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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

9.3.23

Lots of weather going on, none of it here. Just painting clouds with watercolor.

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.

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.

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.