I live in a caboose. It’s been raining for three days and three nights. I hear up the hill, (which is a small mountain, really) it’s snowing….Capt’in, the tuxedo cat and I have been in bed all this time. I have been sick since January with small intervals of health. The cat is being just cat, an animal who sleeps between snacks and a quick step outside in the winter. In the spring and summer, he takes long naps under the rosemary tree. I have a church pew under an awning I can nap on with cushions and quilts and a large endtable to hold glasses of iced drinks , a pitcher, books, gardening tools for when I can actually get up and sometimes that “getting up” turns into three hours of delicious gardening, which also puts me back in bed for a day or two. There is no winning here, or maybe if I look at it upsidie down, it’s ALL winning. I’m alive and I have a grin on my face most of the time. I have a fever right now, so I look maniacal. I go from hot to cold and back again so I am wearing a black slip past my knees, a black Tshirt, black sox with Rastafarian stripes at the top and a black velvet hoodie for when the chills hit. I found at an strange little shop that carries clothes for people in their twenties and old beautiful Afghani jewelry, a polished sea snail shell cut in half, polished to such a high degree it shines, set in silver that holds a beautiful tear drop shaped jewel the color of celandine. I took forever on “lay away” to buy it and then I strung it with large pearls the color of the shell which I had also bought somewhere else on lay away. When you live in an area for thirty five years, you know the shop owners after awhile to the point they can even leave you in the shop while they run to the school and pick up a sick child. I’m lucky that way.
A man I know who used to own a used bookstore gave me a boxful of McCall magazines from the fifties to the mid sixties, right before he sold the store, so of course, being of the generation I am, (I was born in ’55), I quickly turned to the last few pages to see if the Betsy McCall page was still there. YES! A child had not purloined my little treasure-girl back when I would have also or a grown up for me. And not only that, but the FIRST page introducing her was in the stack. Because I live in a caboose, I had to do a terrible thing, but space is space. And no space is like entropy, an ugly thing. Except for the first mag introducing the paper doll, I had to carefully tear out the doll pages of the rest of the mags and toss the magazine. I simply have no room. If I had any sense, I thought later, I ought to have color copied all of them and sold the originals on Ebay to someone as silly as I am about paper dolls and Betsy McCall in particular. I grew up poor, so there was a series of time when my mother who is an artist, or used to be,
would pencil me extra clothes, using Vogue mag models as inspiration. It’s a shame I still don’t have those. I didn’t care for the era then, I wanted a little girl; but I was so grateful for the kindness. The fact that I didn’t care for the fashion era all that much I’m sure is the reason they’ve been lost. I have a box of paper dolls that my husband’s mother drew with a myriad of “outfits” based on Daphne du Maurier’s “Rebecca”. She’s made the dolls look like Rita Hayworth. They really are amazing. She married Dan’s father when she was in her very early twenties, had two children and died of leukemia in her late twenties. She had one of the first degrees in modern dance from UCLA. So talented, so many directions.
It’s women like this who inspire me to keep on being creative. I’ve figured out a way to work my own art in bed by loading up a large engraved silver tray with exotic hand-made papers, glue, colored pencils, needle & thread, scissors of the tiniest dimension, and a compartmentalized box of tiny weird objects. I make books from scratch, starting with pasteboards usually from the eighteen hundreds and sew papers into a spine I’ve made of black silk velvet or some other kind of gorgeous fabric glued onto the pasteboards Usually I use a Singer featherweight machine, or a treadle to sew the pages in, but if I’m in bed, I sew by hand, the tiniest stitches in the centerfold of the book. I told my husband just because we’re poor doesn’t mean we have to have ugly in the caboose. I’m fortunate: I have a thrift store right around the corner from my caboose, even though it appears the caboose is in the country. The lane it’s in is covered by two cork oaks, a holly tree and a flowering May. The ruts and potholes discourage anyone from driving through, so it’s our little secret. Since moving into town from a three hundred acre plus ranch, I need, absolutely need, this privacy. The front door opens onto a slim porch on the alley side that goes almost the length of the caboose and one end has a small picket fence gate to keep the neighborhood dogs off the porch. Those pickets are my only concession to middle class living.
I wish it would stop raining. I have about twelve from seed plants to get into the earth. Russian red kale. Bok Choy, mixed up lettuces and spinach. Which will put me right back in bed if I’m not careful. Careful Bones, one of my girlfriends calls me. But I am so tired of being in bed. And greens are so nice to eat with quinoah and tamari. And now I believe it’s time to go to sleep.
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
Monday, March 29, 2010
Help!
so for some reason I missed a button on the keyboard and now every time i try to go back and finish writing about the clothes, it kicks me off that blog. i don't now what I am doing wrong. It's maddening. Is there a way to write off line say in Word and then copy and paste it into blogspot? i believe i would kill for that information. (my kitchen has ants, it would be an easy way out...heh heh) and now i am going to bed because i am so discouraged...
Sunday, March 28, 2010
I read last night at the Methodist Church in a seies set up by Linda Noel. The secratary double-booked their events and were having a dinner social in the hall we had planned on using, so they moved us to the sanctuary itself. Which of course made things a bit tricky. We were asked to watch our language (the Wild Women of Mendocino watch their language?!, but on the other hand, I was perfectly at home reading in there as a christian and so near Palm Sunday. I had planned to read a series of holy week poems, though my first poem was a strong one full of coarse language and I set it aside. I don't think I make a difference using a foul word when it's exactly the word needed. And the Palm Sunday poems are so strong and deep, I felt good, so good that I had writen them. I am taking them to service tomorrow for Steve, one of the elders and who knows, maybe he'll ask me to read them. They've done that before.
I made fifty dollars. I've been doing a great deal of readings lately and earning some decent money these days. This time only fifty ducats, but there were three of us. Linda did a beautiful job.
I found a dress on a lovely girl in a magazine that I plan to show to Cynthia. I have been collecting fabric for years and hopefully she can find enough of some to make several dresses. All the same pattern, but different fabrics for the summer. It seems like an extravagant moment, but at the same time, everything I own is in rags, and I need some new things that will last.
It's like the organizing of my study. If I gather things into their proper places, I can work much better. I have to go to bed now. I am so tired from the work last night. And the getting ready for the work. Patrick and I rehearsed and rehearsed. We plan to record a CD and sell it as we both need money to go on with.
I made fifty dollars. I've been doing a great deal of readings lately and earning some decent money these days. This time only fifty ducats, but there were three of us. Linda did a beautiful job.
I found a dress on a lovely girl in a magazine that I plan to show to Cynthia. I have been collecting fabric for years and hopefully she can find enough of some to make several dresses. All the same pattern, but different fabrics for the summer. It seems like an extravagant moment, but at the same time, everything I own is in rags, and I need some new things that will last.
It's like the organizing of my study. If I gather things into their proper places, I can work much better. I have to go to bed now. I am so tired from the work last night. And the getting ready for the work. Patrick and I rehearsed and rehearsed. We plan to record a CD and sell it as we both need money to go on with.
Monday, March 15, 2010
The Magpie Woman Dreams Big
When my husband and I used to drive to Los Angeles to visit his folks, we would always stop at this wayside near Camp Roberts, where a rare flock of magpies lived. Instead of black beak and black legs and feet, they have yellow there. They are so beautiful. So far I have been unsuccessful at posting some photos, but I will keep trying. I am a techno-moron. These magpies don't say, "mag, mag , mag...", like the ones with the black beak and feet, but "reet, reet, reet..." It is so charming.
They are a friendly bird. We always stop at this little town, Greenfield, on the way to the wayside where we rest from our hours of driving and need to do the stretch-and-rest dance. There is a Mexican grocer who also sells fresh meats. I don't eat meat, but the mags do! They love potato bugs, but we have discovered they especially love roasted chicken with Mexican herbs and spices; so we splurge and buy one for the birds. There is a square of cement with two pillars to the north and the south. I sit with my legs criss-cross and I pull meat off the chicken and when I look up, the magpies are sitting on the pillars around me, waiting for me to toss a bit to a bird. I have to choose a beginning of the circle, (thank goodness for the pillars which act as a landmark) and I toss a piece of chicken to that bird. He swoops off the pillar and gobbles it down; and then the next bird flies down and comes forth a few inches to look expectantly at me, so I throw him (or her) a bit and this bird also eats it quickly and then steps back. We go all the way around the circle several times and they politely speak, "Reet, reet..." if I take too long in tearing the meat from the bone.
I long to bring my hand down their sleek head all the way to the tail, or caress the breast of just one magpie, but they are too shy. I would need to stay there a few days to "make friends". And I would love to do just that. You take Hawaii, or Aspen skiing. I love the long meadows sparsely filled with Shropshires and ravens and of course, my magpies. Their nests are huge and high up in the trees which look like cottonwoods, but I see no streams, so I am doubtful as to what kind they are.
Here is my day dream. To live in a stout brown canvas tent deep in the trees so that no humans could see me and I would have my small fire to make meals and heat water for tea. I would try to keep the fire to a minimum so that I would not be discovered. I would spend the days cooking on a low flame, a chicken turning it on a spit, because I couldn't afford to buy one everyday. I would water-color my birds and the sheep amongst the trees as they spread through the grasses. I would hope they would get friendly enough to come right into the tent! The wayside has bathrooms, so I could stay clean and at night I would read by the light of a small candle, but going to bed early, because I have a feeling these birds rise early. I would try to make friends and actually 'pet' one in a few days.
Just a simple summer dream, but one that would be filled with wonder as I got to know the birds better and better.
They are a friendly bird. We always stop at this little town, Greenfield, on the way to the wayside where we rest from our hours of driving and need to do the stretch-and-rest dance. There is a Mexican grocer who also sells fresh meats. I don't eat meat, but the mags do! They love potato bugs, but we have discovered they especially love roasted chicken with Mexican herbs and spices; so we splurge and buy one for the birds. There is a square of cement with two pillars to the north and the south. I sit with my legs criss-cross and I pull meat off the chicken and when I look up, the magpies are sitting on the pillars around me, waiting for me to toss a bit to a bird. I have to choose a beginning of the circle, (thank goodness for the pillars which act as a landmark) and I toss a piece of chicken to that bird. He swoops off the pillar and gobbles it down; and then the next bird flies down and comes forth a few inches to look expectantly at me, so I throw him (or her) a bit and this bird also eats it quickly and then steps back. We go all the way around the circle several times and they politely speak, "Reet, reet..." if I take too long in tearing the meat from the bone.
I long to bring my hand down their sleek head all the way to the tail, or caress the breast of just one magpie, but they are too shy. I would need to stay there a few days to "make friends". And I would love to do just that. You take Hawaii, or Aspen skiing. I love the long meadows sparsely filled with Shropshires and ravens and of course, my magpies. Their nests are huge and high up in the trees which look like cottonwoods, but I see no streams, so I am doubtful as to what kind they are.
Here is my day dream. To live in a stout brown canvas tent deep in the trees so that no humans could see me and I would have my small fire to make meals and heat water for tea. I would try to keep the fire to a minimum so that I would not be discovered. I would spend the days cooking on a low flame, a chicken turning it on a spit, because I couldn't afford to buy one everyday. I would water-color my birds and the sheep amongst the trees as they spread through the grasses. I would hope they would get friendly enough to come right into the tent! The wayside has bathrooms, so I could stay clean and at night I would read by the light of a small candle, but going to bed early, because I have a feeling these birds rise early. I would try to make friends and actually 'pet' one in a few days.
Just a simple summer dream, but one that would be filled with wonder as I got to know the birds better and better.
Friday, March 12, 2010
Map-Making
The rain, all day and night and all day and night again, long time.
I've wanted to take them back, the words that scrawl
long slow geese paddling through the river,
because sometimes we're so unforgiving;
and I fear we'll never speak again
each to each, because we are so true to our dramas.
I want, one day, to know we'll laugh and maybe dance
in our dutch shoes and fancy dresses without men,
except the organ grinder and his monkey as audience...
I want to disappear all our angry words;
take baskets out to the fig tree
and in between pushing tender fruit into each others' mouths,
tell all our map-makings, our explorations
of the springs that bubble up between yr place and mine
without exploding into rage, resentment.
Oh you. I'm so lonely without the sound of yr non-stop voice
making topographical maps where the beauty of mountain meets
the feminine curve of valley in yr vocal cords.
Yr a journey I am putting my shoes on for.
I've wanted to take them back, the words that scrawl
long slow geese paddling through the river,
because sometimes we're so unforgiving;
and I fear we'll never speak again
each to each, because we are so true to our dramas.
I want, one day, to know we'll laugh and maybe dance
in our dutch shoes and fancy dresses without men,
except the organ grinder and his monkey as audience...
I want to disappear all our angry words;
take baskets out to the fig tree
and in between pushing tender fruit into each others' mouths,
tell all our map-makings, our explorations
of the springs that bubble up between yr place and mine
without exploding into rage, resentment.
Oh you. I'm so lonely without the sound of yr non-stop voice
making topographical maps where the beauty of mountain meets
the feminine curve of valley in yr vocal cords.
Yr a journey I am putting my shoes on for.
Thursday, March 11, 2010
A Diary of Grace, Long Grass in the Hot Sun
1.
I love walking through abandoned houses,
listening to the echoes of a distant child,
a worn woman taking her shoes off,
almost wishing she hadn't,
so she could walk through the tall grass out back,
but just too tired to get up again.
The windows reflect the glare of a late afternoon sun,
but I just watch the dust motes
on the floor in the bare light and I listen,
listen for the voice of a clock
that stopped running years ago,
just as I listen for yr faraway voice
to walk through the stamp, the envelope, the ink from the pen
and lying in my hand,
the alphabet rising up to say 'hello, it's been a long time...'
I was never gone, I just can't talk
because I don't like yr answers:
so bus stop, so call waiting, so no address.
What did you say you changed yr name to?
2.
Packages come in the post.
I don't know why you send these glossy photographs
that disappear in the brilliant late sun
and I can't tell if there are words written
on the back to tell me who, what, where
because the light is so strong and I've lost my glasses again.
Without the information, it's just a handful of shining paper
so slick there isn't even a braille dot to hang onto.
3.
I...I opened my fist...moments before I slammed it into the pure white.
I do not believe in violence, and so I have to fight myself from hurting...anyone.
I eat greens from the garden. I hate the way animals are slaughtered,
so I'll have no part in it; just like I won't speak yr name
until I can say it with all the love we once carried around
in a burlap sack and a canteen.
4.
Now it's so late, the darkness is that clock without direction.
I lie down on the naked floor in the house no one lives in any more.
I bring my knees to my ribcage, my chin tucked so tight into my collarbone
that my hair falls away from my neck, but down my back, becomes a blanket
I can tangle my feet in for warmth.
5. I say my "Lay me down to sleep" and somehow yr name gets mixed up with God's.
This is not blasphemy, it's a little song I sing myself to remember Grace.
I love walking through abandoned houses,
listening to the echoes of a distant child,
a worn woman taking her shoes off,
almost wishing she hadn't,
so she could walk through the tall grass out back,
but just too tired to get up again.
The windows reflect the glare of a late afternoon sun,
but I just watch the dust motes
on the floor in the bare light and I listen,
listen for the voice of a clock
that stopped running years ago,
just as I listen for yr faraway voice
to walk through the stamp, the envelope, the ink from the pen
and lying in my hand,
the alphabet rising up to say 'hello, it's been a long time...'
I was never gone, I just can't talk
because I don't like yr answers:
so bus stop, so call waiting, so no address.
What did you say you changed yr name to?
2.
Packages come in the post.
I don't know why you send these glossy photographs
that disappear in the brilliant late sun
and I can't tell if there are words written
on the back to tell me who, what, where
because the light is so strong and I've lost my glasses again.
Without the information, it's just a handful of shining paper
so slick there isn't even a braille dot to hang onto.
3.
I...I opened my fist...moments before I slammed it into the pure white.
I do not believe in violence, and so I have to fight myself from hurting...anyone.
I eat greens from the garden. I hate the way animals are slaughtered,
so I'll have no part in it; just like I won't speak yr name
until I can say it with all the love we once carried around
in a burlap sack and a canteen.
4.
Now it's so late, the darkness is that clock without direction.
I lie down on the naked floor in the house no one lives in any more.
I bring my knees to my ribcage, my chin tucked so tight into my collarbone
that my hair falls away from my neck, but down my back, becomes a blanket
I can tangle my feet in for warmth.
5. I say my "Lay me down to sleep" and somehow yr name gets mixed up with God's.
This is not blasphemy, it's a little song I sing myself to remember Grace.
Sunday, March 7, 2010
When Beauty is Killed Something Dies Inside
My youngest son's girlfriend is moving back into the cottage across a small fence. They painted all day and yesterday too. They'll now live three blocks away and she will be paying $600 for privacy. (my son's father comes downstairs frequently and I guess it's getting old for them.) Duplexes have false privacy I think. She and I laughed how they will be going from next to one parent to next to the other, but I promised I wouldn't 'visit' without letting them know and i wouldn't do it often.
Once a year I find my self watching television because my husband is a screenwriter and he loves to watch the Academy Awards. (Actually he's a retired screenwriter and a fiction writer now, because he hates Hollywood. No amount of $40,000 checks for a simple treatment for a script was good enough. And I couldn't see us back in Southern California again anyway.)
Anyway, I hated the way when the documentary "The Cove" (about killing dolphins) won an oscar for best, the TV cameras cut away and didn't show the presentation of the award. It was so ugly political it makes me want to vomit. Tell the truth, damn it. That wonderful and terrible short film is the reason why I finally had to become a vegetarian, oft' times vegan, again for the rest of my life, because I cannot bear the senseless killing of animals both for food and for keeping creatures of beauty away from other fish like dolphins away from tuna. I haven't seen the film, and would like to, but I've read a number of books by Ruth Ozekie and those books are what reminded me of returning to vegetarianism. I feel better being responsible for my own food anyway. I have been growing so much it, I feel cleaner from Celiac's disease and I feel safer. Some local people make their own tofu for public sale, so that helps with the protein as well as quinoah. I just have to remember to take vitamin Bs. Was there anyone else who saw that awful moment when the cameras cut away. Did it affect anyone besides me with anger and grief?
Once a year I find my self watching television because my husband is a screenwriter and he loves to watch the Academy Awards. (Actually he's a retired screenwriter and a fiction writer now, because he hates Hollywood. No amount of $40,000 checks for a simple treatment for a script was good enough. And I couldn't see us back in Southern California again anyway.)
Anyway, I hated the way when the documentary "The Cove" (about killing dolphins) won an oscar for best, the TV cameras cut away and didn't show the presentation of the award. It was so ugly political it makes me want to vomit. Tell the truth, damn it. That wonderful and terrible short film is the reason why I finally had to become a vegetarian, oft' times vegan, again for the rest of my life, because I cannot bear the senseless killing of animals both for food and for keeping creatures of beauty away from other fish like dolphins away from tuna. I haven't seen the film, and would like to, but I've read a number of books by Ruth Ozekie and those books are what reminded me of returning to vegetarianism. I feel better being responsible for my own food anyway. I have been growing so much it, I feel cleaner from Celiac's disease and I feel safer. Some local people make their own tofu for public sale, so that helps with the protein as well as quinoah. I just have to remember to take vitamin Bs. Was there anyone else who saw that awful moment when the cameras cut away. Did it affect anyone besides me with anger and grief?
Friday, March 5, 2010
health, memories and pink salt
Yesterday I lost a good chunk of a poem I've been working on since 2005. It's one of the most horrifying feelings...similar to losing a good friend's daily hellos. I'm not sure how to go about within trying to recover or re-work this long poem. The machine recovered as much as it's going to and so it's up to me to reflect on where I want to go, how I want to re-write the story. It's different from writing fiction which I've been doing a great deal of lately, because the poetics that come are inspired, influenced, what have you, by not just imagination and education in the field, but are Muse-induced and my carelessness and the cuteness of one tuxedo cat made a mess of what she's given me already. Like, my blog says no one under thirteen can read this. That was the cat's decision. And of course, I have no idea yet how to reverse the cat's antics.
But the important news is that the jonquils are blooming. The white violets are a carpet and the grape hyacinths are sprouting everywhere, so I have bouquets everywhere. Even the ironing corner has several little vases full. It all seems so simple sounding, but there are times when after one has been sick for a long time, that the simplest things are the best things. I've been scrubbing the kitchen like mad and have selected three pots and pans that are only mine and have essentially kashered them and told Daniel he can't use them, but he's got a bountiful and doesn't mind, he hates to see me so truly ill like I was this time. When my body had been glutin free for such a long period of time and then to ingest something somewhere twice in such a short period of time, apparently that is worse than before it's been discovered I have celiac's disease. I threw the toaster out. Toast is rather nice made in a pan with the smallest amount of olive oil and an even smaller amount of local butter.
I ate glass noodles and tamari with african tree collards from the garden for dinner and not only did my taste buds say thank you, my innards were very happy. For dessert I had a glass of almond milk and I devoured a goodly amount of a Charles deLint book. Health looks so good from the right angle. Yesterday I walked to the health store and i found some salt that someone turned us onto a few years ago. It's from the Himalyas and is pink. For some reason it tastes better than any salt I've had before and I don't know if that's because it brings up the precious memory of an old friend or if the salt is just plain damn good. It was quite expensive and I'll have to be careful with it, but it's worth it just to think of her when I sprinkle some on my yams.
Oh gosh, it's one in the morning. I think it's time to put the PJs on and grab that book. I'm just out of the woods and see no reason to stay up too late and get sick again.
But the important news is that the jonquils are blooming. The white violets are a carpet and the grape hyacinths are sprouting everywhere, so I have bouquets everywhere. Even the ironing corner has several little vases full. It all seems so simple sounding, but there are times when after one has been sick for a long time, that the simplest things are the best things. I've been scrubbing the kitchen like mad and have selected three pots and pans that are only mine and have essentially kashered them and told Daniel he can't use them, but he's got a bountiful and doesn't mind, he hates to see me so truly ill like I was this time. When my body had been glutin free for such a long period of time and then to ingest something somewhere twice in such a short period of time, apparently that is worse than before it's been discovered I have celiac's disease. I threw the toaster out. Toast is rather nice made in a pan with the smallest amount of olive oil and an even smaller amount of local butter.
I ate glass noodles and tamari with african tree collards from the garden for dinner and not only did my taste buds say thank you, my innards were very happy. For dessert I had a glass of almond milk and I devoured a goodly amount of a Charles deLint book. Health looks so good from the right angle. Yesterday I walked to the health store and i found some salt that someone turned us onto a few years ago. It's from the Himalyas and is pink. For some reason it tastes better than any salt I've had before and I don't know if that's because it brings up the precious memory of an old friend or if the salt is just plain damn good. It was quite expensive and I'll have to be careful with it, but it's worth it just to think of her when I sprinkle some on my yams.
Oh gosh, it's one in the morning. I think it's time to put the PJs on and grab that book. I'm just out of the woods and see no reason to stay up too late and get sick again.
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