We were booked to play the Petaluma Butter and Egg Days parade–a hinky affair, but super huge, a reported 30,000 in the audience. Lots of hokey costumes, robot chickens, hay bales on trailers, classic vehicles, high school bands and wrestling teams, and local dairy and poultry producers. Art and I were invited to represent the Cotati Accordion Festival, playing jigs and polkas while riding on the ragtop mechanism of a 1952 Chevrolet convertible.
I hustled back from Texas in time to decompress and have a rehearsal, and gathered a costume from some possible items I had laid out before I left. Learning the Chevy was gray, I chose the red twirl skirt, black and white striped leggings, and a black bodice and cowboy hat. Sitting in the sun for two hours, I ended up with quite the sunburn on my upper back. I had a super fun time, and when we got to the end I said, can we go around again? As if it was a carnival ride. Nope, the parade was over–we were near the end, #169 of 178 entries.
We packed our gear into Art’s Tesla and headed back to Canyon, where Westy was waiting for me. I stopped in at Misty’s and had a beer with the old gang–it was a bittersweet moment–they were on their way to the Redwood Rodeo, and I was dressed for it, but I let it pass. A rough night–super sad, really. I slept fitfully under the full moon, then made coffee and slipped out the gate just past dawn.
Over the weekend we spent mornings hanging out at Central Market where Grif likes to go for coffee and a breakfast taco. At RADIO there is coffee, beer, food trucks, more tacos, and grackles, one of my all time favorite birds. On Monday after watching the cloudy eclipse from Grif’s back balcony we went to the open mic at Bhodi’s Hideaway, where no one (else) shows up to play, and did a two hour showcase, minus a beer break for a Pinthouse Brewery Electric Jellyfish hazy IPA. We mostly did songs one or the other of us barely knew, plus some oldies we miraculously remember after 15?? years.
We went to see friends perform at a hotel cafe and a winery, took home some Rudy’s BBQ, walked around a bit, listened to music. We met Grif’s old room mate for more tacos back at RADIO, with heat lightening and pouring rain coming in. I slept on his couch a couple nights, then decided I was happier and cooler at home in my van, with the lightening and soothing sounds of a hail storm!
Austin is so green, water and little lakes everywhere, and the for miles around hiways are bounded by wide swaths of wildflowers, pink Indian Paintbrush, Bluebonnets, Blanket Flower, and yellows, yellows, yellows everywhere. On the way out I hit the road early and drove west via Rt 71, marveling frequently that I might have been driving on sketchy tires at 75 MPH, thanking my lucky star or two. Wednesday night I ended up at a rest stop near Roswell by a quirk of my electronic navigator. Steve would approve. I stopped to pick up some provisions, planning to hunker at another rest stop on I-40/66, when a local suggested I turn toward the free campground at El Morro National Monument. I ended up staying there for two nights. It is designated a #3 Dark Sky site, with the “enthusiastic support” of neighboring communities, and the Zuni Pueblo.
The hike was closed due to a washout, but just hanging out, reconfiguring my string and solar lights, cleaning, sorting, puttering, and reading Bruce Catton’s The Coming Fury made for a perfect day. Slowly thinning out the excess, the van is overly-outfitted for two people and dinner guests, with cribbage, dominoes, books, multiple cups, plates, glasses, candles–when what I really use is three coffee mugs, two forks, a frying pan, coffee pot and a spoon. I haven’t touched my art supplies. No WiFi for days, no access to email, and my inverter won’t charge the laptop. I did watch a youtube video on my old iphone 6, by gosh. How cool is that.
Then it was back to Gallup where I decided not to wait in line at Jerry’s Cafe, another recommendation by a local, maybe some other time. I had errands to run, then headed west to see how far along I could get. I wanted to hit that taco stand in Seligman again, and there I got a burrito bowl made to order, refritos, cheese on top please, then rice, carnitas, hatch chilis, mexicorn, jalapenos, and crema: perfection. It took three days to finish it off. I made it to Mojave NP that night, almost no thanks to the wacky app that put me at the Goffs 4×4 entrance via Bullhead City, 47 minutes out of my way on a Saturday night. Luckily Mojave is a relatively unsung park, not crowded, and there I decided to stay another night rather than join the Sunday rush home. Why go back to street-sweeping day? I moved to site #17 up the hill and watched as folks packed and left to go finish their taxes, or the retired jeepers maybe heading further into the desert. Westina stalled while re-parking, and as she does after a short drive, would not start, and it turned out she found a better vantage than I had planned, 360 views, unobstructed out each window. Relaxed and rejuvenated, I woke at dawn to finish the long bleak drive back to dreary civilization, traffic, my beloved home, and the tasseling box elder out my window.
Well, it’s that anniversary again. Almost at the last minute I decided to drive to see the total eclipse from the balcony of my old music partner’s apartment in Austin Texas. Truly idiots have angels, and likely, angels need idiots to exist. I had packed out not-that-early on a Sunday morning, but the van battery was stone dead, would not jump, would not charge. AAA sent a guy with a battery that almost fit, he made it work and got me on the road. I tried filling my tires the day before, but there was one tire that wouldn’t cooperate. The inflater valve squealed in terror, but, idiot that I am, I decided to have it checked out “later”. Now I was actually walking distance from my tire guy over the holiday, and intended to drop in to have it checked then, but, well, here we are.
Crossing the CA/AZ border at Needles after a night at Mojave National Preserve I stopped into a place that said TIRES, and TIRE SALE, to check the pressure and get 2 gallons of $7/per gas, when Johnny approached and said my FRONT tire looked a little low . . . distracted, oops, I ended up filling my tank, and pulled up to the air hose. He proceeded to show me the indicators, and the rot, and said, these aren’t safe on the highway–he showed me the date on the one I was having issues with–2015. I ended up with a full set of fresh new tires. He also pointed out that my shocks were original (1983) equipment, and leaking, and down the road in Kingman I could have them replaced, and called the guy to see if they were in stock.
Well, it could seem to be a scam, but then, even I could see they were not what I wanted to be riding on, and worrying about. Honestly, road angels exist. Somehow my work truck always had up-to-date wheels, but my van guys only go so far.
I stopped for a scrumptious carnitas taco at what appeared to be a Subway/truck stop/gift store in Seligman, so it was well into afternoon when I was back on the road, driving through an ice storm and searching for a campground. I pulled into the lot at Petrified Forest and recognized clear signs of Boondocking, chose a spot with a view of trees, and tucked in for the night.
The next morning I woke to ice half-an-inch thick on my windshield, and remembered the ice scraper I somehow had the sense to acquire and squirrel away in the back of the van. I shivered and watched as mothers hugged and hustled their tiny children through the freezing wind onto a school bus idling nearby. I pulled out early, but the fog was so thick I had to pull over and wait until I could at least see the trucks rumbling by. I felt blessed, so at the New Mexico border I bought myself a vintage Navajo Sterling cuff as a birthday present, what the hell I had emergency cash, the emergency was averted, plus now I am a genius.
Through Albuquerque, and after a sweet boondocking rest stop near Santa Rosa, New Mexico I turned south and through backcountry Texas. One more stop at a spendy RV “resort” (the blue dot) where I plugged in my laptop and got some email, then off early on Thursday morning, arriving in Austin (the red pin) in time to join Grif on his flower delivery route. Not before getting rerouted, not for the first time, by an inane map app that sent me to a completely different address with almost no relation or reason to where I was destined, a 27 minute delay . . .
I ordered some handmade black squirrel brushes online, on the advice of a youtube watercolor tutorial. I recently also got an assortment of fine liners and riggers, they are fun. Turns out the #3 hand made squirrel brush is my favorite. Fat, fluffy, and a nice point, although I have pulled a couple of hairs . . . The point is so fine, I could add hair lines and detail and shadow to this old drawing circa 4.16.2020. It’s the view out the window in Canyon from my old chair by the woodstove, a month into the lockdown.
A friend once commented that I have a Hoard of brushes. They are not a hoard. I use them. Well, some of them. I have been looking for a chopstick rest to lay damp brushes on, and somehow came to the realization that a wooden soap dish would do the trick. I found two different hand made versions, one in cedar, one in poplar.
Nataliea squirrel is a fluffy ratdiaz lake gouache
I’m also doing a few portraits here and there, getting over my acquired shyness about pencils and yes, the forbidden eraser. I’m working three different sketchbooks at the moment. I have been slowly filling an old Moleskine. Nicknamed “Squirrel”, begun circa 2012, it has a lot half-baked ideas that I am attempting to make sense of from here in the future. There is the $2 Goodwill hand me down from the 2022 post-Christmas thrifting binge, and this mustard paper ring-bound sketchbook I got from Viki.
I’m not putting much effort into getting decent photos. I feel it’s all works in progress. I plan to paint multiple versions of this landscape. I have other paintings of that era, the trips to Diaz Lake and Lone Pine, on the way in and out of Saline and Death Valley, the Panamints and beyond. It is a magical place, at a magical time of year, the Eastern Sierras in October, and the cottonwoods turning golden. Perhaps I’ll go there again, maybe soon.
don’t know what it is exactly that stops me. planning or thinking about a drawing or painting sometimes spooks me, the idea of going out and being sociable is just an enormous struggle. reticence does not describe it. times were I would sit at my drawing table, frozen in anticipation of actual pain. somewhere in my shoulders was a cruel memory, a fear of erasers, a death challenge.
sometimes inspiration comes, and i just get up and follow through. i have a studio setup where there are pencils and water and brushes at the ready for any contingency. the doom falls when i stop to figure out or plan, all the what ifs start to gather, thoughts get in the way and i am in a muddle. there are times when just the thinking about doing something creates a wall. a threshold. a meniscus i can’t puncture. oh, that threshold i stepped over when i broke my ankle, ow, that was a thing. but i know that if I think of a task, and do it now, it gets done.
the morning gather:
e.g. just spent two hours deciding to go out and get some things out of the van, it was a struggle to get my boots on, i ended up washing my hair. finally i was ready for the long walk (what, about 45 feet) and down the stairs. glorious day, fresh air and sun after the long long rain, and there i was, in my element, checking oil, checking tires, pulling crocosmia before it spread along the fence, hauling a box and a bag and a chainsaw and a few things on hangers into the house. curious.
The End of All, Gigs, Venues, Cafes, Films Jams, Parks, Beaches, Hikes, Restaurants, Shows, Friendships After I had already lost Everyone
No Center, no Ideas, Certainly no room for me except a parking space, a chair a drawer, a small studio there
Invisible small diminished, so as not to incur wrath or jealousy
Not knowing how to drive to a place, to not be welcome, in your home, your life, your bed. I slept with one eye open
How do I say what happened to those who thought we had a thing? He won’t tell me why he pulled away like Lucy and the football again and again except to recount the story of how he Almost didn’t get born because his father Almost escaped the wedding.
Like I did . . .
He had a habit of getting Yelly while I sat with Head cocked a puppy, trying to sort word from meaning a language I don’t understand
While he held a rolled-up newspaper behind his back
late december, 2023 Clearing my desktop of clutter, sketches from the unknown past, some from the roofing house studio journal, summer of 2020. It makes me happy to see how loose and free and un-precious these are.
more moosesorange beaniesmokey eyes
It’s close to a year since i closed my business license and sold my truck, it will be three years since I actually gave up the business, after I broke my ankle and lost interest. Sometimes I wake up feeling palpably calm and free, no longer obsessing over what was. I do miss the exercise, fresh air, hands in the dirt, a sense of purpose, cash, check, human contact.
Quality time at home, but making a point of pushing myself out of the house; new friends and groups and nutritional inputs—I think I am feeling more like myself than ever, wearing colors, not so black and brown–and did I say I cut off my possum tail? Don’t be alarmed, just a haircut.
I have no long-term plans. I take things day-to-day. My MC in Sagittarius needs a goal, to fix things. I am an optimist, I don’t consider failure. It’s all about what can I do, what’s next to put back together. Mow the lawn, clear vines out of trees, tighten screws, make a pudding, find things, give things away. Draw, spill ink, see what it does. Full circle.
Truly Exmas this year, as our annual non-family get-together was cancelled due to unspeakable side effects of the unspoken poke situation. I don’t know what it will take to break through this madness, but I have another booster friend today who is going for another in spite of the return of her thyroid cancer. But, hey, why ruin everybody’s mood, okay?
As an upshot of the cancellation I was able to expand my cat-sitting commitment to include Christmas Eve through to the previously-agreed-to New Year’s Eve Eve. The cat is a much needed respite from human contact. The house I am staying in is a lovely, ingenious, converted two-car garage, quite a step up from the one where I lived on Stone Avenue in Tucson, circa 1974-5. In many ways, it’s just a straight trajectory, as that was where I had my first solitary home, my first 1957 VW 23-window Deluxe, my first organic garden.
This neighborhood has delightful adventures a short walk in every direction, and I plan to take advantage when it isn’t raining. An art supply store, a chi-chi shopping zone with eggnog latte option, a natural food grocery, a place where I can pick up a half-pint of carnitas, the place where I bought my tires. I want them to check some damage I sustained hitting the newly-installed concrete bicycle barrier up the road before I take off again.
Tonight, a brilliant pink-stripey sunset. I brought sparkle snowflake ornaments and a short string of colored lights to spice things up, as the cat people didn’t deign to decorate the place they were not going to spend the holidays in.
I’ll return for a night at home before picking up the now-New-Year’s-Day presents and heading up to see my friend at the Mobile Estates. We will likely have Margaritas, I’ll pick up some Chicken Jalfrezi and Prawns Biryani to bring in the new year, then as soon as possible indulge in some thrift shopping and friendship.
I have lately been playing with ink and brushes, and here is a little holiday-inspired invention.
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.
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.
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