Last week I ordered a book from Amazon-  I had been planning for a long, long time to give it as a gift, but could not let go of the copy I have for sentimental reasons.  I had earned two $25 gift cards from my credit card after paying off the overdue hospital bill of my now-deceased life partner.  Imagine the conundrum.  The package appeared at my door Monday, almost instantaneously.  When I picked it up and felt it, I was already disappointed, because it was too small.  I tried to bend it–paperback?  No, hardcover.  So, I tore the envelope open and there was a different book, SexDeathEnlightenment, by Mark Matousek.  What the hell?  I checked the invoice.  The book I ordered was clearly described, and there was an email address to contact in case of error.  So, I did.

Today I got a reply, keep the book, yours was right here, I already gave it to the postman!  Expedited shipping.

So I opened it up, it is a story of life with Andy Warhol, with a blurb by Ram Dass  “An extraordinarily articulate account of how the sicknesses of our time can spawn spiritual awakening and compassion.”

Set the timer–

It has been a week since I found the note from LL on my door.  He had dropped it in the mailbox of the wrong apartment, as if he was ashamed, or didn’t want me to see it, really, for some reason, Cowardly, Nefarious, Idiotic.

Steve’s truck and Lynn’s Mustang 1997

He had dropped it in the mailbox of #1–the site of our contentious 15-week battle–now Amy’s apartment, Steve’s old place for 35 years, where we lived together for 22 years, anyway.  THE NOTE WAS IN ALL CAPS, WHICH LOOKS LIKE YELLING, particularly in that the address and salutation were in Normal Writing.  He had signed it “Manager”, and threatened me with towing if I park in the driveway (at my expense) and stated that I was told before moving in to Apartment #2 that there was no parking provided on the property, and I should “REFRAME” from parking there.  After I read it (and freaked out!) on that Thursday night I sealed it back up and put it back in the (wrong) mailbox.  The next day Amy left it for me, standing up on my doorknob, against the door frame.

I have been parking in the driveway since at least 1995, before we parked my 1957 VW van there.   .

My first move was to write a long, long, frantic, angry reply in longhand.  Then I typed up a WARNING PRIVATE PROPERTY THIS VEHICLE IS LEGALLY PARKED DO NOT TOW WITHOUT EXPRESS WRITTEN PERMISSION OF VEHICLE OWNER  with my name, signature, cell phone number, printed and taped to the inside front and back windows of the Westfalia.

My VW van Betsy and Steve’s Datsun 1995

Then I wrote a simple reply to the LL and edited it, printed it out, edited it further, further, printed it out, and emailed a copy of the original yelling NOTE and a copy of the reply to my “Lawyer”  Jeffrey.  Then I took the van on vacation for a few days, to chill, relax, “reframe”.

Meanwhile, Amy is cool, frantically apologizing, wants to park so everyone is happy–but she is paying extra for the space.

It’s terribly stressful coming home to a sense of attack and dilemma, wondering where to park, listening for a tow truck, and not knowing what to do, or what YELLING letter of weirdness will pop up next.

No Clear resolution.

DING!

We had such a great time Tuesday night at the Monte Vista Lodge, playing with the band Moody Ridge.  I sat in front of the Christmas tree, right next to the fireplace, where I could easily plug in my bass amp.  It is so warm, there is no snow, so the Christmas trees and snowflake decor are still up, giving some sense of Winter.  Wednesday we did some thrift-and-gift shopping- Helen gave me a teapot with lovely prints of comfrey on one side and camomile on the other.  I found a fabulous white jean jacket with fluffy fur lining, a possumy thing to wear to gigs, it does still get chilly at night!

Everyone is so friendly, and hungry for human contact, and good cooks, too.  People in shops and restaurants launch into conversation at the slightest provocation, it’s almost annoying.  I am a recluse by comparison, having come from the densly populated, over-stimulating  SF Bay Area.  But then, so did many of them, years ago.

I came out to the van to rest last night after a big dinner of  spaghetti and meatballs and beer and birthday cake and ice cream.  I fell asleep just after eight o’clock–woke up hours later and, as is often the case, missed the party.  It’s well after 9 AM now, no one else is up yet.   I am settled in my Westy on a flat spot up near the cabin, making coffee.  This is a breakthrough, one of thijngs that I couldn’t imagine doing but is the easiest task possible.

Yesterday I took a hike with the dogs and got spooked–wasn’t sure where I was.  Today Doogie came to see if I would go again, but i had just made my first! cup of westy-coffee and settled in to read a book.  When he showed up and barked, I poured the coffee into an insulated cup and changed my shoes.  By the time I got ready, he had gone.  It was cold and a wind had come up, dusty and gusty.  I decided to stay in the van and read–but as soon as I leaned back on the bed, the thermos cup tipped and the whole thing ran over the ocunter and onto my stack of papers, files, journal.

So, start again.

I’ve done this before, set a timer for 15 minutes and draw–or write. Today, a story about the house next door.

just a trim, thanks.

My friend Joe Bynes bought it in 1960 or so.  I’m not sure– a lot of people bought houses in this neighborhood then, and Black people, like Leola and Ollie and Bruce, during or just after WWII.   Joe owned a lot of houses in Berkeley, five anyway, and a ranch with a Spanish colonial style house that had an intact speakeasy in the basement.  In front of all his houses, Joe planted redwood trees.  At this house, he planted at least eight; three in the verge, one in the front lawn, two (or three, I think one died) by my back fence, and twins in the far southeast corner. >

The woman who bought the house from Joe’s  brother Harold after he died ($120,000 I think) had  rented it out (after kicking the cool neighbors out by promising them $500 cash they never received) to a series of okay people–she was okay, too, not a bad absentee landlord as far as I was concerned, otherwise.

So the trees, anyway, have been there for 40-some years.  I imagine they were planted in 1974, I don’t know if I heard that or if it was just the frenzy of redwood planting then, in the newly built Bart stations etc.  I have been fortunate to have a view of a stately redwood and its attendant fauna, squirrels and birds, at possibly every place I have lived in Berkeley and Oakland.

Well, a Flipper has bought the house, cash, because it needs so much work and is not up to code, you can’t get a loan.  The guy who redid the house next to Doug and Dean over the back fence bought it with what he cashed in off that house.  We are looking forward to a less-than-horrific experience since he did that place in record time, from a junkyard shambles, and it looks great.

The trees are coming down.  The two snags by the fence are gone, and the sun is blazing on the deck this morning.  They took the big beauty in the front yard, too.  At least they used the lumber.  In back today I saw them going up with ropes to the two in the corner–I had to go out and ask, but no, they are just giving them a trim.  It’s kind of bare out, but I’ll get used to it.  Once the beech leafs out again I will have shade on the hot days.  Things change.

Here is a trip where I vividly remember Steve catching a Rockfish, vivid red-and-black scales and pale turquoise flesh that turned white when cooked, delicious.  I stayed in camp and drew some mushrooms growing under the trees in color pencil, adding india ink later.

sm monogram in UNCIAL

So, I bailed out on Calligraphy class.  It was too restrictive, too much homework and not enough letterform instruction in class.  I couldn’t get focused, and was really not ready (or interested) in several aspects of the class: a) designing another book when two of them from previous classes still have so many empty pages,  are packed away, unappreciated, or so it feels to me.  Although, I tried to start another, pulled a blank signature from the first book I made, pages I had added in 2011.  The drawback was the scattered and unfinished nature of that book-  I felt unable to present it in class, not able to pull together anything new .  b) I am really too busy to take a class that isn’t aligned with my current trajectory, where I am not permitted to express the negative aspects of reality: my grief, confusion, planetary collapse.  c) All the work I did in the first couple of years were so wonderful, so exemplary, I am intimidated by my own innate talent!  This is really a strange laziness that I need to work through, eventually.  d)  and by people that have been taking the class all along,  (one who also has a band and does posters etc. for them)

Monogram in Uncial hand

LAM monogram in UNCIAL

–with their beautiful greeting cards (xmas cards! I’m not really interested this year) and lovely, simple flower drawings.  It’s really all about the darkness for me now.  Will I follow through?  Wait and see.

The panel at the Starry Plough is actually in UNCIAL  hand-  the one I did the Beowulf pages in.  It was destroyed by inept painted lettering style when they remodeled the bar.  No one notices how bad it looks except me.  I plan to one day soon copy it in the proper script, on paper, anyway.

Ann shimmed up the rotted sash and inserted the glass so the window is now so beautiful.  It will take some more work, but sure looks great.  Thanks for the Stagecraft, Muffy!

Here is a found redwood medicine cabinet for birds nests and such like.

It’s difficult to manage an art blog when no art is being done.  I have restocked the acrylics so they are accessible, no longer in a cardboard box in the hallway closet.  Incessantly journaling, but no drawings, no paintings.  I sit down each morning with intent and coffee  .  .  .  and do my Chancery Cursive practice homework for Calligraphy Class.  Almost too wide to fit on the scanner!  Well, that indicates the size of pages for the book I will make for this session.  I have strange papers I collected a year or two ago that I can use- “domestic etch” already bound into my giant Chancery journal, and weird flocked-pink-and-glitter cover paper.  There are possible other sheets to pull out of the closet, too.