When I lie awake in the twilit pre-dawn hour and listen to the chorus of birds — the large heavy branches of an old Douglas fir are just outside my second-story bedroom window — not only do I curse my wakefulness but also wonder at the concert being performed for, well, it seems to be for only me. (One of the few conceits I stubbornly maintain.)
Wonder, to be more exact, at the how of their volume from such creatures of insubstantial heft. If I could roar at a volume proportionate to my, ahem, heft at the same ratio of birdsong to bird, well, I'd be in violation of a city law.
After a brief investigation, I learned that birdsong originates from the syrinx, a sound producing organ, which is situated at the junction of two bronchi leading from the lungs. When air from the bronchi passes over the syrinx, vibrations occur, producing what we recognize as song. But even better, each bronchus may produce a separate tone, which is then "mixed" as it passes over the syrinx, resulting in the many-toned and elaborate "songs" which entertain my early waking.
It is theorized that birds produce this prodigious amount of song at dawn because that is the best time for sound to travel, there being little wind or other noise disturbances. Another theory is that male birds may just be boasting their virility despite their typically low energy reserves after a night of no feeding. (Men!)
Science aside, I remain in rapt awe of the complex structure of these songs, both rhythmically and tonally, an olio of sound that includes robins, house finches, sparrows, wrens, bushtits, jays and nuthatches.
Here's a short recording of a house finch singing. After listening to perhaps a dozen of these on YouTube, I chose this one for the commentary in the background — a snippet of birdsong but also a snippet from a stranger's life —
Saturday, May 31, 2014
Thursday, May 29, 2014
Trimming roses for a vase, I scissor through my finger.
Stolen, ripped from a bush crowding the sidewalk,
everything about them is danger: thorns & theft.
No surprise then that I pay in blood,
the tidy skin-slit prettily spilling its serum.
And did I expect to slip them secretly
from a stranger's garden, minus shout
and accusation? —my smug self
with the sprig tucked into a sack,
atonement measured in layers of gauze
and a finger looped in tape.
(But oh, the crimson petals
dripping from the vase!)
everything about them is danger: thorns & theft.
No surprise then that I pay in blood,
the tidy skin-slit prettily spilling its serum.
And did I expect to slip them secretly
from a stranger's garden, minus shout
and accusation? —my smug self
with the sprig tucked into a sack,
atonement measured in layers of gauze
and a finger looped in tape.
(But oh, the crimson petals
dripping from the vase!)
Wednesday, May 28, 2014
At the Glass Factory
The irises are nearing the end of their bloom, and for several weeks now we've had an array of them in tiny vases on the work table, every color a different scent: grape kool-aid, root beer, cotton candy. And now that the roses are coming on, the table is scattered with pinks and golds, a blush of pale orange, and again the parade of scents: apple and lemon, mango, clovey-spice. Every one smells like something else — it's a game of imposters, and from day to day I don't know if I work in a candy factory or an orchard.
Match the paint on my palette to the color of the flower-of-the-day, and it's a full-on sensory affair, with an aria playing in the background.
The only thing missing is ice cream — heaping bowls-full, in every conceivable flavor.
(I'll have to bring up this fact of our Ice Cream Deficiency at our next staff meeting.)
Match the paint on my palette to the color of the flower-of-the-day, and it's a full-on sensory affair, with an aria playing in the background.
The only thing missing is ice cream — heaping bowls-full, in every conceivable flavor.
(I'll have to bring up this fact of our Ice Cream Deficiency at our next staff meeting.)
Sunday, May 25, 2014
Ruined Beauties
 |
| Rosamond Purcell |
I hesitate to say that I've long been a lover of ruins for the suggestive nuances contained therein, but it's true. The wrecked and the abandoned ignite parts of my imagination like nothing else, so it's not a surprise that this passion has led me to the work of Rosamond Purcell, a Boston photographer/author/artist, who spent twenty years digging through the eleven acre site of a Maine junkdealer, unearthing all manner of objects in varying stages of decay, all chronicled in her memoir Owl's Head.
By chance, I happened upon this book. A friend some years ago introduced me to her work when he showed me a book of her artwork, and something — I don't know what — brought her to mind recently, so I reserved three titles by her at the library, and Owl's Head is one of them. I'm not even halfway through it, but already it has yanked me into that junkyard of wonders where mice nests are discovered in the remains of books and disintegrating bowling pins are raked from beneath a pile of scrap metal. And so on.
Stuff.
I've long been obsessed with the nature of stuff, questioning its meaning, and/or the absence of meaning when we have transmuted our own selves/cells to ash. This was never more profound than when, ten years ago, I began to sift through the many accumulated belongings of my late husband. Every little thing, every objet that he'd treasured, was subject to my judgment: keep? Toss? Give to charity? Every decision weighed heavily on me. I wondered: would I see his shirts at Goodwill, marked 99 cents? His shoes?
Of course, some things ended up in the garbage. I filled, for each of my boys, a large bin of "mementos", and these bins are still in my basement. I gleaned through the many books, kept the signed first editions, gave the rest away. The one thing that I treasured, his wallet, was stolen in a burglary.
So what, then? I've come to peace with the truth that his wallet still exists, somewhere on this planet, even if it's been turned to carbon. The dust of it remains, in the least. For that matter, the dust of everyone/everything we've known, touched and loved exists (curious: if you remove the "s" from "exist" you end up with "exit": everyone/everything we've known, touched and loved exits.) Is there ever any true parting, though, if you view life from this much larger perspective? It grants me comfort, this notion.
But more on the subject of disintegration, in Rosamond Purcell's words, from Owl's Head:
"I exhume the frame of a typewriter, its vestigial hammers like the ribbings of an ancient echinoid. Where does the sea end? At what point does a manufactured object turn into an organism. Do objects drown? Do they ever possess a life — beyond batteries — that might be taken away? Is an object transmuted into another substance, ever, like a fossil turned from flesh and bone to stone? When does an inanimate object become worthy of a scientific name? I name the typewriter Underwoodensis corrupta, a close invertebrate cousin to an echinoid. Its appeal is purely visual, of course, but as this typewriter aspires to the same lofty class of objects as the book-nest, it too comes from the place where metaphors are made."
Words to commit to memory, and to ponder.
If you are a regular to my blog, you're familiar with my disintegrating James Fenimore Cooper, which has recently celebrated its second anniversary outdoors. (You may read about it here and also here.) No mouse nesting between the chapters, yet. But there's no rush. These things take time.
Wednesday, May 21, 2014
Gone Missing
The waffle iron.
Various men.
A metal rake.
And then, this week a sock reappeared, mysteriously, on my dining room table, blue striped. All casual, as if only gone out on a lark and had just then sashayed back in. I didn't know that missing socks ever did actually return, but there it was. In the cotton.
Various men.
A metal rake.
And then, this week a sock reappeared, mysteriously, on my dining room table, blue striped. All casual, as if only gone out on a lark and had just then sashayed back in. I didn't know that missing socks ever did actually return, but there it was. In the cotton.
Friday, May 16, 2014
Recent Archaeological Discoveries
 |
A striking example of an early chair, c. 1973, mostly likely a remnant of the Curlyculios peoples, who vanished sometime in the late 20th century. Notice the absence of upholstery! There is some speculation among Curlyculios scholars that this might have served as a toileting aid. |
 |
| With its enigmatic green splotches and rough-hewn surfaces, this flat stone engraving (c.1999) is a marvleous example of ancient Pacific Northwest moss-texts. |
 |
Bucketus Rustifolious, c. 1981, recently discovered at a morning-glory excavation site. This is an example of artifact commonly found entombed beneath massive accumulations of morning-glory (aka bindweed). |
 |
| One of the rarer 2014 finds is this Podiafowlia Bootius, in remarkably good condition despite the considerable pitting and mold spores. Although little is known about Podiafowlia Bootius, the considerable heft of the "body" suggests that it is probably 80-90% concrete. |
Iris-Smitten
They are so much like feathers — purple feathers — the tightly furled iris petals that line the walks on my route to work. It seems to take me forever to get where I'm going on account of the necessity of stopping to inhale the sugarsweet scents. Some are delicately sweet, like faded candy, while others are so deeply, so sweetly rich they seem almost to drip iris-honey at my feet. And to correct: not all purple, but varying degrees of purple, and rusts and golds, and sometimes white, with upright yellow stamens.
The blossom in the photos has slipped, slimy, into the shot glass — diminished! — and now the water which sustained its unfurling has taken on the purple coloring.
I am in love with the world, right here, right now.
The blossom in the photos has slipped, slimy, into the shot glass — diminished! — and now the water which sustained its unfurling has taken on the purple coloring.
I am in love with the world, right here, right now.
Wednesday, May 14, 2014
Finch and Moon
My cat left a dead goldfinch — a fledgling — on the patio, and I picked it up and held it in my palm. So little weight, so much of nothing in that feather-bundle! Its eyes were closed, the miniature talons curled in on themselves.
A few detached breast feathers caught in a breeze and lofted across the concrete: a tumble of tiny fluff-waves.
Very delicately, I unfolded one wing, and then another, to observe what is most often unobservable except at a great distance and in motion. Just as carefully, I pressed each wing back to the body, amazed at the tidiness, the efficiency of it all, how each wing wanted to close back up, the wings like a pair of soft hands cupping the body. My curiosity a kind of violation, but reverent, yes.
And pondered: what to do with this almost-life, this newly dead, this palm-full of exquisite beauty and feather-symmetry? There's the whole song-bird guilt thing, the millions of them killed each year by domestic felines. The should-I-keep-my-cats-indoors question.
But what is the natural state of a cat, even a domesticated one? Is it to live its life in a man-made structure, to never feel the earth under its paws, never prowl lion-like through the tall grasses? Is the cat any less of nature than the bird? Am I any less a part of nature?
Who gets to decide?
The ideal diet for a cat is that of small birds and mice, bones, beaks and all.
So guess what I did: I set the bird down for the cat to finish. And she did. Dragged it under the deck. I could hear bones snapping, like the sound of a handful of twigs being crushed.
Later, when I peered into the dark beneath the deck boards, there was nothing to see, not even the beak remained: zero evidence.
And now the moon has risen, where an hour ago I searched for it and found nothing.
Where to file, in my consciousness, this fact of one small dead bird, as I type in light reflected off a celestial body 238,900 miles away?
A few detached breast feathers caught in a breeze and lofted across the concrete: a tumble of tiny fluff-waves.
Very delicately, I unfolded one wing, and then another, to observe what is most often unobservable except at a great distance and in motion. Just as carefully, I pressed each wing back to the body, amazed at the tidiness, the efficiency of it all, how each wing wanted to close back up, the wings like a pair of soft hands cupping the body. My curiosity a kind of violation, but reverent, yes.
And pondered: what to do with this almost-life, this newly dead, this palm-full of exquisite beauty and feather-symmetry? There's the whole song-bird guilt thing, the millions of them killed each year by domestic felines. The should-I-keep-my-cats-indoors question.
But what is the natural state of a cat, even a domesticated one? Is it to live its life in a man-made structure, to never feel the earth under its paws, never prowl lion-like through the tall grasses? Is the cat any less of nature than the bird? Am I any less a part of nature?
Who gets to decide?
The ideal diet for a cat is that of small birds and mice, bones, beaks and all.
So guess what I did: I set the bird down for the cat to finish. And she did. Dragged it under the deck. I could hear bones snapping, like the sound of a handful of twigs being crushed.
Later, when I peered into the dark beneath the deck boards, there was nothing to see, not even the beak remained: zero evidence.
And now the moon has risen, where an hour ago I searched for it and found nothing.
Where to file, in my consciousness, this fact of one small dead bird, as I type in light reflected off a celestial body 238,900 miles away?
Saturday, May 10, 2014
Tuesday, May 6, 2014
Monday, May 5, 2014
This Peace, It's Enough
My cat is outside leaping from roof to roof, ruckling up trouble with the nesting birds. A crow just swooped beak-down at her, and a starling is in the neighbor's cherry tree sounding a harsh alarm. The cat — Lucy — well, she's in her version of heaven, all bright-eyed and invigorated with feline youth. Now, if I was to leap from roof to roof, it'd be a different story....
I came home from work today and immediately went out to plant my tomatoes, which involved spading a garden bed and pulling out handfuls of insidious bindweed roots. It's not quite warm consistently yet, but after several days of dramatic intermittent hail and rain, the skies cleared long enough to play in the dirt without getting soaked.
Lots of worms.
I moved my fire pit two feet north.
(I garden by the square inch.)
It's been a good ten years since I worked earnestly and with passionate intent in this yard, and an entire adult lifetime since I experienced the level of peace that I enjoyed this evening, dirt under my fingernails and twigs caught in my hair.
As a child, I groomed the woods behind my house, kept the paths free of nettles, named the trees. I knew where tiger lilies bloomed in June (a secret glade, accessible by no path), knew where salal grew waist-high and rustled-up a chorus when I ran through it. I knew which trees were best for robins' nests. Knew how a fiddlehead fern unfurled from the leafy underbrush. Knew how the sun dappled my face when I lay beneath the ferns.
I didn't want to come in tonight, so I compromised and left the back door open, and dug out some old sheet music, and played Chopin while the spiraling dusk-song of robins accompanied my modest key-work.
It was good to be home.
It was good to be alone.
I came home from work today and immediately went out to plant my tomatoes, which involved spading a garden bed and pulling out handfuls of insidious bindweed roots. It's not quite warm consistently yet, but after several days of dramatic intermittent hail and rain, the skies cleared long enough to play in the dirt without getting soaked.
Lots of worms.
I moved my fire pit two feet north.
(I garden by the square inch.)
It's been a good ten years since I worked earnestly and with passionate intent in this yard, and an entire adult lifetime since I experienced the level of peace that I enjoyed this evening, dirt under my fingernails and twigs caught in my hair.
As a child, I groomed the woods behind my house, kept the paths free of nettles, named the trees. I knew where tiger lilies bloomed in June (a secret glade, accessible by no path), knew where salal grew waist-high and rustled-up a chorus when I ran through it. I knew which trees were best for robins' nests. Knew how a fiddlehead fern unfurled from the leafy underbrush. Knew how the sun dappled my face when I lay beneath the ferns.
I didn't want to come in tonight, so I compromised and left the back door open, and dug out some old sheet music, and played Chopin while the spiraling dusk-song of robins accompanied my modest key-work.
It was good to be home.
It was good to be alone.
Saturday, May 3, 2014
No hot water, but plenty of garlic.
Can I say I HATE scrambling around on my knees in the basement peering into the base of the hot water heater to try to light the pilot? For most of my childhood I argued with my mother's mantra: this is a job for a man. But today, I couldn't agree more. Sexist? Certainly. But whatever. Get me a man to fix my hot water heater and I'll whip up a chocolate cake with raspberry filling and ganache icing, toute de suite.
Grumbling.
Tomorrow morning I'll take a bath with water heated in kettles on the stove. And then go to war with the (apparently, according to my plumber-nephew) thermo-coupler. How I'm going to get my hands and a screwdriver into the tiny floor-level space where all the business is situated is beyond me at the moment, but in the absence of cash, I'll make it work.
No blowing up the house, though.
(Okay, truth: I have a call in to my son N., who tends to handiness. )
But to get to the garlic: I was at the produce stand today, and had left my basket unattended for a moment, safely wedged against a wooden crate (there are precarious slopes at the produce stand) and went to check out some deals on salad greens. When I turned back, a woman was making a quick exit with my fairly-filled shopping cart. I ran after her, claimed my cart (she was surprised that it wasn't hers!) and finished my shopping.
At the checkout, as I unpacked my items onto the counter, I realized I'd forgotten to get garlic. I debated whether or not to run and grab some, but there was a line behind me, and things move pretty fast there, so I decided I'd make do with my few remaining cloves at home. And then — voilà ! — there was a small bag of garlic in my cart, compliments of the earlier cart-thief! I decided to keep it, such lovely serendipity it was. The thief, incidentally, ended up right behind me in line, so I told her the story, and she said, "that means I don't have any garlic in my basket?"
"Ha ha, yes!"
She burst out laughing
So: plenty of garlic, which has absolutely no impact on my lack of hot water. (I'm really trying to tie these two themes together, and failing, utterly.)
Grumbling.
Tomorrow morning I'll take a bath with water heated in kettles on the stove. And then go to war with the (apparently, according to my plumber-nephew) thermo-coupler. How I'm going to get my hands and a screwdriver into the tiny floor-level space where all the business is situated is beyond me at the moment, but in the absence of cash, I'll make it work.
No blowing up the house, though.
(Okay, truth: I have a call in to my son N., who tends to handiness. )
But to get to the garlic: I was at the produce stand today, and had left my basket unattended for a moment, safely wedged against a wooden crate (there are precarious slopes at the produce stand) and went to check out some deals on salad greens. When I turned back, a woman was making a quick exit with my fairly-filled shopping cart. I ran after her, claimed my cart (she was surprised that it wasn't hers!) and finished my shopping.
At the checkout, as I unpacked my items onto the counter, I realized I'd forgotten to get garlic. I debated whether or not to run and grab some, but there was a line behind me, and things move pretty fast there, so I decided I'd make do with my few remaining cloves at home. And then — voilà ! — there was a small bag of garlic in my cart, compliments of the earlier cart-thief! I decided to keep it, such lovely serendipity it was. The thief, incidentally, ended up right behind me in line, so I told her the story, and she said, "that means I don't have any garlic in my basket?"
"Ha ha, yes!"
She burst out laughing
So: plenty of garlic, which has absolutely no impact on my lack of hot water. (I'm really trying to tie these two themes together, and failing, utterly.)
Friday, May 2, 2014
Sweet Soft Song
Asleep, early morning and cool after yesterday's blaze of summer-tease, I could hear a woman humming close by, very subdued and without much tone, but soothing, and pleasing. I began to rustle awake, to wonder about the source. I live with only my son and two cats, and, well, not one of them has a voice quite like what I was hearing.
Not at all alarmed, I rolled to face the window, and opened my eyes to the curtain fluttering in a steady breeze. And there was the source of such a soft and not-quite plaintive song: it was only the wind, wending its constant low whistling in through the slight gap I'd left open for air last night.
A change in the weather, and my not-quite disappointment that my reverse lullaby was only slightly less than human.
Time to get up.
It stayed with me all day, that almost-melody, my soft comfort, my pillowed memory.
Not at all alarmed, I rolled to face the window, and opened my eyes to the curtain fluttering in a steady breeze. And there was the source of such a soft and not-quite plaintive song: it was only the wind, wending its constant low whistling in through the slight gap I'd left open for air last night.
A change in the weather, and my not-quite disappointment that my reverse lullaby was only slightly less than human.
Time to get up.
It stayed with me all day, that almost-melody, my soft comfort, my pillowed memory.
 |
| Wind From the Sea, by Andrew Wyeth |
Thursday, May 1, 2014
Balmy (Not Barmy)
It's been a rare sizzling spring day here today, 84 degrees still and the sun just set. A feeling like somehow I've missed something, that I'm ten years old and summer slipped by in just a few hours and I didn't notice. Like I was supposed to have some required amount of fun, and I failed. And so to make up for it I'll stay up late, windows and doors flung open to the evening's sonorous buzz.
Wednesday, April 30, 2014
The Facility
Yesterday at The Glass Factory we listened to screaming goats and laughter loops, one laugh spilling into the next, superimposed by our own explosive, falling-down, tears-rolling laughter. I like to think that we're a funny (as in ha-ha) bunch but then, maybe I need to get out more often.
Ha ha.
Lest you think it's all fun and games, well, it mostly is.
A sales rep from one of our suppliers called today, and he'll be in town next week from California, and wanted to know if he could stop by to view our "facility". HAHAHA. He said that we used so much of his company's masking material, it would be nice to see exactly what it is we do with it.
M. politely told him that the "facility" is a house and garage-studio, and that he'd be most welcome to come by, but to expect the unexpected.
I think that without the constant, ever-rolling humor, most of life would be fairly unbearable. We work damn hard, long days which spill into weeks. I could probably trade this job up for a management position somewhere corporate, for better pay and benefits, but I think that would kill me. (I spent 15 years working for a corporation, and it did indeed nearly do me in.)
It's all a gamble, really, isn't it? And trade-offs. I'll most likely work 'til I drop dead. Retirement isn't a word in my vocabulary, at this stage of my game. (The cruel facts of economics in an expensive town.)
I do hem and haw, now and again.
But here I am, and intend to stay. Painting out my life, one color at a time.
Ha ha.
Lest you think it's all fun and games, well, it mostly is.
A sales rep from one of our suppliers called today, and he'll be in town next week from California, and wanted to know if he could stop by to view our "facility". HAHAHA. He said that we used so much of his company's masking material, it would be nice to see exactly what it is we do with it.
M. politely told him that the "facility" is a house and garage-studio, and that he'd be most welcome to come by, but to expect the unexpected.
I think that without the constant, ever-rolling humor, most of life would be fairly unbearable. We work damn hard, long days which spill into weeks. I could probably trade this job up for a management position somewhere corporate, for better pay and benefits, but I think that would kill me. (I spent 15 years working for a corporation, and it did indeed nearly do me in.)
It's all a gamble, really, isn't it? And trade-offs. I'll most likely work 'til I drop dead. Retirement isn't a word in my vocabulary, at this stage of my game. (The cruel facts of economics in an expensive town.)
I do hem and haw, now and again.
But here I am, and intend to stay. Painting out my life, one color at a time.
Thursday, April 24, 2014
Excessive, Spectacular Pink
Honestly. I want to move in to the pink dogwood tree. I want to live there, among those flat-petaled blossoms. I want to feel them on my face, my arms, all over and at all times of the day and night. And when the wind picks up, like it did today, a fierce April wind with a razor-chill to it, I want to hang on like everything hinges on the hanging-on, because in a way, everything really does hinge on this.
I'm hanging on.
It's pink, and I'm hanging on.
Sunday, April 20, 2014
Saturday, April 19, 2014
Easter Penance: Costco
A day of sharp rain squalls, this Easter Saturday, and I was out in it on my weekly urban grocery foraging. Ha.
I mostly try to avoid Costco, but go there for prescriptions because the price doesn't bleed my wallet out. I didn't need much other than the Rx's, so I didn't get a shopping cart, which was a mistake. I realized, as I dodged and swayed quickly left or right to avoid getting side-swiped by rolling metal tank-like carts that they serve not only the purpose of holding one's mega-whatever packs but they are also a kind of personal armor. I'm telling you, it was dangerous, and I kept having to do funny little dance steps and do-si-do's just to avoid injury. I could swear that there's a low constant humming in that warehouse, the sound of commerce grinding it's way inexorably into the next sale. And why is there no express checkout?! Five items or less? All I had in my arms was a giant bottle of Tabasco and a giant bottle of vanilla, and for the privilege of paying a reasonably low price for them I had to stand vigil behind flat-bed carts tipping with 48-packs of toilet paper (each roll individually-wrapped: what waste!), cases of Progresso soup, and floppy giant bags of white flabby dinner rolls.
My mother used to do an Easter Saturday vigil at St. Anthony's church every year, alternating shifts with her fellow Altar Society members, until midnight. Me? Today I meditated in line at the Costco Cathedral of Our Lady of Capitalism, contemplated the apparent need all around me for excess upon excess (the sales clerk didn't even take the time to make eye contact).
A kind of penance, I suppose, for which there is no need for confession. The only thing missing was the organ.
I mostly try to avoid Costco, but go there for prescriptions because the price doesn't bleed my wallet out. I didn't need much other than the Rx's, so I didn't get a shopping cart, which was a mistake. I realized, as I dodged and swayed quickly left or right to avoid getting side-swiped by rolling metal tank-like carts that they serve not only the purpose of holding one's mega-whatever packs but they are also a kind of personal armor. I'm telling you, it was dangerous, and I kept having to do funny little dance steps and do-si-do's just to avoid injury. I could swear that there's a low constant humming in that warehouse, the sound of commerce grinding it's way inexorably into the next sale. And why is there no express checkout?! Five items or less? All I had in my arms was a giant bottle of Tabasco and a giant bottle of vanilla, and for the privilege of paying a reasonably low price for them I had to stand vigil behind flat-bed carts tipping with 48-packs of toilet paper (each roll individually-wrapped: what waste!), cases of Progresso soup, and floppy giant bags of white flabby dinner rolls.
My mother used to do an Easter Saturday vigil at St. Anthony's church every year, alternating shifts with her fellow Altar Society members, until midnight. Me? Today I meditated in line at the Costco Cathedral of Our Lady of Capitalism, contemplated the apparent need all around me for excess upon excess (the sales clerk didn't even take the time to make eye contact).
A kind of penance, I suppose, for which there is no need for confession. The only thing missing was the organ.
Wednesday, April 16, 2014
Insurance Rant
My insurance broker who handles my homeowners insurance emailed me last week, saying that there is a new company they're dealing with who offers significantly lower rates, and if I wanted a quote I could get one after sending photos of both the front and back of my house.
So today I heard back from the broker, who said, "Your house is so cute! REALLY CUTE!!" And that I could get a quote if I scraped and painted all the "exposed wood" on the house (it's stained), if I scraped and painted the garage to match the house (it's a falling-down garage that isn't worth even a quart of paint), and if I cut back all the "shrubbery" to allow easy access to the house (the "shrubbery" is a clematis, a rhododendron and a climbing rose that have been painstakingly trained to frame my front steps and front porch and in no way prohibit access to anything.)
Bottom line: shell out $3k+ and we'll cut your homeowner's policy by $20 a month.
Gee. What a deal.
What a scam. I wouldn't put it past them to supply me with a list of "suggested contractors" who'll do the job at bargain prices.
Looks like I'm staying with my current company.
So today I heard back from the broker, who said, "Your house is so cute! REALLY CUTE!!" And that I could get a quote if I scraped and painted all the "exposed wood" on the house (it's stained), if I scraped and painted the garage to match the house (it's a falling-down garage that isn't worth even a quart of paint), and if I cut back all the "shrubbery" to allow easy access to the house (the "shrubbery" is a clematis, a rhododendron and a climbing rose that have been painstakingly trained to frame my front steps and front porch and in no way prohibit access to anything.)
Bottom line: shell out $3k+ and we'll cut your homeowner's policy by $20 a month.
Gee. What a deal.
What a scam. I wouldn't put it past them to supply me with a list of "suggested contractors" who'll do the job at bargain prices.
Looks like I'm staying with my current company.
Thursday, April 10, 2014
Excuse me while I meditate —
It's a gritty place. There's glass everywhere, paint tubes, containers of brushes, stacks of cut-up paper towels. Water cups. Linseed oil. Rubbing alcohol. Parchment. Sticky blue photo-resist. Packing peanuts, bubble wrap, shipping boxes, sharpies, tape dispensers. On the kitchen floor is a box with half a dozen hand-blown (and very $$$) blank vessels. Razor knives. A cat. Everything in a different stage, all of it somehow ending in a gallery in Martha's Vineyard, or Beverly Hills. Or Brooklyn.
Etc.
This week chaos has reigned, a discovery of flaws in way too many pieces. One of my jobs is to troubleshoot, to make a defective piece into a first-quality piece. There's some masquerade that happens, some sleight of hand: make the defect look intentional, embellish it with some irridescent paint, a garnish of maroon. (Works like a charm.) Sometimes I feel like a dentist with my diamond-tipped drills and sharp pokey tools as I gouge-out embedded stones the size of pinheads. There's UV sensitive glue and a diamond wheel grinder: my bag of tricks.
Today the credit card processing device repeatedly refused to function. Credit cards were declined, gallery owners didn't answer their phones.
Expired/refused/cancelled.
(A bit like me, at the end of the day.)
I keep about ten orders in my head at any given time, all in various degrees of completion, with infinite variations of pattern, color, shape. And then there are next week's orders, spilling from their file, with their attendant pre-planning, and early staging. And finding space in an already packed production calendar to fit in yet another thousand dollar order. (Such problems!)
Amidst all this hullabahubbub this afternoon, I suddenly had a vision, a revelation, an aha moment of where I could go for respite, for sanctuary: I could go to the new website, where everything is perfectly finished and perfectly arranged, neat cleaned-up rows of glass minus fingerprints and all the detritus left over from this thunderous production.
I know it sounds kind of wacky, but visualizing the site — without actually getting out of my chair and going over to the computer, but just imagining it — well, my frizzled synapses actually calmed a tiny bit. It's like there's this clean and quiet room, a meditation temple that I can visit any time desired, and all the chaos smooths out.
And seventeen boxes later, it was time for a nap:
Etc.
This week chaos has reigned, a discovery of flaws in way too many pieces. One of my jobs is to troubleshoot, to make a defective piece into a first-quality piece. There's some masquerade that happens, some sleight of hand: make the defect look intentional, embellish it with some irridescent paint, a garnish of maroon. (Works like a charm.) Sometimes I feel like a dentist with my diamond-tipped drills and sharp pokey tools as I gouge-out embedded stones the size of pinheads. There's UV sensitive glue and a diamond wheel grinder: my bag of tricks.
Today the credit card processing device repeatedly refused to function. Credit cards were declined, gallery owners didn't answer their phones.
Expired/refused/cancelled.
(A bit like me, at the end of the day.)
I keep about ten orders in my head at any given time, all in various degrees of completion, with infinite variations of pattern, color, shape. And then there are next week's orders, spilling from their file, with their attendant pre-planning, and early staging. And finding space in an already packed production calendar to fit in yet another thousand dollar order. (Such problems!)
Amidst all this hullabahubbub this afternoon, I suddenly had a vision, a revelation, an aha moment of where I could go for respite, for sanctuary: I could go to the new website, where everything is perfectly finished and perfectly arranged, neat cleaned-up rows of glass minus fingerprints and all the detritus left over from this thunderous production.
I know it sounds kind of wacky, but visualizing the site — without actually getting out of my chair and going over to the computer, but just imagining it — well, my frizzled synapses actually calmed a tiny bit. It's like there's this clean and quiet room, a meditation temple that I can visit any time desired, and all the chaos smooths out.
And seventeen boxes later, it was time for a nap:
 |
| photo by M. Wellsandt |
Wednesday, April 9, 2014
Mary-Melinda Website! Live!
At long last, the glass-factory website is up and fully-functioning. Check out the full product range *here*.
It's been a long time coming!
Tuesday, April 8, 2014
Leaning into the Year
Yesterday was one of those early spring days when the temperature rises to an astonishingly ambient degree, so much that it's almost too much to believe — seems impossible — that there is indeed an end to the persistent grey and waterfalling skies.
It lingered into this morning as I walked to work, petals spilling from cherry trees with nearly every step. But there were clouds lining up in the west, impending.
And now here we are again, hunkered down against the rain.
I want summer to hurry itself up, but then that means that it will be closer to ending. Better, in my eyes, to linger in this anticipation, in these possibilities. Everything seems more possible in the spring, creatures that we are of regeneration, of rebirth. The older I get, the more deeply I slide into winter's chasm, into the darkness whose only respite is the moon on clear nights. But without the contrast of winter, what use would spring be? If I inhabited a more equatorial landscape, I do believe I'd long for the longer winter nights, and then the stretched out dusky midnight hours of June.
Yin/yang.
Even the trees with nearly imperceptible blossoms are exquisitely beautiful.
It lingered into this morning as I walked to work, petals spilling from cherry trees with nearly every step. But there were clouds lining up in the west, impending.
And now here we are again, hunkered down against the rain.
I want summer to hurry itself up, but then that means that it will be closer to ending. Better, in my eyes, to linger in this anticipation, in these possibilities. Everything seems more possible in the spring, creatures that we are of regeneration, of rebirth. The older I get, the more deeply I slide into winter's chasm, into the darkness whose only respite is the moon on clear nights. But without the contrast of winter, what use would spring be? If I inhabited a more equatorial landscape, I do believe I'd long for the longer winter nights, and then the stretched out dusky midnight hours of June.
Yin/yang.
Even the trees with nearly imperceptible blossoms are exquisitely beautiful.
Sunday, April 6, 2014
One Tulip, and Peeling Paint
And peeling paint that will not get repainted, because the garage is falling down.
That's how it is.
And it's okay.
Tuesday, April 1, 2014
Fools
I don't seem to be able to write much in this space lately, seized with an atypical silence that is coming from a place deeply embedded in my cells. Or something like that.
The job today was overspilling with April Fool's jokes, starting with a faked bloody hand photo (my hand, perylene maroon paint as blood) on facebook: "On the way to get stitches".
We removed all but one of the "8.2" candy from the tin where it's stashed, sending M. into a minor tizzy.
I taped the toilet seat down with an "OUT OF ORDER" sign.
And lastly, I spun a fictional story to G. about an intimate relationship with a police detective we all know, and had him fooled for a good thirty minutes. G. even gave me relationship advice! I hadn't realized how adept I seem to be at, ahem, lying.
In case there's any question: yes, we also worked! Hard and diligently! Laughing!
The job today was overspilling with April Fool's jokes, starting with a faked bloody hand photo (my hand, perylene maroon paint as blood) on facebook: "On the way to get stitches".
We removed all but one of the "8.2" candy from the tin where it's stashed, sending M. into a minor tizzy.
I taped the toilet seat down with an "OUT OF ORDER" sign.
And lastly, I spun a fictional story to G. about an intimate relationship with a police detective we all know, and had him fooled for a good thirty minutes. G. even gave me relationship advice! I hadn't realized how adept I seem to be at, ahem, lying.
In case there's any question: yes, we also worked! Hard and diligently! Laughing!
Wednesday, March 26, 2014
Botox Ha!
Three times today at work, I laughed until tears ran down my cheeks. Once it was so bad that I had to lay my head down on the table. My stomach hurt. Bad! I tell you!
A NYTimes op-ed piece makes the case for getting botox injections so that your frown muscles cease to function. Apparently, in a study of 74 people, this caused an easing of depression. Kinda turns the case for therapy-to-feel-better on its head. Instead, it's do a happy dance first, feel better second.
Now, if this was the case, I'd never get depressed, because this laughing-until-crying 3x in a day is not unusual for me. Or maybe, if I stopped laughing-until-crying 3x a day, things would get really bad. Maybe this is my version of a control group of one.
Anyway, I would have it no other way, except maybe to bump up my numbers to, oh, 6x a day. Wouldn't want to rush into anything, though. God help us if there's too much laughing.
I'm going away for the weekend with three of my sisters, and I'm actually worried I'm going to laugh too much. We're bringing the game Balderdash, where you make up definitions for odd words and then vote on which one you think is the right definition. Last time we did this on a weekend getaway (about fifteen years ago), my stomach muscles ached for days after.
This is what made me laugh last night (and they sound more than just a little bit like Donald Duck):
A NYTimes op-ed piece makes the case for getting botox injections so that your frown muscles cease to function. Apparently, in a study of 74 people, this caused an easing of depression. Kinda turns the case for therapy-to-feel-better on its head. Instead, it's do a happy dance first, feel better second.
Now, if this was the case, I'd never get depressed, because this laughing-until-crying 3x in a day is not unusual for me. Or maybe, if I stopped laughing-until-crying 3x a day, things would get really bad. Maybe this is my version of a control group of one.
Anyway, I would have it no other way, except maybe to bump up my numbers to, oh, 6x a day. Wouldn't want to rush into anything, though. God help us if there's too much laughing.
I'm going away for the weekend with three of my sisters, and I'm actually worried I'm going to laugh too much. We're bringing the game Balderdash, where you make up definitions for odd words and then vote on which one you think is the right definition. Last time we did this on a weekend getaway (about fifteen years ago), my stomach muscles ached for days after.
This is what made me laugh last night (and they sound more than just a little bit like Donald Duck):
Saturday, March 22, 2014
Blog Post
One of my sisters complained this week re: my dearth of blog posts, of late. She said I needed some drama, something to write about.
I will say that the past three-month period has been, by far, the most calm period of the past fifteen years. A little weird to settle in-to, but I'm likin' it. Don't need no drama. (Although a little spice would suffice, say, maybe a quarter teaspoon or so.)
But here we are, another spring, another year of ripping the bindweed from the garden. My son and I filled the giant yard waste bin this morning, trimmings from the apple tree mostly, the tree that produces about a half dozen maggoty fruits. I think I like it better for its accumulation of lichen than anything else, and the birds that roost in its branches. Oh, and the short-lived blossoms. And the shade it provides for my kitty graveyard.
There's a hazelnut tree, a volunteer from, I'm guessing, a nut buried by a squirrel. The squirrels also harvest all the nuts. Alas, a the meager yield from my two-tree orchard.
I wish there were still surprises to be found in my garden, but I think those days are past. Once I found two Spanish coins while digging, and they were worth about two cents. Snails are recent migrants, and because their shells are so beguiling, I can forgive their slugginess.
But every plant, every weed has been seen before. Is this what happens when we age? I like to keep parts of my garden a little feral, so as to invite the unexpected. Maybe I need to tunnel into the ivy-rose bramble beneath the fir tree, where the cats hide. Maybe that's where I'll find something worth unearthing, some rusty hinge or remnant of fence that quietly tells its story.
I will say that the past three-month period has been, by far, the most calm period of the past fifteen years. A little weird to settle in-to, but I'm likin' it. Don't need no drama. (Although a little spice would suffice, say, maybe a quarter teaspoon or so.)
But here we are, another spring, another year of ripping the bindweed from the garden. My son and I filled the giant yard waste bin this morning, trimmings from the apple tree mostly, the tree that produces about a half dozen maggoty fruits. I think I like it better for its accumulation of lichen than anything else, and the birds that roost in its branches. Oh, and the short-lived blossoms. And the shade it provides for my kitty graveyard.
There's a hazelnut tree, a volunteer from, I'm guessing, a nut buried by a squirrel. The squirrels also harvest all the nuts. Alas, a the meager yield from my two-tree orchard.
I wish there were still surprises to be found in my garden, but I think those days are past. Once I found two Spanish coins while digging, and they were worth about two cents. Snails are recent migrants, and because their shells are so beguiling, I can forgive their slugginess.
But every plant, every weed has been seen before. Is this what happens when we age? I like to keep parts of my garden a little feral, so as to invite the unexpected. Maybe I need to tunnel into the ivy-rose bramble beneath the fir tree, where the cats hide. Maybe that's where I'll find something worth unearthing, some rusty hinge or remnant of fence that quietly tells its story.
Sunday, March 16, 2014
Mop
It's really just a rearrangement of dirt: mopping. Before I mop there are spots and clumps of lord-knows-what on the tiles, and after I mop, it's all spread out evenly.
This is what I think when I mop the kitchen floor.
Other notable events:
1. the quince is blooming
2.
(Should really be "another notable event", but I'm optimistic that there will be more, and I'll come back and add #2.)
This is what I think when I mop the kitchen floor.
Other notable events:
1. the quince is blooming
2.
(Should really be "another notable event", but I'm optimistic that there will be more, and I'll come back and add #2.)
Tuesday, March 11, 2014
Praise to the Light
I really can claim no complaining rights when it comes to winter here, considering our more moderate climate, but this winter laid me low, pushed me under the rug, had me gut-punched with what seemed like interminable darkness. On and on.
We are creatures of the light.
And all of a right-now-sudden there's a whole lot of bursting open going on, ornamental cherries and grape hyacinths and daffodils and today I even saw a plum tree fully enlaced in white blossoms, so right out there and in-my-face that at first I thought it was just an overgrowth of lichen on an old tree. And suddenly also there is a scent in the air other than the steel-trap-shut scent of winter.
There's a sweetness, by god.
Painting, this morning, and suddenly, E., a young women who works for us, spontaneously burst out into laughter that went on and on. When I asked her what was so funny, she said, "not funny, but beautiful.... Look at these colors on these leaves! They're beautiful!"
And yes they were. A green with undertones of black to bring depth to the surface of the glass, then an overlay of maroon-bronze, feathered out from the tips. E. is still learning the nuances of this particular painting process, and she gets it — I mean she really gets it, like no one else I've taught.
She understands the subtleties, and how the lightest touch with the brush will alter dramatically the overall effect. It's thrilling to experience her process, how it is opening up to her, and how she rises to the challenge of it. And then today, when she vocalized her utter sense of joy with a full-on laugh.
Walking home tonight — in sunlight! — I counted on my fingers the months ahead of post-5pm daylight. Eight months! Count 'em — eight! To the naysayers re: DST, I say: BAH! I say bring it on. I sing hallelujah and praise to the light.
And there was a moment this morning, when I was walking outside between house/factory and studio, when the day was just emerging from the mist, and sunlight was breaking through from the east, and it seemed as if all of winter was being burned away in anticipation of Official Spring, still ten days hence. The air had a sound, a flat thud of a sound, minus depth or echo, and the light seemed to carry in its photons its own warm fragrance. A synaesthetic moment, to be sure.
We are creatures of the light.
And all of a right-now-sudden there's a whole lot of bursting open going on, ornamental cherries and grape hyacinths and daffodils and today I even saw a plum tree fully enlaced in white blossoms, so right out there and in-my-face that at first I thought it was just an overgrowth of lichen on an old tree. And suddenly also there is a scent in the air other than the steel-trap-shut scent of winter.
There's a sweetness, by god.
Painting, this morning, and suddenly, E., a young women who works for us, spontaneously burst out into laughter that went on and on. When I asked her what was so funny, she said, "not funny, but beautiful.... Look at these colors on these leaves! They're beautiful!"
And yes they were. A green with undertones of black to bring depth to the surface of the glass, then an overlay of maroon-bronze, feathered out from the tips. E. is still learning the nuances of this particular painting process, and she gets it — I mean she really gets it, like no one else I've taught.
She understands the subtleties, and how the lightest touch with the brush will alter dramatically the overall effect. It's thrilling to experience her process, how it is opening up to her, and how she rises to the challenge of it. And then today, when she vocalized her utter sense of joy with a full-on laugh.
Walking home tonight — in sunlight! — I counted on my fingers the months ahead of post-5pm daylight. Eight months! Count 'em — eight! To the naysayers re: DST, I say: BAH! I say bring it on. I sing hallelujah and praise to the light.
And there was a moment this morning, when I was walking outside between house/factory and studio, when the day was just emerging from the mist, and sunlight was breaking through from the east, and it seemed as if all of winter was being burned away in anticipation of Official Spring, still ten days hence. The air had a sound, a flat thud of a sound, minus depth or echo, and the light seemed to carry in its photons its own warm fragrance. A synaesthetic moment, to be sure.
Wednesday, March 5, 2014
Winter's Retreat
The sun came out this morning, flaring between gusty rain squalls and, being creatures drawn to light and the drama it creates with color & landscape, all three of us at work rushed to the window to behold what few moments the universe was granting us free of downpour. The year has made that subtle shift away from winter here on this continent's edge, and we who huddle too much in the shadows of mountains and evergreens, awash in infinite gravelly shades of grey — we live for moments like these, where the new greens of the grass appear illuminated, as does the thick coating of moss on the trees.
A. said: I bought [glass] color rods yesterday for my new project, two shades of green, one like the grass and the other like the moss.
And then, just as quickly, the rain blew back in, and we returned to our tasks, that luscious green existing, at that moment, only in a tube of paint. I rustled around for it in the paint box, my brain humming with possibilities.
A. said: I bought [glass] color rods yesterday for my new project, two shades of green, one like the grass and the other like the moss.
And then, just as quickly, the rain blew back in, and we returned to our tasks, that luscious green existing, at that moment, only in a tube of paint. I rustled around for it in the paint box, my brain humming with possibilities.
Monday, March 3, 2014
Saturday, March 1, 2014
Hangin' with the Tribe
I've been walking around in a funk/pout/sulk all week because the AWP Writer's Conference was in Seattle and I wouldn't be going, all economic things considered. I mean, a serious sulk — I could hardly stand to be with me. I mean, what am I, a two year old? (Well, um.....)
Anyway.
I did go to the AWP Bookfair today, open to the public FOR FREE. Damn it was good. I milled around amidst thousands of people who, like me, treasure the almighty written word above almost everything else. It was like a club meeting of the one club where I'd be a member, except I'd got there at the very end of the meeting, but it was okay because everyone was in high spirits and there was table after table (800+ tables) of letter-press books and poetry mags and just plain people who love the whole shebang as much as I do.
Glory be.
Apart from feeling like I'd missed most of the show, I'm so very glad I went. Saw lots of people I know, made a bunch of new connections, and just plain was in awe of some of the work I saw: hand-crafted books with amazing art and, well, some damn fine writing.
Good stuff on a Seattle grey day.
Anyway.
I did go to the AWP Bookfair today, open to the public FOR FREE. Damn it was good. I milled around amidst thousands of people who, like me, treasure the almighty written word above almost everything else. It was like a club meeting of the one club where I'd be a member, except I'd got there at the very end of the meeting, but it was okay because everyone was in high spirits and there was table after table (800+ tables) of letter-press books and poetry mags and just plain people who love the whole shebang as much as I do.
Glory be.
Apart from feeling like I'd missed most of the show, I'm so very glad I went. Saw lots of people I know, made a bunch of new connections, and just plain was in awe of some of the work I saw: hand-crafted books with amazing art and, well, some damn fine writing.
Good stuff on a Seattle grey day.
Wednesday, February 26, 2014
How It Is
It seemed long past quitting time, but I was finishing a piece of glass, buffing out the residue left by the oils post-firing, when I noticed that the colors on the glass were the same colors as the sunset: payne's grey, yellow ochre, turquoise blue.
Art imitates life.
Life imitates art.
Or, rather:
art is life.
Life is art.
And people, that is how it is.
Art imitates life.
Life imitates art.
Or, rather:
art is life.
Life is art.
And people, that is how it is.
Saturday, February 22, 2014
Myths, Chickens, Alarm
My son recently turned me on to Joseph Campbell, the American mythologist, writer and lecturer, so one day this week, when we were sitting around the big table painting, we listened to some of "The Power of Myth", with Bill Moyers. (Highly recommended.) It's deeply affirming, powerfully moving stuff —and I'm still in the early stages of digesting it, so I won't venture to comment much yet. But in the midst of the second episode, we were interrupted by two men picking up a large shipment of work for the Bainbridge Island Museum of Art gift shop, and one of them began a story of their most recent house-sitting adventure, which I'll write here in my own words:
"There were goats and chickens on the property that we had to take care of, and the owners said that we needn't do much with the chickens, just throw them some food every day, because they were old chickens and long past laying.
Well, chickens were new to me, so I decided to see just what they were about. I swept up their sawdust every day and sprinkled new sawdust. I brought fresh water and food, and just hung out with them at least once a day.
And I began to cluck, you know, those little buck buck buck sounds. And they began to talk back to me. It was really sweet! They were kind of a kick. I really liked them.
And guess what — they began to lay again. Eggs! We had fresh eggs from those old hens who supposedly were done with their laying days."
Well, of course I couldn't help but tie this in to what we'd been listening to — the serendipity of this man walking into our afternoon with his unassuming story of the traveler who appears one day and changes the shape of things, who performs miracles, a kind of refigured loaves-and-fishes tale. Our very own living myth-maker, our teller of parables.
These were the gifts of the week — Joseph Campbell, and then the interlude of the chicken story.
Outside of this, the week was swirled in a kind of chaos — our show materials shipment arrived back home from the east coast, three pallets full, and as it was unpacked, I had to examine and polish each piece and then repack in new configurations, to go to the photographer. (Hundreds of pieces.) Shipping materials everywhere, and we work in a small space. And glass being sand-blasted, painted, fired. Orders going off to all corners.
We're also sifting through legal issues and fallout concerning last summer's glass-smashing, as well as recent events (of which I won't write here). Issues of security and law-breaking, of locks and keys, and violation. We've been on the cliff-edge of alarm.
I'd much rather spend my days contemplating things like this:
"Eternity isn’t some later time. Eternity isn’t even a long time. Eternity has nothing to do with time. Eternity is that dimension of here and now that all thinking in temporal terms cuts off. And if you don’t get it here, you won’t get it anywhere. The problem with heaven is that you will be having such a good time there, you won’t even think of eternity. You’ll just have this unending delight in the beatific vision of God. But the experience of eternity right here and now, in all things, whether thought of as good or as evil, is the function of life." —Joseph Campbell
That about sums it up.
"There were goats and chickens on the property that we had to take care of, and the owners said that we needn't do much with the chickens, just throw them some food every day, because they were old chickens and long past laying.
Well, chickens were new to me, so I decided to see just what they were about. I swept up their sawdust every day and sprinkled new sawdust. I brought fresh water and food, and just hung out with them at least once a day.
And I began to cluck, you know, those little buck buck buck sounds. And they began to talk back to me. It was really sweet! They were kind of a kick. I really liked them.
And guess what — they began to lay again. Eggs! We had fresh eggs from those old hens who supposedly were done with their laying days."
Well, of course I couldn't help but tie this in to what we'd been listening to — the serendipity of this man walking into our afternoon with his unassuming story of the traveler who appears one day and changes the shape of things, who performs miracles, a kind of refigured loaves-and-fishes tale. Our very own living myth-maker, our teller of parables.
These were the gifts of the week — Joseph Campbell, and then the interlude of the chicken story.
Outside of this, the week was swirled in a kind of chaos — our show materials shipment arrived back home from the east coast, three pallets full, and as it was unpacked, I had to examine and polish each piece and then repack in new configurations, to go to the photographer. (Hundreds of pieces.) Shipping materials everywhere, and we work in a small space. And glass being sand-blasted, painted, fired. Orders going off to all corners.
We're also sifting through legal issues and fallout concerning last summer's glass-smashing, as well as recent events (of which I won't write here). Issues of security and law-breaking, of locks and keys, and violation. We've been on the cliff-edge of alarm.
I'd much rather spend my days contemplating things like this:
"Eternity isn’t some later time. Eternity isn’t even a long time. Eternity has nothing to do with time. Eternity is that dimension of here and now that all thinking in temporal terms cuts off. And if you don’t get it here, you won’t get it anywhere. The problem with heaven is that you will be having such a good time there, you won’t even think of eternity. You’ll just have this unending delight in the beatific vision of God. But the experience of eternity right here and now, in all things, whether thought of as good or as evil, is the function of life." —Joseph Campbell
That about sums it up.
Tuesday, February 18, 2014
I went to the altar of poetry, lit up with love.
Last night, as I drove to my weekly open-mic (as close to a notion of
"church" as I'll get), my headlights lit the road brightly before me,
and yet there was a less discernible glow coming from mysef as well.
I'd asked one of my sons if he'd replace a burned-out headlight bulb, and he not only did it, but taught my other son ( who is not quite the handy-man type) how to do it as well. And that made me beam, a bit, the notion of my path being lit by a collaboration of my sons.
And yes, the poet in me wants to haul out all the metaphors for a mother lighting the way for her children, but I'll refrain. Yes, as mothers we do that, instinctually. Not necessarily as instinctual for one's offspring to pay back the favor. Hoped for, yes, but not expected.
It was a small thing, but made all the more meaningful upon my return, close to midnight, driving the mostly-unlit lake route back to my house.
So lucky to have two sons!
I'd asked one of my sons if he'd replace a burned-out headlight bulb, and he not only did it, but taught my other son ( who is not quite the handy-man type) how to do it as well. And that made me beam, a bit, the notion of my path being lit by a collaboration of my sons.
And yes, the poet in me wants to haul out all the metaphors for a mother lighting the way for her children, but I'll refrain. Yes, as mothers we do that, instinctually. Not necessarily as instinctual for one's offspring to pay back the favor. Hoped for, yes, but not expected.
It was a small thing, but made all the more meaningful upon my return, close to midnight, driving the mostly-unlit lake route back to my house.
So lucky to have two sons!
Sunday, February 16, 2014
Left Out —
The James Fenimore Cooper volume, abandoned to the elements —
Made blurry not only by the trick of a filter, but by the persistent rain loosening the ink on the decades-old pages —
And a red wagon —
I walked around the winter garden this afternoon just as a new storm was moving in, taking stock. I repaired the fence with bits of wire and hung up a bird feeder blown down in a voluminous wind. Snowdrops were up, pushed through the autumn leafage.
Afterwards, I came in to see this short film, making the rounds on facebook. If you've yet to see it, it's worth the four minutes of your time. How massive is our footprint in comparison to a population of deer in Yellowstone, and how profound the impact has been on the entire ecology in that patch of earth just by a shift in the numbers of a single species.
I walked around the winter garden this afternoon just as a new storm was moving in, taking stock. I repaired the fence with bits of wire and hung up a bird feeder blown down in a voluminous wind. Snowdrops were up, pushed through the autumn leafage.
Afterwards, I came in to see this short film, making the rounds on facebook. If you've yet to see it, it's worth the four minutes of your time. How massive is our footprint in comparison to a population of deer in Yellowstone, and how profound the impact has been on the entire ecology in that patch of earth just by a shift in the numbers of a single species.
Wednesday, February 12, 2014
Tuesday, February 11, 2014
Mysterious.....
This package arrived on the back porch at work yesterday, addressed to the boss, who was on her way home from NYC —
We were intrigued by the customs declaration that it was a toy, and that the value was $4000. What the heck? Just what has she been up to?
I texted her the first two photos shown here, and got my answer:
Neither toy, not $4000, but our favorite candy, the milky caramelly "8.2", shipped via Amazon Prime, from Japan. I'm guessing that it was a drone delivery, from across the great wide Pacific.
We were intrigued by the customs declaration that it was a toy, and that the value was $4000. What the heck? Just what has she been up to?
I texted her the first two photos shown here, and got my answer:
Neither toy, not $4000, but our favorite candy, the milky caramelly "8.2", shipped via Amazon Prime, from Japan. I'm guessing that it was a drone delivery, from across the great wide Pacific.
Tuesday, February 4, 2014
Waning Winter
There's light now at 5pm, and I know it happens every year and every year it seems like a bit of a miracle or a large part of a miracle or even an entire miracle unto itself. The return of the light, and 5pm is one of those pivotal times, a shift from day into evening, a letting-go of the workday and letting oneself into the last interval of aliveness in a single day.
Every year I wait for it and every year it surprises me, like there's a small part of me that doesn't believe it's going to happen, that maybe we'll be forever plunged into short days and interminable nights.
O lordy this is getting to sound grim.
Best to end here.
Every year I wait for it and every year it surprises me, like there's a small part of me that doesn't believe it's going to happen, that maybe we'll be forever plunged into short days and interminable nights.
O lordy this is getting to sound grim.
Best to end here.
Friday, January 31, 2014
January: the month of disinspiration, if that's a word. The fact of the calendar marching quickly away from January all week has been enough to elevate my spirits.
I didn't go to New York — an unexpected onslaught of wholesale orders required whip-cracking on the homefront, so my boss flew off to Super Bowl Central alone, and I'm entirely fine with all of it.
There's a bouquet of roses on my kitchen table left over from my November birthday. Completely dried, they are the most exquisite "rose" color, a red-going-to-pink, but not quite. An undecided red, a decidedly-not pink.
Ah, color. (It exists for me somewhere on a piece of glass between where the eye meets it and where the light comes through from behind — liminal, nowhere, everywhere, shifting.)
I didn't go to New York — an unexpected onslaught of wholesale orders required whip-cracking on the homefront, so my boss flew off to Super Bowl Central alone, and I'm entirely fine with all of it.
There's a bouquet of roses on my kitchen table left over from my November birthday. Completely dried, they are the most exquisite "rose" color, a red-going-to-pink, but not quite. An undecided red, a decidedly-not pink.
Ah, color. (It exists for me somewhere on a piece of glass between where the eye meets it and where the light comes through from behind — liminal, nowhere, everywhere, shifting.)
Thursday, January 30, 2014
Wednesday, January 29, 2014
I'm Listening....
I was in that place, last night, that place between being awake and being fully asleep when dream images flash across the semi-lucid landscape of the mind at an alarming speed, and suddenly there was my mother rising up from her chair, looking at me straight-on and smiling, and saying, T., I have something to tell you —! And I yanked myself out from that not-dream, that not-yet-sleep and sat up fully awake, fully lucid and said What? What do you want to say? I'm listening!
Tuesday, January 28, 2014
Self as Stranger
One day a month now, the fourth Monday, to be exact, I wake with a sense of rumbling anxiety, that old nearly-extinct shyness trying to creep back in. And to remember that I've brought this on myself serves no good purpose. So I roll from my bed and move forward into the day, knowing that at 8pm that night, I'll stand in front of a group of various and assorted poets, musicians and Columbia City bar trolls, microphone turned on, and start up my monthly open mic.
Actually, the moment I walk into the bar, I slip easily into the persona. It seems like a bit of specious magic, but it works, so I don't question it. Last night I lugged-in parts of the sound system, and enlisted a few men to deal with the heavier pieces of equipment. One even cheerfully volunteered to crawl under the pinball machine to plug in the extension cord. (A man-servant is a useful thing.) Once everything was appropriately electrified, the house music killed, I tested the mic with a hello howdy and we were ready to roll.
Host! (Does anyone still use the word hostess?!) I'm the confident one with the clipboard (with the Rosellini for Governor! sticker on the back — he who was last governor in Washington state in 1965) who circulates from table to table signing people up. I'm the person who introduces each poet and musician, who makes small talk at the mic before the intermission, the person who starts the whole thing up again after intermission. I'm the person circulating about the room, making certain to have a friendly word with everyone who's come out for the evening. I'm the person who, while packing up the equipment, makes an effort to thank each and every person as they head out the door, knowing always there will be one or two I'll miss.
And finally, I'm the person hunkered down in the corner booth at the end of the evening with the last few straggler-poet-musicians, unwinding our stories and laughing at as many things as possible, our drinks diminished to a few clinks of ice, Phil the bartender behind the counter calculating the tabs.
I'll leave The Hummingbird Saloon close to midnight, in a state of weary elation for the undeniable fun it all was among these friends who are the best of the best, and, once in bed, wonder who that woman was who got up in front of all those people in a bar — a bar, for god's sake — and pulled it together.
Actually, the moment I walk into the bar, I slip easily into the persona. It seems like a bit of specious magic, but it works, so I don't question it. Last night I lugged-in parts of the sound system, and enlisted a few men to deal with the heavier pieces of equipment. One even cheerfully volunteered to crawl under the pinball machine to plug in the extension cord. (A man-servant is a useful thing.) Once everything was appropriately electrified, the house music killed, I tested the mic with a hello howdy and we were ready to roll.
Host! (Does anyone still use the word hostess?!) I'm the confident one with the clipboard (with the Rosellini for Governor! sticker on the back — he who was last governor in Washington state in 1965) who circulates from table to table signing people up. I'm the person who introduces each poet and musician, who makes small talk at the mic before the intermission, the person who starts the whole thing up again after intermission. I'm the person circulating about the room, making certain to have a friendly word with everyone who's come out for the evening. I'm the person who, while packing up the equipment, makes an effort to thank each and every person as they head out the door, knowing always there will be one or two I'll miss.
And finally, I'm the person hunkered down in the corner booth at the end of the evening with the last few straggler-poet-musicians, unwinding our stories and laughing at as many things as possible, our drinks diminished to a few clinks of ice, Phil the bartender behind the counter calculating the tabs.
I'll leave The Hummingbird Saloon close to midnight, in a state of weary elation for the undeniable fun it all was among these friends who are the best of the best, and, once in bed, wonder who that woman was who got up in front of all those people in a bar — a bar, for god's sake — and pulled it together.
Tuesday, January 21, 2014
No reason, except.....
....sometimes a lace dress embedded in red leaves
is the only thing that relieves winter.
Sunday, January 19, 2014
The Years Settle In....
Odd cranial rumblings, remembering the many dreams where my dead husband returns without explanation, five, or six, or seven years later, solemn and silent, wanting back in. And my utter disbelief, relief, consternation. The chaos of it all, the impossible undoing of too many things now too deeply entrenched to undo.
And an even odder realization that I wrote a poem about these dreams thirty years ago, many years before I knew the reason for writing it. I went back to it tonight and it made sense, finally, that poem. It's the dream alright, with broken glass and a leaky roof and the return of a silent character —
"....dark collar turned against the night."
A bitter irony: the title is "Grown Old".
Something wrong in the order of things.
And an even odder realization that I wrote a poem about these dreams thirty years ago, many years before I knew the reason for writing it. I went back to it tonight and it made sense, finally, that poem. It's the dream alright, with broken glass and a leaky roof and the return of a silent character —
"....dark collar turned against the night."
A bitter irony: the title is "Grown Old".
Something wrong in the order of things.
Things That Are Holy
So many, in the woods today, as I walked along paths strew with lichen
and branches blown down in recent storms....
 |
| More fern than tree — |
 |
| Talisman on the path — |
 |
| Decaying chunk wreathed in bright fallen branches — |
 |
| Mossy notch high in a maple — |
 |
And then perhaps less than holy, on my front porch, the ruined remains of a dead pumpkin ravaged by squirrels in search of the cache of seeds within. Less holy, yes, but no less fascinating in the cycle of life. Instead of having to look deeper for evidence of life now that we're entrenched in winter here, my post-holiday sloth has allowed a colorful front porch view in pithy glowing oranges, all the slippery slumping slime of it on display. (The neighbors already know I'm nuts.) |
 |
| I can't help but think of pie. |
Thursday, January 16, 2014
!00% of Full
I was walking up a hill last night in the dark — hemmed in by laurel and photinia hedges, by hundred-year-old houses — and was met at the top by the moon, our illuminated dream-keeper and insomniac companion, our endlessly romanticized satellite rising full blaze above the Cascade Mountains and stunning me breathless, stumbling me with astonished wonder.
What we're really seeing is a massive heart of liquid iron encased in an olio of minerals: feldspar, olivine, pyroxene, limenite. Back this mess of minerals up 238,900 miles, shine a light on it, et voilà : our grand dame of nocturnal beauty.
Of course, I didn't consider the lunar mineral content until today, when I decided I wanted to write more than just:
O behold!
The latent scientist in me does battle with the poet, every day.
What we're really seeing is a massive heart of liquid iron encased in an olio of minerals: feldspar, olivine, pyroxene, limenite. Back this mess of minerals up 238,900 miles, shine a light on it, et voilà : our grand dame of nocturnal beauty.
Of course, I didn't consider the lunar mineral content until today, when I decided I wanted to write more than just:
O behold!
 |
| photo by David Hutchinson |
Wednesday, January 15, 2014
Midnight Janitors
An ex-lover bought my ex-husband's house. And invited me over, to help him do dishes. And I was barefoot.
This didn't really happen, of course, except when I was deep in a rapid-eye-movement slumber. According Maria Konnikova, in the NYTimes (read the complete article here), As your body sleeps, your brain is quite actively playing the part of mental janitor: It’s clearing out all of the junk that has accumulated as a result of your daily thinking.
In this particularly unsettling dream/nightmare, I can't help but wonder just what, upstairs, was getting scoured.
And now a glorious dawn sun has penetrated the omnipresent mist; and while I feel illuminated, in a bodily sense, my nighttime subconscious rompings have left my awake self feeling quite less than illuminated, and more than a bit betrayed by the midnight janitors of the brain.
This didn't really happen, of course, except when I was deep in a rapid-eye-movement slumber. According Maria Konnikova, in the NYTimes (read the complete article here), As your body sleeps, your brain is quite actively playing the part of mental janitor: It’s clearing out all of the junk that has accumulated as a result of your daily thinking.
In this particularly unsettling dream/nightmare, I can't help but wonder just what, upstairs, was getting scoured.
And now a glorious dawn sun has penetrated the omnipresent mist; and while I feel illuminated, in a bodily sense, my nighttime subconscious rompings have left my awake self feeling quite less than illuminated, and more than a bit betrayed by the midnight janitors of the brain.
Sunday, January 12, 2014
Sly Little Arrows
Since the turn of the year, I've begun a practice of listening, intently, to not only the many words from the tongues of friends and strangers, but also to the voice of the wind in the Douglas fir outside my bedroom window, to the scrape of the hydrangea on the siding, to the silence of the cat entering my room, to the ongoing ticks and sighs of my house that become so apparent in the dark. There is content everywhere, interwoven with connections, and sly little arrows that point the way.
Fran Leibowitz once said, "There is talking, and there is waiting to talk." I'm waiting longer, these days, letting the space between words, between phrases, take its own shape — space that isn't force-filled with more words. My habit of many years has been one of talk and wit and quips and laughs — it's not so easy letting go of some of that. But something is coming into focus, in those gaps — hazy still, amorphous, indefinite. Patience is my ally, as well as the challenge.
And, well, it's January.
It's winter.
Interminably grey.
---
--Stanley Kunitz
Fran Leibowitz once said, "There is talking, and there is waiting to talk." I'm waiting longer, these days, letting the space between words, between phrases, take its own shape — space that isn't force-filled with more words. My habit of many years has been one of talk and wit and quips and laughs — it's not so easy letting go of some of that. But something is coming into focus, in those gaps — hazy still, amorphous, indefinite. Patience is my ally, as well as the challenge.
And, well, it's January.
It's winter.
Interminably grey.
---
The Layers
I
have walked through many lives,
some
of them my own,
and
I am not who I was,
though
some principle of being
abides,
from which I struggle
not
to stray.
When
I look behind,
as I
am compelled to look
before
I can gather strength
to
proceed on my journey,
I
see the milestones dwindling
toward
the horizon
and
the slow fires trailing
from
the abandoned camp-sites,
over
which scavenger angels
wheel
on heavy wings.
Oh,
I have made myself a tribe
out
of my true affections,
and
my tribe is scattered!
How
shall the heart be reconciled
to
its feast of losses?
In a
rising wind
the
manic dust of my friends,
those
who fell along the way,
bitterly
stings my face.
Yet
I turn, I turn,
exulting
somewhat,
with
my will intact to go
wherever
I need to go,
and
every stone on the road
precious
to me.
In
my darkest night,
when
the moon was covered
and
I roamed through wreckage,
a
nimbus-clouded voice
directed
me:
“Live
in the layers,
not
on the litter.”
Though
I lack the art
to
decipher it,
no
doubt the next chapter
in
my book of transformations
is
already written.
I am
not done with my changes.
--Stanley Kunitz
Friday, January 10, 2014
Meh
Winter.
Every word I type feels spun-dry of intention, of inspiration.
The cats have it right: sleep.
Reports of the Aurora Borealis visible tonight from around these parts, but I'll have to go with imagination only, as we're socked-in up to the eyelids with cloudcloudcloud. The Borealis is on my list of Things To Do in this lifetime, assuming, of course, that this is all we get. But what if we get more? What if this is just the prelude, the preparation? Not one to give in to Christian notions of an everlasting afterlife, this seems, of course, preposterous. But what if something else exists, something that requires a vocabulary, a type of "seeing" that we are as yet unable to comprehend?
Oh, these Friday night ramblings will only get me into trouble. Better to shut this whole thing down and go to bed, let the subconscious do its uncensored ruminations.
'Nite, then.
Every word I type feels spun-dry of intention, of inspiration.
The cats have it right: sleep.
Reports of the Aurora Borealis visible tonight from around these parts, but I'll have to go with imagination only, as we're socked-in up to the eyelids with cloudcloudcloud. The Borealis is on my list of Things To Do in this lifetime, assuming, of course, that this is all we get. But what if we get more? What if this is just the prelude, the preparation? Not one to give in to Christian notions of an everlasting afterlife, this seems, of course, preposterous. But what if something else exists, something that requires a vocabulary, a type of "seeing" that we are as yet unable to comprehend?
Oh, these Friday night ramblings will only get me into trouble. Better to shut this whole thing down and go to bed, let the subconscious do its uncensored ruminations.
'Nite, then.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)