Drafty
3.9.26
I had four posts in draft form, all different. Deleted them all. They were nonsense. I read back over the last few attempts and let them go. The stories of my life are no longer synching up. My beloved has a serious health problem that in the few weeks since it was discovered has changed everything.
Here I am in the roofing house again, much as I left it over three years ago . . . I did come back a few times in the intervening and poke around a bit. Yes, Petaluma Parade weekend, ouch. Last year when I came to load out the sound equipment for the Saw Festival I camped here two nights, swept up and pulled some things out. It’s not in bad shape, all I need is some acrylics and brushes. I am somewhat surprised at what I left rat-safe in the filing cabinet: books, magazines, canvas panels, frames and glass. Many things I have no room, or need for, artograph, light box, four bags of LP’s. I did NOT find the big sketchbook with handles that I so want to see.
Woodrat built a tinker-toy nest of bamboo skewers and forks, and some scraps of paper, in a crate, a foundation of plastic bags at the bottom. I pulled it all apart and tucked it into a grocery bag, might write “free rat’s nest” on it.. I swept, used the leaf blower, wiped glass, rehung prayer flags. It’s a delightful little space. I think I’ll be here again.
There were a lot of things Art needed help with. He’s so skinny. I brought beef stew for the weekend, raw butter and grass fed ground beef for the freezer. He gets food delivered from the school Monday thru Friday. I made cauliflower soup and veggie juice in the Ninja he had in storage, never used. Built fires in the wood stove in the cold mornings.
We had a few deep talks at the table, eating stew, him taking his remedies, sorting unopened packages and mail. A circuit breaker had failed and broke, he can’t get it to come out. He has someone who can fix it, so I rerouted cords and plugs and got the porch light working, installed a power strip in the kitchen, got the ceiling light and light over the sink working, and plugged in appliances. Wedged two metal plates under the kitchen sink outflow pipe under the house to stop the drain from leaking all over, ew.
48 hours, Saturday to Monday, I’ll leave sometime after noon. He called me an angel. How much do I owe you? No, dude, you fed me and emptied my bucket for three months after I broke my ankle. You don’t owe me.
He slept and napped, I puttered in the RH and did his laundry and camped in my van, OMG I could hardly get the pop-top up, it has been so long. I am so at home here, the things I thought I had lost forever, my parking space, my studio, all is as it was when I left in abject misery. Who else knows his habits, his quirky home and proclivities? Only I. On the way here I saw a free box and picked out a pillow for Westy, immaculate white, with a bird embroidered in navy, burnt orange, teal, ochre, a Bird of Paradise, a Phoenix, a rebirth. If only for now. Yes, so mote it be.
Gallery hopping
March 2025
I was morose last week, pining for my lost life as a musician, and all the peeps I will never see again. Sad, sad, blue beret. I didn’t know how deep it went, until a long phone call with E brought me near tears more than once at the memory, how hard it is to process or follow through. I have no urge to jaunt about to open mics, hang out in bars or drag myself home in the dark with gear, all alone. It does not spark joy. I have been sitting up at night in that same dark tho, playing the old toones on my reconfigured Stella Toy Bass. I remember it all, sing better than ever, even over the sketchy intonation and sometimes hitting a wall–what key was that in? and no muscle memory will save it without an intro by Ann.
I knew, the next day, that discharging emotion like that usually results in a breakthrough, and in fact is the only way through. So surprise, no surprise when I got a call out of the blue from PMav inviting me to a gallery show in San Francisco and nearby SFMOMA afterward. Looking into the gallery I am utterly shocked to see it is a show of Leonora Carrington, not so much for herself but because the gallery also represents Remedios Varo, and has had THREE solo shows of her work in the past decade or more.
Crazy coincidence, Grif had turned me on to her years ago (she had lived and died in Mexico City around the time he was there) and had used several of her images for band fliers for the Ravines. Full circle, somehow. There is also another link to Gordon Onslow Ford, who drifts in and out of my vision in odd ways, such as the book I was reading about poets that mentioned him living and painting on a houseboat owned by Alan Watts in SF Bay.
After the gallery, and an excellent Hunan lunch, we stopped in at SFMOMA, somewhat disappointing until we got into the permanent collections, and the book store, where I found they stock my favorite $3 paintbrush/pencil combo. Then off to Bart, and home by dark.
PMav asked me if I was painting, as he does, and I lapsed into my cover story: rebuilding sewing machines, the bobbin wheel adventure, constructing ski pants, that I just cleared from my work table. I have almost repopulated the watercolor layout and have empty pages open, and have got most of my vehicle paperwork cleared away, so here is hoping I will kick my own ass and start a new surge of painting, with an eye to something new and, maybe, original.
Sometimes it’s a struggle and doesn’t come naturally. It’s sad to scroll through my phone to see screenshots, ideas, other people’s work. It’s that bugaboo of originality that I beat myself up over. Ow! Stop that! There is the sense of being screw-tin-eyesed, or being graded. When I was young, drawing was a place to hide. Now it has become homework. All I want in life is to be able to goof off and get away with it. If I am painting to be judged, or to avoid being judged, what is the fun in that? I think the previous binge was a result of the practice of Bad Painting. That seemed to kick the dust off, and derail the demon at my ankles. We’ll see. . . Meanwhile, here is some old journal filler from the before times, endpapers, from Canyon, and maybe even BSPco. Horrors!
Perspective
7.26.24
I sat on a bug, or a spider, or a bee nest, and I have a big red spot on my azz. When I get up in the morning I wander to the dining room to get coffee, and find myself in line for oatmeal, or french toast, or eggs and bacon. I yield, and eat, and chat with my classsmates, but I’m fregging deaf. There is a pastel class going on, and the pieces displayed by the patio door are wonderful. I’d like to do that.
Wifi is also wonderfully absent here, so I will post this when I get home. I keep my phone off, and when I turn it on, there is 7:27. It’s a magical YES.
At Yuba Pass for what was supposed to be a Very Sad and Alarming view of the effects of Climate Change, and a campground that has been closed due to falling trees–i only saw the wonderful thick stands of new baby trees filling the open spaces where the old guard had fallen. A visceral picture of the terrible beetle infestation, and not enough freezes, but maybe youth will win. The wind howled and a falling branch told us we were out of our league, and it was Very Scary, so we skittered back down the trail. There was cell phone service up there, and I got 14 texts asking please won’t I send money to support the latest political dog and pony show–aaak, no. I am not looking forward to going back to that mess.
It’s so warm, I brought a lot of clothes for the possibility of chill, not much for the sunny days and warm nights here. I sleep on top of the down comforter most nights, with the pop-top up for ventilation. Even swimming a bit, tho it is not my comfort zone I get out there.
I’m extremely pleased with the work i have done, going from picky-detaily to fast blasts with a big brush. I have my colors sorted, and having this tight schedule- up and out by 9 AM, is quite refreshing. A hike, a sit-down, a chat, some painting, swimming, lunch, more painting, then back to camp for dinner. The food is so good, but meat is scarce, and not a potato to be seen. Outdoor showers in the dark, and a good sleep across the bridge in my little tree pocket by the creek.
Leaving tomorrow–It’s all downhill from here.
reading: The Coming Storm, Bruce Catton
Laws Field guide to the Sierra Nevada by John Muir Laws with 2700 illustrations!
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