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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

5.29.23

303 miles, 3 days, 3 nights. 2 sets.

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.  

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.

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.