Saline Valley salt tram

Muffy brings news of another dream, of Steve and me moving, of his enormous CALM, and my anxiety.   I wish I could feel that calm around me.. I wish I could learn to channel him, but, that is my lesson.  I hear people say I must keep his apartment; then almost kill myself trying.  Shut up about it!  Since being locked out and harassed by the LL I am always anxious and fearful.

I don’t know what will happen, but tinystudio at $600+ will make life a little simpler, while my broken heart heals a little.  I am working to embrace it and enjoy it, I need a total makeover, everything out and back in again. Then I will have a little space, a little time, a little money for travels.  For now, I can only hope to dream, remember what fun we once had  .  .  .

Our best days were in the desert, in the 4Runner, just the two of us, self-contained, close to the Middle of Nowhere, always seeking that road a little further on.  Maybe I need to start another blog just for that.

Plus, there is still the East Bay Community Law Center.  .  .

And a week of almost no work, and several photos I could see as paintings.  I will put in some time on the couch with a sleeping bag and a book, as well as sorting these boxes of Actual, old film-type photos from 1992 of the desert, Four Corners (that fuji film came out pale and wan) and the trip through the Southern Utah Six-  Waterpocket Fold, Zion, Bryce Canyon, Cedar Breaks  .  .  .

And some shots of Antelope Valley in the 90’s, or so.

from Palmdale, where we scattered Steve’s ashes from a hilltop overlooking the Antelope Valley, Tehachapis, Rosamond, Quartz Hill, Desert View Highlands and the wild desert where he grew up, now much concreted and over-planted with giant track houses.  A beautiful, cool, windy hill top in the setting sun, with a murder of crows skeining overhead, a little more than half a moon as we walked home, wispy smoke still hanging over Elizabeth Lake Road.  In the morning as i drove away, I stopped to snap this photo from the turnout by the wash.

Please save this place from developers–at least for my lifetime.

June 3, 2013

Get used to it!   I cut the ugly rosebush to the ground so now I can get out of the driver’s side door of the Westfalia.  I filled the green bin, put out the trash, recycling, all the old court papers.  Not all–there are boxes more to go through.  So many boxes of books and papers I need to clear out.  It seems impossible.  Little by little I am making dents here and there.

Still in a state of despair and dread.  The uncertainty as to where I am going to live, or if I can keep my home of 20 years with or without struggle, crisis, subterfuge, is poisonous .  Would that I could just grieve and work and live and pay bills in a normal manner without this underlying deception and ugly, negative bullshit!  My landlord is truly a criminal.

As time moves on, the fear and anger dissipate a bit.  I can do little tasks,  but it is so hard, and then grief explodes.  I consolidated his two small bottles of aspirin-wracked by sobs and sorrow .   A little while later the pain wears off and I can go back to that medicine cabinet and find something I need, dental floss, neosporin, and throw the empty aspirin bottle in the recycling.  Everything is like this, a herculean task.   I washed and folded all his clothes and put them in boxes.  Sweats, old, worn t-shirts, shoes, socks.  It’s just too much to sort, to decide.  How can I deal with real things if I can’t throw out his paint-stained sweat-pants?  How can I use these as totems to heal, to answer my prayers, to solve the mysteries of life and death?  Time will reveal all if I just push through, watch, and wait.

So many different enormous tasks and struggles to face.  Doing normal things, working, paying bills, eating, sleeping, driving, playing music–these are not so difficult, I have practice.  They are grounding.  Dealing with all these new issues is terrifying–a vampire landlord, hospital bills I can’t and shouldn’t have to pay, unreadable forms I don’t know the first thing about approaching.  And then there are two worse-than-useless cell phones, the ancient computer on the verge of crashing.

People keep saying, let me know if you need anything.  How do I match them up with things I need doing?  That will be my mantra:  yes, I need help with  .  .  .  this thing!

Can I lose myself in my art?  maybe tomorrow.

May 13–it has been five weeks.  Completely terrorized and traumatized by recurring further communications in broken legalese hidden under the guise of notes of condolence from a supposed friend.  “Glad to hear you are healing”.

I am not healing, I have not yet begun to heal, I am struggling to survive, I am struggling to sleep, to eat, to think, to drive, to get to work.  Some meager sense of safety and home would certainly make that a little less painful.  Thank you for adding another layer of Hell to my plate.

What phase am I in?  Shock–wearing off? wearing on? Wearing thin, so the light gets in?  What phase am I in?  One month in weeks, four weeks tonight, after midnight, my birthday, by the way, Saturday May 4.  Not ready for that.  Done it all before?  Every Saturday, and then, every Sunday, when we all met at the Starry Plough.

Then, Monday May 6, the 1 month  echo, the date, so weird and difficult.  Janet said it has been two years since her husband died, she still cries, and she is so sad for me, too.  The body responds to grief and gives us a firewall–How?  It comes in waves, recovery, sleep, burning off grief in bursts of manic housecleaning and work.

Go into the light, Steve

Palmdale, Amargosa Wash, December 24, 2010

April 11, Thursday, one week since I sold the shop.  Six days since  .  .  .   Steve left the planet.  Woke up at 6:30, back to sleep until 11:30– I am Manic, bereft.  I hear little rustlings–rats? fairies? Small doable actions, someone can help with those.  Sitting here on the couch I feel warm, somewhat normal, almost blissful.  I have cried and hugged and howled and been stoic and smiled and laughed so much i am tapped out.  Some kind of endorphin response, or numbing out, or hallucinogenic effect of being in constant shock.  I want to paint- what can I do to achieve that?  I put on a hoody and black pajama pants over fleece pants, ready to paint BLACK on anything you got–need to paint the bookcase WHITE. Ok, I can do that for now.

Meanwhile- STOP!  Again! don’t do anything! don’t answer the phone–Sorry! don’t want to talk to some people.  If someone comes, if someone I know, love, trust calls, then yes, I can do that.

Well, never mind, then.  I’ll just go back to chewing my tail.

4.5.13

I found a temporary “free” garage space to cut glass and repair picture frames that have come apart. The first time I went to get it ready it was incredibly filthy, thick with leaves, clutter, broken jars and rusty junk all over the floor.  I have to clean it out to the corners or I can’t possibly bring my things in, let alone work in there –- raccoon nests and god-knows-what packed solid under the workbench, but a beautiful 6-light, south-facing mullioned window, antique rolling door, high ceiling, and real quiet peace, off-grid, good energy.  It really is Dreamy, in my head –- Now that I have SOLD THE SHOP!  and I have TIME, I will continue to refine my INTENTION, not just wishing/hoping.  A dedicated space to cut glass and build frames (things I can’t do in my carpeted studio) and a flat surface to cut mat board.  It will be ok if temporary, a staging and storing area while I look for a better space, a new space to collaborate ??  Or, rebuild the shed in my back yard, or, make space by moving the dead refrigerator out of my Studio Kitchen.

my painting of the moon, lost in reflection

Thanks everyone-

It has been an incredibly difficult, sad and painful 2 years, why I didn’t LISTEN to my instinct that summer of 2011 I don’t know, but it is now, soon, fading into history.  I had any number of people who I thought could help, or had time to be there for me, or might know something about business, or screenprinting, or did encourage me ever-so-slightly  .  .  .  But once caught, I was all alone.

Some merely said, go ahead, at least you will know.  And I do!  I know now that I once had a wonderful, simple life, and peace, and trips to museums, and matinees on a Wednesday afternoon–I will, in time, have that back, with a renewed appreciation and knowledge of who I am and what I am capable of.

Hey, it’s not over yet.
I will soon be the person I used to be, after I untangle the mess I made of it.

I so appreciate seeing everyone at my party.  THAT night will always be my fondest memory, and in my imagination, what could have been, and how I will live now.