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.
Solsticial
June 23, 2025
It has been a long time . . . life is very strange lately, and I like it. I recently spent four days in Santa Rosa, visiting a human, and a dog who is enamored with me, shopping, making a pot roast, the usual. So happy to be home with my bed, my garden, my silence, my local routines.
I am seeing an acupuncturist, adjusting my diet, finally getting the diagnosis that concurs with my suspicion that my mercury fillings are the source of my tinnitus, ear infection, and leg discomfort. I am attempting to contact a recommended dentist to remove the leakiest of the three amalgam fillings that still remain. The dentist I am calling is Iranian–more’s the pity, with the war at fever pitch now.
I did a big detox, a fast, and was living on smoothies for a week. I returned to solid foods in anticipation of the Meadow Muffin, and thereupon helped kill three bottles of wine with my two invited guests on the first night. I also recall storming the stage with my Martin bass and jamming with Maaatt and another bass player for an hour that night. The next day Art and I played some of our repertoire, and Maaatt joined us to steamroll some Lost Hippies material. He takes all my vocal parts, so I can’t harmonize. If I do, he jumps the track and sings what I am singing. Ah well, just as well to be rid of it. On the Monday after, I went up on the bare stage alone, with my Martin, and sang a bunch of tunes while folks rolled wires and packed the sound gear away.
Art and I are getting on, as friends. We’ll play two festivals in August, the International Musical Saw Festival on the 10th, and the Cotati Accordion Festival with Greg on the 18th will pay for the gas it takes to get there. Oh yes, plus the yummy chicken BBQ lunch. I didn’t think there would be a time that I would be Okay with it again, but here we are.
There have been some odd dreams of late, as suggested by the current Jupiter/Neptune square. James had a wonderful NDE type dream of angel people who basically said, it’s all right, don’t worry. I had a dream about my studio at Howe Street. There was an actual ARTIST there (me??) taking up the full half of the two-car garage that I had 1/4 of, climbing over dog shit, furniture, paint cans and storage bins to access. An older (like me) guy, dramatic landscapes, must have been acrylics (or pastels?) because I don’t recall the smell of turps. There was a doorway, and a woodworker in the other half, so yay! Framing! and sawdust? I don’t recall that smell, either. Then we walked out to the street, which had become a road, overlooking the bridge through trees, and sparse traffic driving through knee high mist, with the City in the distance. At some point, he (me??) kissed me! Did I receive a blessing from the pastel gods?
I’m pining for those studios, sad to recall how appropriate both Howe Street and the Roofing House were for pastel dust, which I never realized. I had so much fun with my acrylics then, and just painting walls and building shelves and hanging lights and stenciling floors, all the prep work that goes into having a working space, only to be ejected, and abandoned. So frustrating. What can it all mean?
So I’m airing out my pastels, I bought some board to try, small panels that fit in a pouch I can carry about. I have a sheltered space and table in the garden to clear. There is so much junk I have been getting rid of lately, it’s groundbreaking, making space for me–even Steve’s circular saws and MAAP gas, out on the curb and snatched up in moments by someone who might actually use them. Not letting go of the jigsaw and Sawzall tho, yo.
So much time in the garden, and it’s feeling really settled. It’s all about letting things unfold, following the whim, letting the Crows be the birds in my garden, I can’t fight them. I put in two more raspberry plants, two more high bush blueberries, two thornless blackberries my neighbor had put on the street. I have cut the Insipid Pink Pearl back to three fruits, and there is more wood to take out to make room for the Pink Lady, which has its first apple this year. Every day I get out into the garden I make huge progress, with my worm box in place, and new attempts at weaving the patio chairs underway.
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