me think of that splendid little town, a balm to my soul. In 2017, then again last year, neither did i get out and walk little roads and alleys or partake of the flavor and color of the place. Among the neighbors, three sheep, a pig or two, a couple of ducks. Strikingly absent, the sound of jet planes overhead. Not on any flightpath except barn swallows and doves, and a few crows.
My eyes are tired, and I am instantly back to my familiar wake-up time of 8 AM. The urban sprawl and traffic–Santa Rosa, the bayshore freeway, all the towers and chaos replacing what once was MY little town, so hard to bear. It’s quiet here in my studio, the redwood tree and the box elder, and all my garden (how did the tomato plants survive? a mystery neighbor) all welcome me back. Back on concrete, but there is a kind of peace here.
Rabbit holes
7.4.23
Such strange times. I am adrift, in irons, so to speak. No plans, no direction home. I paid my rent, talked to the bank, got some things shifted. I have nowhere to be but here.
There are Westfalia mechanics somewhere nearby. I had a scary stall-out down south on a narrow, winding road; helpful strangers, Cal trans workers, CHP Officer Keller came and directed traffic until I opened the engine hatch and snugged something down that had gotten shaken loose. Westy started right up, and I found a place to pull over and sit for a while. It was recommended I turn back for the last, best, biggest town. Spirit said keep on, and that was the right call. I was on the road at 7:30 AM, and it was now nearly 10, so I took the lesson kindly–don’t rush, don’t push. What makes you happy? Head for the coast. As soon as I crossed the state line I saw a cat rescue/thrift store, and had to make three sketchy turns to get to it. I bought a CD that wouldn’t play, a shirt that turned out to itch, and a pair of excellent unworn earth origins boots. (“Do not put shoes on the floor, the cats pee on them”) Good deal.
I decided to spend another night camping rather that push again. Crazy winds on the coast. I picked up a stuffed whale shark and some chowder on the last leg. Got to my sister’s place on Thursday around noon, cool, chance of rain, so we burned some old tax files in the fire pit. Sorting through her stuff, she gave me a drawing she had made years ago–the Rabbits! I have a vivid memory of it, from childhood, had recently spoken of it to a couple of friends. I had no idea it could materialize here, now.
We went to look at the place she is moving to- a wood stove, and cool faux river stones painted on plywood. She trimmed my hair. We went to the beach where we had scattered Mom’s ashes all those years ago, then I took her to dinner. Wow, my first beer in . . . I don’t even know how long. It’s good to be home.
Willa Wonta
6.25.23
Moving house here, to another town. Much downsizing, so i am inheriting a few mementoes. Paintbrushes and palette knives that belonged to my father. His wood-grained leather wallet, a few now-useless silver certificates. Photos from the 1950’s, slides through the 80’s. Holding these old things is oddly less than satisfying. Glad to see a painting I did while a student at CCAC, smaller than I remember.
My cousin reiterates a thought I have had–we grew up in the Best Times–the weather, the cars, the Beatles and their wake, All the Bands. Little stores, neighborhoods, fireflies, kids playing outside until the street lights came on. I used to walk my dog at 2 AM. I couldn’t sleep, it was cool and quiet, and I could see in the dark.
I’m ready to hit the road again, but waiting to finish what I started here, to get everyone tucked in and safe before I go.
Half-Christmas it is, as my sister points out, her favorite show pre-empted for bad Disney movies, perhaps hoping to jump-start a crashing retail market. Who needs things, tho? This house full of “collectables”, mostly destined for the thrift store. We are all over-saturated, stores everywhere closing down and derelict. I can take a few things, if they are precious, if I promise to weed my closet ferociously when I get home. Everything I need I already have three of, and no room for more.
Trinidad
6.15.23
What strange serendipity, my uncontrollable need to travel north exactly locking into my sister’s need to move house. While I headed up the coast, the only campsite was very spendy, and I was required to book two nights. Quite cool and damp, time to read and acclimate, and I met a neighbor for a chat and coffee around the campfire. Day two, okay, I’ll stay. The sign at the campground said BEACH 1 MI. That turned out to be a 1-mile drive to a 2-mile hike, or a steep climb down to the cove. I was on foot, didn’t want to risk the sketchy climb. Bear safes, spooky woods, steep cliffs, I was on the path alone until I turned and headed back to camp, meeting a dozen people who seemingly knew where they were going. 4.5 miles, never made it to the beach, a bag of trash I picked up on the road, and a hot shower back at camp, it’s all good.
Heads up, there will soon be blueberries.
Hit the Road
6.12.23
Time to go. Last week I dragged home some resin chairs I found on the street, cleaned them up a bit, finished with leftover blue spray paint. They turned out great, a big hit. I left them at the woo woo cafe we meet at on Wednesday mornings, where there aren’t enough chairs.
This weekend I covered the yellow IKEA box seat with remnants of faux Holstein fabric I used to re-up-holster the Eastlake chair. I’ll use it to store extra clothes in the Westfalia. A final task was to wait for the crazy pink Epiphyllum to open, somewhat. By morning it was full blast. See you later. I’m outta here.
Echoes
5.4.2023
Funny how things repeat, how I find myself writing something as if the idea just came to me, and find it written again, as if I had copied my own notes.
The truck I left behind because: the check engine light, no horn, no turn signal, the incoming rain. When I went back to drive it home after the weather cleared it wouldn’t start and had to be towed to the garage. Rats! had got in and eaten a fuel line. The part on order got delayed in the freak snow storm, then didn’t fit, then a second part also didn’t fit–my little truck, like so much else once trusty and road-worthy, no longer speaks to me, time to let it go.
For years I was a two-vehicle family, work truck and a campervan. I had a business. The business wasn’t me, but it was how I lived, repeating the same tasks, pulling the same weeds, mowing the same lawns, keeping in shape, making contact with humans. It was simple and clear, until it wasn’t.
I kept it going, like all the bands and gigs I fought to carry on with long after there was no life in it. Things too valuable to leave, until the rats got in.
In 1979 when I pulled myself out by the roots of a relationship I found myself raw and homeless and in a scary sort of freedom. It was kaleidoscopic and horrible and culty and dangerous. I fell into things, then struggled desperately to climb out. I visually saw myself on a downward spiral and had to learn to turn around and spiral UP, to save my life.
When I suddenly found myself on stage at the Mabuhay Gardens in San Francisco, wrapped in glitter, I recognized nothing was going to overcome the mere two weeks of practice of this absolute beginner. It was then I gave up all pretense of perfection, and thereby, stage fright. I was the drummer for that band, the Superheroes, and the Outrageous Beauty Review, for four months, before I escaped through subterfuge and returned to a semblance of my old life, but the damage was done. I have been a performer ever since, falling into one band after another, punk, folk, thrash, rock, learning bass, singing, and on into the night. All my friends and social life were steeped in it. Forty years on, it has come to a screeching halt.
Did I credit I my wrecked relationship with the disasters that followed, or the positive outcomes? Or did I save my own life more than once, because I was forced awake, forced to survive on my own, for the first time?
The echoes are deafening, but I am safe and know how to live, I know what I want and don’t want. I work so hard to be real, to be present, I guess I get too big for the template. Maybe the template is the problem. I see no picture of myself there, even a kind of terror, and always, an undeniable relief to leave.
Packing up to move again, not knowing what comes next. I am on the threshold of something, looking in, or looking out. I dunno.
Okay, I hear you now.
Ankleversary
4.26.23
I hiked downtown yesterday to make a deposit at the rude, unwieldy new automatic-teller-machine at my bank, then flush with cash, stopped for a lunch of beef salad and Thai coffee. I walked a few more blocks, then spent half an hour browsing the aisles of a hardware store I used to frequent before it moved to an inconvenient location sans parking. No matter now, it’s the same walking distance from home. I bought paint and screws to finish a couple of projects, got those done, too.
I am planning a birthday picnic in the yard with new friends, so I fixed the gate, and have been scraping weeds and grasses from cracks in the flagstone path, and 4-5 inches of mud and overgrowth along the sidewalk. Cosmic dust falling on the planet must have an effect on the rate of rotation of this little ball over time. I see several inches of accretion right here in my yard.
I brought my little Pink Lady apple tree home from Canyon, and got a Cara Cara orange tree, so my tiny orchard is filling out: 4.5 apples (one is rootstock) three citrus, two plums, volunteer nectarine, enormous pear, red and black raspberries, a pineapple guava. I am not so good at vegetable gardening, but fruit trees, they are my people. As someone pointed out, vegetables are work. Fruit trees just hand you a gift. Reminds me of a story . . .
This body is not used to physical labor, but it is coming back. Breaking my ankle two years ago finally ended my business(es), and temporarily turned my full focus to more sedentary pastimes, drawing and painting. Sometimes it’s enough to just show up, but lately I am too busy to sit still. Cancelled my business license in February, last week I sold my truck for . . not much. The rat damage finally tipped the scales.
Getting out into the garden these last few days, I remember how vital, vigorous, powerful I am, I was, I can be. Bare face to the sun and bare feet to ground, free electrons in my bloodstream, lower blood pressure, bringing back my muscle tone. I can change the physical world. I can change my trajectory again. Let’s do this.
Solo
4.20.23
Had to go! For a couple of days. The campsite was unreserved due to the broken vintage table. Although there is another completely serviceable table, “People Complain!” So, cool, I get them both all to myself, didn’t really need either one. The waterfall, from a culvert, is lovely and in direct view.
LB came up to take my photograph and join me for lunch on Sunday, and we left to hike Dillon Beach for a bit. The tiny restroom had an emergency!? exit! sign. ?? Yes, rushing to so many exits. I came home to sell my beloved ’95 Tacoma to Mozart after 22.5 years of faithful service. It’s too hard to get parts, I’ve gotten full use out of it. I no longer have a gardening business, so, I am a one-van happy camper.
In the Before Times, I/we would drive hundreds of miles to get far, far, far away from the crowds, deep into the wilderness where there were no lights, passing cars, other people. Aching to connect, I don’t go far, or for long. My hermitage is in the city now.
Ten Years
4.6.23
Ten years ago this morning, Scruffy was snatched away from us, from me, in the most abrupt and unresolved fashion. Much has been written about the surrounding milieu in my other blogs, Travels With Stevie and Possum Family Singers, won’t go on about it much today.
Nothing is as it was in the Before Times, and that includes what we called 2001. Those days when we basked in pointless travels and imbibements and musical amusements with friends, dear and otherwise, was long gone long ago. I clung desperately to the shell of it all, until that crumbled, too.
I spent the last ten years in a fog of loss, circling a drain that seems to be clogged. I lost seven dear people to the great beyond by the end of 2017, and several more went silent. Grief does that to people and friendships. It gutted my social sphere and upended my daily existence. The unfriendliness of friends, the walls and barbed wire and empty storefronts of my former life, all this is commonplace and felt by most people now.
Not bitter, just exhausted, searching for a unicorn under this pile of manure. Throw a little hay over it, a few months from now, it will bloom with pink mushrooms.
By the way, I hear Betsy moved to Norway. You go, girl.
Palindromes all week
32323
I haven’t been posting so much. These last weeks have been horrific. The last moments of Pluto in Capricorn, to be repeated May-January, so we’re not out of the woods yet. At least it is familiar territory, but, gak, already.
The power was out for a mere 24 hours, it was blowing like a pig and rain, rain, rain. Happily, I had solar camping lanterns, a bag of ground french roast, sweaters, blankets, hot water, and gas stove burners, and a new laptop charger. My oven is digital, so I couldn’t use it, for heat or cooking. It occurred to me that if it was on, and the electricity went out, how would I turn it off? I’d have to get Art to bring the power pack to plug into, or turn the gas off, try unplugging it. Scary.
A branch from one of the redwood trees hit the roof and shattered, a large twig is still on the roof of the porch. I went out to see what the noise was, heard a clunk–just missed it, whew.
I also reassessed my bug-out bag and found it lacking, so added and extracted things.
I took the laptop to charge on the inverter in my van, but further adventures, I needed to replace the fuse to the cigaret lighter. Pro tip, I discovered that 8 amp fuse #8 controls my brake lights! Slot #7 holds a spare. Planned to go get some dry ice for the freezer, but found a solid 8# bag of ice; $8, included a tiny yellow bic lighter. Around 3 PM the power came on. Now I have camping ice, so 8 threads are coming together.
I haven’t been doing any drawing whatsoever, but I have been playing with my ink collection, contemplating and admiring my calligraphy practice. I think it has been a month, let’s just call it a fallow period. The new table, tho! After the storm passed, and the power was still out, I went for a walk and found a cedarwood bookcase on the curb, 28×36, 3 shelves 8″ apart. I cleaned it up and switched out the smaller shelf for boots by the door. It suits the theme better, all the pine furniture, minus the big white book case.
Also pulled out my giant 5″ thick Webster’s Dictionary, on the advice of a speaker on the Global Walkout CA zoom call last night. Are you saying what you think you are? BTW, there were 21 people there, two people I recognize. TMI, maybe.
Meanwhile, I wait for the Coder Kids to reprogram the demon robot dogs to dispense ice cream and Solfeggio tones.
The Looming Anniversary of the Great Demise. Maybe I’ll save that for another day.
I just want to bask in the glory of Now for a while.
Batcactus's Blog 