I and my body...

Most of my life up until now, my body has been my enemy. It was too tall. It was uncoordinated. Anything that felt good was a SIN. It got fat. After seven decades of life, my body and I have made peace with one another. I took a RealAge quiz to determine the age of my joints, and they are only 33 years old! Same with my bones. The hormones have dialed down to simmer. They no longer dictate my actions. Big relief there. The gym has firmed up everything that could be firmed up. I can live with the rest. And food, that former mood-altering substance, has now become a means of nurturing my body, instead. I still opt for things I like (never eating another rice cake as long as I live - I'd rather eat the box), but fortunately, I like broccoli and carrots and avacados, and eat a lot of them. I had paper-thin pancakes, fresh raspberries, banana and sliced almonds for breakfast. With Cool Whip on top. Okay, I opt for some processed food. I can only be so good, you know, before I disgust myself. I only know that I am not ashamed of my shape at the gym, where I always rub myself down with lavender scented oil after my final shower. I am not one who can stand nude in front of the mirror while doing it, like the Asian women with their tidy little forms. But I also don't have to hide under a big towel. It is all very freeing.

Amazed and confused, as usual.

Another semester is history. This was my last figure drawing, a ten minute pose. We had spent the previous two hours fifty minutes meticulously working on head/hands/feet studies, so I was tired and irritable and just wanted to get home for some homemade chili, so I just made big gashes of charcoal on the paper, not really thinking. And wouldn't you know it, that is exactly what is necessary to get a dynamic image like this one. Yesterday I met with the teacher for final portfolio review. Now, these last four and a half months, he stopped by my horse to pick at something that was wrong. The most complimentary he became was the couple of times he told me to stop, it was just fine as it was. But yesterday, he said I had done extraordinary work, eloquent work, artful work. You know, I knew that. I felt the shift that happens midterm, when it got easier and fell into place, when my decisions all seemed right on. But I couldn't exalt until HE thought so, too. I don't think this is different from most artists. You're nobody till somebody loves your work, too. Pity.

Long time, no blog...

Sometimes, my terribly busy and fascinating life just rolls over me, and I can't seem to do simple ordinary things like blog without what seems to be extraordinary effort. Don't know why that happens, it just does. I can get all frenzied about mowing the lawn or doing the laundry, so I guess I shouldn't be surprised. Anyway, in the hiatus, I have actually done some fun stuff. I did my mother-visit on the day before Mother's Day, so that I could be free to see my sweet kiddos on the actual holiday, a true treat. Now, my mother is hella-old, and she has everything a human being could ever ask for or want. In the past, I would ponder and puzz, and wind up spending beaucoup bucks for something she would glance at once, toss aside, and wind up giving back to me at a later date. I have learned my lesson here. I went to Trader Joe's and bought her an unusual orchid plant and a card, all for under $10, then packed up the dogs and headed over. She loves the Pickle, because Pickle jumps up and kisses her and sits on her lap. I don't tell her Pickle loves everyone, so she can think Pickle just loves her. That seems to be best for everyone, including Pickle. Then, on the actual day, I drove to mahvelous Marin to meet Big and Little Kiddo for the Marin Open Studios tour. We saw the galleries downtown, and found a dozen or so studios right there. After an exotic lunch at ElSol, we prowled around and inspected art of all kinds. My daughter gave me a gift certificate to the local art supply store! That's just the best, because I am low on watercolor paper and small canvases for my summer landscape class. Yay!

My Wednesday night women's circle has found its moniker. It came from a reading in a meditation book speaking of the divine light we all have to share with the world. But, if we are a perfect pot, there is no way to let it shine. It is only when we are cracked that we can share ourselves fully. So we are now the Sisterhood of the Cracked Pots. That certainly resonates for me.

Friday night, I got to go to our local performing arts center to see the Smothers Brothers. Tommy Smothers lives here and has his own winery out in the Valley of the Moon. Dickie flew in from Florida. This was their next to last performance, ever. And even though we had SRO tickets (my friend gets voucers for ushering there), I enjoyed every moment of the performance. Tommy did his yoyo routine. There was a film of their earlier performances on television. It all made me remember when I was young, way back when dirt was new. The audience was decidedly gray. My people!

School ends tomorrow for me. I have almost finished the final project for figure drawing: two non-Western figures, one from Japanese zen painting tradition, the other a portrait of Shiva wrapped in snakes. Shiva should count as two, actually, because he has four arms. Just happy to have finished another semester. Finishing stuff has never been my strong suit. Oh, and my diploma arrived in the mail. Took a long time, but the hard part is over. Someday, maybe I will be able to get that BA, too. Hey, could happen! It's all good, here, folks.

Blues and I...

Well, I bribed myself to get out of bed with banana pancakes topped with Cool Whip, toasted sliced almonds and cinnamon. Now casting about for a really good reason to get dressed. Our bipolar spring is back to normal, after a frigid rainstorm yesterday. It is really strange when the trees blown over have blossoms on them. That means I could work in the yard. Yeah, that'll happen. I could wash the car, except every time I have done this, well, the last three times, it rained the next day. Hey, I swear, it's true. And of course, the pseudo lawn has grown shaggy again, so mowing should be on the list. And the gym, must get to the gym. Today is the day I need to shape up my final portfolio for figure drawing class, too. So I guess I will throw on my cargo pants and a tee shirt, just for the hell of it. Otherwise I could sink into the mire of my own ooey gooey ennui.

The light of other days...

My friend and I went to see the college's production of Grease. Unfortunately, she was 10 years younger than I. That meant she didn't know how to swing, so we didn't get to dance in the aisles to the pre-show medley of '50's hits performed by one of the actors. Gee, I miss the '50's. Songs were so much more musical, bouncy, fun to dance to and sing along with. Jerry Lee Lewis, Chuck Barry, Frankie Avalon, the Everly Brothers. I did notice that the worst problem one could have was to get pregnant. No AIDS epidemic. No drugs. Cigarettes and booze and fast cars could kill you, I guess. Not to mention your parents, if you really stepped over the line. And we were pretty codependent. Songs had the theme of eternal love. Yeah, that'll happen. Happiness lived in another person. And in the end of the play, Sandy adopts the fast girl personna, certainly a step down from her sweet preppie self, to get the greasy boyfriend. Nope, not the best message. Wonderful music, though.

Okay, not a swan, but a beauty, anyway.

Pelicans are the 747 of birds. Have you ever watched one taking flight? They have to taxi a long, long, long, long way before liftoff. At the house on the edge of the world, they nested at the end of the little island in the river, hundreds of them. Big suckers, pelicans. In flight, they are positively majestic. They fly in lines, and at the end of the day, it is a veritable parade when they come home for the night. The brown ones can stand four feet tall. That's pretty darned big. Thrilling birds, pelicans. Still working on this one, but having such a good time doing it. I'm excited. Hope you are, too.

And here is the egret, in it;s final form, I think...

I also diddled away at this painting, doing a Monet thing, little crescent shaped strokes, and this may be the final product, because I am really tired of dippy-dabbing at it. At least for today.

A whole lot of trouble here...

I really thought this painting would be easy. I had this small canvas, already primed in a kind of nondescript green, and a picture of a bird . Then I started, and it just got nutso. The bird was too bland, the background too light, the whole thing just kind of said BLAH. But I had a palette laid, and I am pretty cheap about that, I need to use up that paint before it dries up into little ugly nurdles. So I kept poking away at the canvas, a little every day, and here it is at the moment, looking not at all like the original picture. The bird appears bigger, the atmosphere is more, well, atmospheric, the colors are now much more vibrant than they actually were in the reference. But I like the bird's expression, it feels more rich and it ever so much more fun than it was. It may be done. That would be nice.

The proof is in the brainwaves!

When I was new in sobriety, I felt like a big fat phoney. For about the first two or three years. I was acting like I was a)spiritual, b) kind, c) compassionate, and d) wise. And then it kind of happened, one day I was all of those things. Because I practiced, one day at a time. I also lost my ability to sleep through the night, so I have been meditating a lot in the wee hours. Or, at least, I think I was meditating. I did what I learned in classes, and what I read in books. But, because I don't have a PRACTICE where I sit for a requisite number of minutes at the same time every day, I thought maybe I wasn't doing it at all. Or at least, not doing it right. Then, today, I went in for an EEG. Surreal experience. She gooped up my head in 26 places and applied electrodes. I must have looked like the bride of Frankenstein. Thank HP I didn't have to look at myself till afterward. Anyway, Carla, this sweet woman, tilted me back in this big reclining chair with my feet up and told me to relax, with my eyes closed. I must have been nervous, because my eyes were way to busy even though not open. So I thought I would just meditate a little. And Carla yelled "Hey, no sleeping during the procedure!" I explained I was meditating, and she said my brain waves all just flattened out like a calm day at the lake. Wow! I really AM doing something right! I know I feel more centered than I ever have before. I have always attributed that to my somewhat unorthodox and extremely varied, non-scheduled and non-scripted attempts at calming my mind. Now I have evidence in black and white. How cool is that!

Confessions of a closet drama queen...

Have you ever noticed how the rough seas of life are often followed by the doldrums? That is where I have been, marooned by my own inertia, following a series of big blows that left me foundering and lost. For a while. And I felt like I had been run over by a steamroller for a while. Funny how depression can immobilize one, and the only way up and out of it is ACTION. I didn't go to the gym for almost two weeks. And then I got up and went, almost like someone had pushed a button, and it was miraculous how great I felt. Well, duh. Endorphins kicked in, yay. The regime is firmly in place again, gym 2-3 times a week, gardening when weather permits, lots of meetings to stay spiritually fit, time with friends who let me gripe, if that's what I need to do. Tonight is an abalone feed, and for those poor souls out there who have never had abalone, well, God didn't make anything this yummy under Her sun, not even lobster. I've already been to the gym, so I can chow down, too. Strange experience there today. I always keep an eye on the pool through the window as I do my little circuit around the major muscle group machines, and as soon as I got into my suit and all showered up, it filled to beyond capacity. I went into the hot tub, instead, thinking, oh well. Then a lane cleared, sort of. So I jumped in. It was a Biblical experience, painful and rewarding at the same time. I floated up and down the lane, pausing only ever so briefly to let this little round woman toodle by on her floaty tube that she rode like a hobby horse. I think my mother invented those. We had an old Navy flotation devise like a sausage, and she would ride it like that when cleaning the tile of our pool. Anyway, this was one of the most mystical swims I have ever experienced. The water felt so healing. I came away cleansed and strengthened. Not back to full capacity yet, but on my way. Oh, hell, I am always on my way.

The new one, redux...

It is always exciting when I get an idea, and begin to realize it in paint. Paint is such a forgiving medium, oils, that is. Watercolors remember every little booboo and you can never, never do anything about it. But here, I can just keep putting layer on layer on layer, and it can get better. It can get worse, too, so the primary decision, the one that makes or breaks a painting, is when to quit. I am not quite there, yet, but my Monetesque painting is looking pretty wonderful, if I do say so myself. I am not unhappy. This is such a wondrous creation, the egret. We had scads of them at the coast, but fortune smiles and we have them here, in town, too. I have seen them standing by the side of the freeway, in Novato. And I love when they wing over me, great white ghosts, so streamlined. I want to do my egret proud.

Bill has left the planet...

An old friend died a couple of weeks ago. I say "old" in the context that I knew him many years, since he was only three years my senior, and I do not consider myself old, not yet. I am still a baby senior citizen, after all. It was too soon for Bill. Just goes to show we never know. It was an interesting experience, the memorial service. Bill was a lifelong Espicopalian. Now, this is really the Anglican church, and being at this service was like being in Four Weddings and a Funeral. There were hymns, the numbers up on a billboard so we could look them up in the hymnals. And though they supposedly don't do the smells and bells, I detected the telltale hint of something incensey in the air. There were stained glass windows and an arched ceiling, and lots and lots of candles. The homily was presided over by Bill's lifelong friend, Carl, who I had met at the reunion I attended with Bill last year, his 50th. They played together as boys. It was stirring. And in some ways, it was old home stuff, too, since that old gang of mine was present in droves. We ate cookies and slurped coffee and reminisced. Bill embodied that old saying that if you can't be a good example, you'll have to be a horrible warning. Actually, he represented both sides of that equation with equal aplomb. What a guy. I will miss him, his crusty wit, his inner sweetness, the music we shared, the generation we grew up in. I will never hear the theme from a Summer's Place without his face rising before me, and wherever he is now, I hope he gets to meet up with Elvis, and John Denver.

Some bright morning, when this life is over...

Things change. Sometimes, there is no going back. My friend Bill died last weekend. I am devastated. He was just always there, kind of smirking, flying in the face of convention, griping, grumping, arguing for his limitations. Beneath that crust there was a sweetness that was beyond compare. He let me see it a few times, so I kept looking for it, always. Somewhere, there should be a banner that reads "BILL HAS LEFT THE PLANET". That is the impact he had on our little recovery community. Okay, sometimes that impact was negative. He was that kind of guy. And there is a lot of goodness in his wake as well. Most of all, I am pissed off at him. He never knew he was precious. He didn't take care of himself. I wish he could see all the sadness at his passing, and know that he was loved by many. And let's all take a lesson from this. There are folks here who would be crushed if we were to leave today, folks who count on us to show up. That is my focus today, to show up, even if I feel like eating worms.

Road trip!

My friend had a trip planned to see her folks in San Diego, could I give her a lift to the airport? Sure, good for blowing any crud out the tail pipe after short sojourns around town. Of course, I thought she meant SFO. I can find that just fine. But, no, she meant OAKLAND. Now, it is my opinion that the freeway system in the East Bay was designed by either idiots, or people who are so smart they didn't feel we lesser folks should be in on the joke. No problem getting there. Smart friend had a GPS system on her phone, and it treated me like the mental moron that I am when it comes to directions, with lots and lots of repetition. One thing I noted was that there were no signs indicating the airport exit, just a little plane symbol on the 98th Street exit sign. Must be an inside kind of information thing. And then my friend bid me adieu, and she and her phone went off. Now came the true test. How well did I mark my route there, so I could retrace it back north? Invariably, I get lost and stuck in some lane that deposits me in downtown Oakland. This is actually not a bad thing, because I know heading east will bring me to Martin Luther King Parkway, and north on that big street will end up on Ashby Ave., in Berkeley, and west on that goes to the freeway I need to get to the Richmond-San Rafael Bridge, and the more familiar climes of mahvelous Marin County. Fortune smiled on me, and I made it to my right road without getting forced onto the Bay Bridge, which goes to San Francisco. That is not bad, either, because I know my way around that City pretty well, too. Well, there is the $6 bridge toll to consider there. I find it interesting that you have to pay a toll to get out of the East Bay no matter what direction you are going. Says something, I think.

Naked people and I...

I really love my figure drawing class, especially this morning, when we had a new model, this really buffed out, young, handsome black guy, Walter. No this is not Walter. I also had my midterm review with Kevin, sweet guy, and this was one of the drawings he praised, even though the shoulder area is too small, and probably the shins are too short. Both are areas I need to pay attention to. There is just so much to think about there, the areas where the bone should be evident, non-parenthetic limbs (the muscles are off-set, in case you haven't ever noticed), the size of hands and feet (much bigger than I think they are, actually). And there has been some improvement, and far less major disasters than the last time I took this class. Actually, I think I just want everyone to see me carrying my ever so artful black portfolio I bought myself a few semesters ago. After all, I am an art major, and it is good to look serious when being reviewed. And I am, really, I am. I just want to be ever so much better than I am. Practice, you say? Yes.

Please, no applause...

I got my car serviced today. No gold star this time. I had diddled around way too long and it was past its miles allowed. Probably this was because I knew it was going to be expensive this time. And it was. Flushed fuel injection system. New wiper blades. New (gulp) battery. No wonder it was kind of clearing its throat every time I turned the key! Anyway, this all took a long, long, long time. And, foolish me, I neglected to throw in a paperback or even a newspaper, and there were none on the little stand in the very cold waiting room, where every time someone came or went, the north wind kept the door open, chilling us poor slobs to the bone. Very nice flatscreen TV. Tuned the the GOLF channel. Imagine that, a whole channel about pudgy guys in Izod shirts and pleated trousers hoofing around on impossibly green grass, hitting a little white ball with a stick. Okay, those sticks are pretty chichi. The Golf Outlet store sold them for (gulp) a mere $299! I didn't even want to ask how much the Fred Astaire shoes were, saddle oxford clones with imitation alligator leather insets. Tres interesting. It got kind of repetitive, the action, so that when one ball landed in a sand trap, I gasped. Ditto the poor schmuck who hit it into the lake. After a while, if the ball missed the fairway, things got terribly tense. You would think that golf could go the way of tennis, you know, everyone could have a DayGlo colored ball of their own, make it all more colorful and easier to tell the guys apart. I like that idea. At the end of my hour's wait, I paid my $224, and brought my baby home, all purring and happy. Life, it is an education in itself.

True confessions of the slothful gardener...

The backyard is a mess, again. Now, every year I swear this will not happen again. And every year it takes longer and longer for me to get my motor started. In prior years, I hired someone to work with me, and that got it off the ground just fine. This year, funds are pretty paltry after taxes, so it will all be on my sweet shoulders. Do you know how difficult it is to wrestle a bucking lawnmower through that great wasteland? And the nifty Sterlite chest I got to store my garden tools leaked and got filled with rainwater. My gloves are toast. Ach! These are the days when I yearn for a MAN, to prune and mow and edge and dig. Then he can go home.

The weather did a 180 and we are now basking in 70 degree sweetness. I optimistically moved all the sweaters, wool scarves and hats, and heavy jackets to the back closet and got out the tanks and shorts and capris. Shoes are next. Certainly I can pack away the Ugg knockoffs. Probably I will still need socks for a while. Mornings can be chilly, and it is bound to rain a bit more. But the world is in blossom, or at least budding. Would like to be out in it, but woe is I, that is contraindicated by the prescription I just got filled, for yet another UTI, and if you don't know what that is, lucky you. This antibiotic makes one photosensitive, leading to instant sunburn. So I will continue my swimming indoors at the gym, looking up at the ceiling tiles instead of the wild blue yonder that was over my head Tuesday, when I sojourned once again to the aquatics center in my neighborhood. Sigh. Only three days of medication. It seems my immune system got all balled up with the stress of my eye surgeries. Hope to get back to my bulletproof self, any time now.

Sore here...

Okay, I admit it. I've been feeling sorry for myself. This is never a good thing. And I have had such good reasons, like: it is cold, my eyes are still mega-sore, I am not sleeping well, Boo was sick, they took away that hour again, I have to mow the lawn, I'm afraid of my taxes, etc. etc. etc. This is a self-perpetuating state of mind. The more I engage with it, the more disgusted I am with myself, and the more I sink into the mire of ooey-gooey gunk. My friend Nancy called it dancing with the Tar Baby. Hard to sit one out, you know. Well, today may be the day to rise from my self-made pain. The pain in the eyes is dialed down significantly. Boo seems perkier. Sun is shining (although that can be deceptive, it's still CHILLY out there). I slept better. And I have decided to ignore the lost hour. After all, it is spring break, no one is expecting me anywhere, I have a week to adjust to getting up at 6:30 AM which is now 7:30 AM. Yes, we can rise above all this adversity. It is, after all, temporary. As usual. I may even dispel the mystery and figure out how much I owe the dreaded IRS. Ouch.

Are my molecules dancing or what?

I love that my molecules dance at the same frequency as sound. This means that I am tuned in to music at the cellular level, and feel the resonance all through my being. When I sing, I can feel the vibration in the mask, and stay on pitch. My ear is one of the best my piano teacher ever worked with. Like, I didn't do any of this. It is all a gift from HP. I got born with it, like my little toes that wiggle and my short, fat eyeballs. I just watched Impromptu, a smarmy period soap opera of Georges Sand's pursuit of a somewhat reluctant Chopin, while Lizst's wife procreates abundantly in the background, and launches her own abortive campaign. Whatever, I got to hear a lot of wondrous chromatic pieces hammered away on the Steinway, rubato, of course. And the young Hugh Grant did a great job of portraying the frail, shy guy that Chopin was. Judy Davis was at her bitchy best, and Julian Sand played Lizst, who was the very first rock star. Really, women threw themselves on the stage when he performed. Funnily enough, he ended his rather long life in monastic garb. Not sure if his life reflected his dress though. I hope to meet up with these folks in the afterlife. As with most artists, authors, and composers, they all appeared to be well marinated in wine. Spirits for the free spirits. It was all satire and sexual sabotage. Not much has changed, except that we are now an awful lot less civilized. Maybe it was the starched collars?

A good idea, in principle...

Reality is always a little more complicated. I have had three cable/satellite providers in my five years here in the little yellow house. We began as a "dish conversion" special with Comcast, then the introductory price went up, like a rocket. So we got Dish Network, and again, the wonderful bargain got really expensive, so we got Direct TV. Ditto. Now we are back to Comcast, who is doing the cable, phone and internet for a dynamite price that cuts my cost in half. For a year. And even then, it will still be $80 cheaper. Wonderful. Except I scheduled the installation for Saturday, and I had an event to attend immediately afterward, so I didn't get my inaugual introduction to the ins and outs of the new stuff. I managed to screw up the TV in the bedroom totally. Nothing worked in there. The internet thing had me totally confused. I finally got an email account set up, nervously as I did not want to lose the old one before I got my addressbook into the new one. I wasn't sure the process had worked, and finally figured out how to print out the damned thing, only to find them all there, after all. I am using the same browser, so I still have all my favorite places. Yay. I bit the bullet, put on my hair shirt of humility, and called for a technician to come unscrew what I had done, and show me how to work everything. It is all kind of perking along, just a little limping during the learning curve, and that is probably good for me. This is kind of a downsize thing for me, and I am not good at deprivation. Oh, well, someday I will laugh about it all. Just not today.

My head is bloody but unbowed, redux...

Because I was feeling kind of fragile, I wrapped myself in a super long, super soft white sweater and fluffy white scarf to go to the eye doctor yesterday. My dear friend drove me there with all the care she could summon. Another friend met me there and brought me a little tulip plant and a muffin. I felt loved and treasured, what a joy. And the second procedure was about how I imagined the first would be, and was not. The drops to constrict the pupil hurt a lot, the laser did not. I thanked the doctor, the nurse, the friends and I took my wounded eyeball home where I put on my warmest sweats, curled up with a cup of suisse mocha, my muffin, my puppies and my DVRed soap opera. Then, the anesthetic wore off, and there was another oh-my-God moment before the Tylenol kicked in. I guess you really cannot drill holes in an eyeball without some consequences. However, I woke up on my left side in the night, not even a twinge, and I could not sleep on my right side for a week after it was operated on. And it was all worth it to know that I will never wake up blind from sudden onset glaucoma. It was all a miracle to begin with.

Things change, Opus 94

Ouch! I saw my parent's yesterday, on the occasion of my mother's 89th birthday. Dad has lost his driver's license and his life is over. Mom is up on her cross again, nailed there by her own stubborn resolve that it is all up to her. Help? She doesn't need no stinkin' help. It all goes to show that what we have about us is refundable at any moment. What we have within us is a renewable resource, if we are flexible enough to let go, when needed, and create a new reality that incorporates the changes about us. The image I put up today was the view from our deck at the house on the edge of the world. I miss that view. And I would not trade it for the serenity that lives here in the little yellow house. Life on life's terms, folks. And if you cannot get over yourself after nine decades of one day at a time, well, how tragic is that. Praying for these fear-bound, angry people who served to usher me into this universe.

She puzzled and puzzed...

Here is the deep thought for the day - you can't be where you're going until you get there. Well, duh. But, gee, I hate that travel time. I am halfway to my final destination, when I can lay down any fear that my eyesight will be damaged by this surprising and exceedingly inconvenient condition that was laid on me at birth. I don't like waiting for anything, you know. Sometimes I eat nothing for dinner but dessert. That should illuminate things for anyone who was wondering if I had passed my sainthood test. Not there, not even close. And sorry to say, my eyes are no longer a matched set. The right iris, the one that got zapped, is wider than the left. In fact, the left looks more like a three quarter moon now in comparison. And the pupil on the right is more open, too. That probably means that, like the right eye, the iris in the left eye is convex as well. This is not good. So I pray that on Monday, when Dr does a look-see, he will decide to do the second procedure SOON. Even though it hurts, and is totally unpleasant, I will be thrilled to put my chin in the little rest and let him thump away with his fancy green light. Let us hope it only takes a few little knocks next time.

Terminal uniqueness...

I have always been different. First, I was the only girl in my generation, for 16 years, that is, until my youngest uncle began his family. And I was the tallest person in my sixth grade class, even taller than the teacher, Mr. Magill. Now, in my latter years, I am the oldest in most of my classes, even older than my teachers. Some could be my kids. And yet, I was unprepared for the experiences I had at the eye doctor's. First, there is this rare condition, an inherited anatomical anomaly that threatens to close off the drains for the interocular fluid, allowing the pressure to build up amazingly fast and produce blindness within 48 hours if not attended to. Except that I had little "dips" in the angles, sort of little troughs that helped keep them open. Nevertheless, pressure was building, so we scheduled the laser surgery. I had the first one (one eye at a time) yesterday. Now, I was led to expect that this was kind of a snap, a little zap that opened a hole in the iris to allow fluid between it and the lens and keep a space there, forever. My iris in my right eye was actually bowing out due to the pressure. Scary. I did all my pre-operative chores, getting my prescription for drops filled, and made a special trip to the drugstore for Tylenol, the requisite painkiller recommended, even though I had Aleve and Advil and Excedrin and ibuprofen and aspirin. Sigh. I took 2 Tylenol and headed out, chauffered by a dear friend as I would be pretty blind in one eye afterward. It took an hour for the drops that shrunk my pupil down to a period to work, then they plopped in the anesthetic drop, and we began the procedure. There were two lasers. The first produced a brilliant green light and served to charbroil the area where the puncture would go. It wasn't supposed to hurt. But it did. The second was supposed to hurt. But it didn't. Lucky me, I got extra pokes, lots of them, because my iris bled. This never happens. Except to me. Happy to say the Dr got around that pesky little drop of blood, and managed to consummate the procedure. And I came home with a post-operative instruction sheet that said use your drops, sight will return in a day or two, and otherwise, no restrictions on activities. Sounded like a walk in the park. Except I woke up in the night with scintillating pain. It felt like someone had shishkabobbed my eyeball and was turning it on a spit over hot coals. Nothing on my instruction sheet about this. I had left the Tylenol bottle by the bed with a glass of water, so I took a couple and propped myself up, giving it a moment before I decided if I was dying or not. And it subsided, slowly, but completely. Now I know to keep the Tylenol going on a regular basis. I am guessing that this does not happen to others who have this procedure, either. Just me. Must be another of God's little jokes. Good news is that, though my eye still feels like someone used it for a hockey puck, my vision cleared up and was perfect this morning, just 15 hours after the procedure. Bad news is that this was just the first of two operations. Don't know if knowing what to expect is a blessing or a curse. Probably, it couldn't get too much more complicated. Probably, the second one will go smoother. Please.

Tha little ofd lady valentine, ME!

All day yesterday I thought I should be doing something special for my valentine. What to do? I already had a fluffy white turtleneck sweater. My new Speedo had arrived, so I took it on its inaugural lap swim. Was that special enough? Since I got home and felt like I had broken my body, I decided no. I am not going to make my three requisite trips to gymlala this week due to eye surgery coming up, so I kind of pushed the workout a little. Then I was so sore, I couldn't think of much else than a hot soak and some aspirin. And today, I am tired from a long night of wrestling with Morpheus, a frequent occupation lately. Before I crapped out and laid down with my current novel for a little siesta, I took a trip to Safeway, and while there, plied the bakery aisles, looking for something bad for me, to soothe my sweet heart. Nothing leaped out at me. Then, as I threw yet another tub of Lite Cool Whip in my cart, there it was. This year, my valentine's name is Sara Lee. Lemon cake. Oh, joy in a yellow box! I had it for lunch, and then, for dessert, too. Do I feel guilty? Is the Pope Catholic? But it is a lovely, soporific kind of guilt. Now for that nap.

The current version. Sigh...

It has been cooled down, then warmed up again. Then the light got more intense with lighter values. Then it got kind of scuffed up, because it was too smooth and kind of trite. And here it is, for all that's worth. I have been slapping away at it for days now. I want to slap at something else for a while. The satisfying thing is that the idea somehow got out of my head and onto the canvas. Oh, the rudiments are always there. But the particulars are there, too. The creative process is very fickle. Seldom does it manifest completely as envisioned. Not that that's a bad thing. Actually, usually there is something accidental that is really brilliant, a bit of God's idea, on the canvas too. Happy accidents. Surprises. That's worth the whole kit and caboodle.

Homework...

So, Kevin says "draw a head". Could be from the handout he gave us, or from life. Well, the only live head I have around this house is mine, unless the dogs count, and I haven't seen any canine models yet in figure drawing, so, here I am. It was a quick study, and it really does look a little like me, though I don't think I look this young in real life, but hell, if I am going to go to all this work, I am going to freaking flatter myself a little. Otherwise, I'd take a photo.

Things change, Vol. XXXIV

I balked at the idea of spending big bucks for prescription glasses because I kept losing my cheapo readers. In the end, I was buying them three pairs at a time at Costco, and they just seemed to evaporate. But the world was getting really fuzzy, near and far away. Time for progressive lenses. Ouch. Telling the world you are getting progressive lenses is like telling the world you are pregnant. Everyone who has experienced pregnancy then is entitled to tell you their horror stories, bloody, painful births that they barely survived. And you stand there with your beachball belly, nodding and praying. Too late to do anything about that, folks. So, everyone, male and female, told me their woes with the progressive lenses. And, cheap little person that I am, I decided to do the 21 day persistence routine. I can get used to anything in 21 days, if I just keep pushing through the resistance. And, surprise! There wasn't any resistance. I felt comfortable (and really CLEAR) from the get-go. Just a little searching for the sweet spot at the computer, and need to remember to look down when negotiating stairs. And the piano will require the leftover pair of readers. Can's see the top of the page and the keys at the same time. But, otherwise, I am happy as hell being old four eyes here. Wish I had gotten cuter frames, but I chose ones that I could not see over or under or around. Later, I can get a cutsey-poo pair for social occasions. And, surprise! I have not lost them once! That is probably because I put the on in the morning (usually after a short period of what-is-wrong-with-this-picture), and they stay parked there all day. Really hard to lose them after all!

And now for something entirely different...

My daughter once noted she didn't like still life paintings because they seemed so contrived. Well, yes, there must be some artifice in setting the objects to their best advantage, for sure. I decided that it would be fun just to take little slices of my life and immortalize them on canvas. So here is my Walmart lamp, on top of my teensy rolltop desk, with books and a painting I did earlier in my opus, another still life of sunflowers. I's just the beginning, of course. I will be diddling with it for a while yet. But I am liking it already, very warm. I think the microwave may become my next subject.

Sometimes, you just have to give up...

I have been trying to make this painting interesting, change the values, change the pigments, make the cow cuter, painterly it up. Just isn't going to happen, folks. And that is what happens sometimes. I thought about doing something outrageous, like go purple or orange or real impasto. In the end, it is what it is, kind of vanilla. Oh, hell, vanilla is more amazing than this poor guy. So, back to the drawing board. I'm thinking a nice still life would be fun.

Sayonara, dear Speedo...

I suppose it is a monument to my diligence that I have successfully shredded my first Speedo. I levered myself out of the pool (had to swim in an inner lane with no ladder or steps to get out), and felt my bare bottom on the cement deck. Fortunately, my towel was not that far away, and no one looks at anyone at the gym anyway, at least not when I am looking at them, and when I slicked it off in the shower, I could see that it was all lacy across the rump. Good that I got an auxilliary suit recently, though it is a little tight still. Takes a while to break in a Speedo, I found. Just in case, I ordered another at swimoutlet.com, a roomier one, on close-out, too. I plan on wearing out bunches of workout stuff. Keeps me from wearing out, you know.

Progress, not perfection...

My second trip through the vicissitudes of figure drawing finds me more receptive to the teacher and less afraid of that great big blank page that stares at me first thing. I am a seat-of-the-pants kind of gal. I don't like looking for the large trocanter or the scapula. I just want to draw what I see. But Kevin, dear teacher, is right. If I can't map the underlying structure, I can't get a true rendering of the subject. This drawing was about as successful as I have been so far. There is a real assuredness of line that is really new for me. Proportions look pretty believable, if not exactly true. The attitude is good, too, because I am doing what Kevin has been trying to get me to do from the beginning, drawing from the inside out, mapping shapes instead of objects. My pencil just seemed to take off on its own. There's hope for me yet!

The Boo is not amused...

As I drove him to the vet this morning, I kept telling him how sorry I was. But he had these really gnarly wartlike things on his eyelids, and they grew all the way through so that his eyeballs were getting irritated, and they were growing, so time to do the right thing and get them removed. He reluctantly got into the car, actually. Then I had to drag him into the vet's, where he sat quivering and shaking. Well, can you blame him? Now he is home, at least most of him is here. He walked in, made a sideways trip to his bowl, then stood there as if he had forgotten where he was. Mostly, he just lays on the floor, with his tongue out, making burbling noises. We have a bagfull of medications, and he has to wear his new appliance for at least a week so that he doesn't open the incisions, which are sealed with purple sutures. How punk is that! I just hate seeing an animal suffer, but it beats having those awful things on his eyes, I think.

Pardon my insensitivity, but I'm not all that well yet...

I was toodling home from the gym today, all pumped up and full of endorphins, when I noticed a roadside shrine, you know, flowers and pictures and notes taped to a telephone pole by the side of the street. And that always makes me kind of sad/mad/scared. Especially this one, that is right around the corner from my house, on the street that I go up and down every single blasted day. Part of me wondered how anyone could get going fast enough on that street to kill themselves. So perhaps no one actually died. But then, I have never seen one of these monuments for someone who bumped their head or broke their pelvis. No, of course someone left the planet. Another part of me was really indignant that they should do that so close to ME. Oh, I am so not well yet. It is all about me, still. Ouch. It reminded me of that night a couple of summers ago, coming home from a dinner party and getting all balled up because that very same street was all blocked off with a feeding frenzy of emergency vehicles. How rude! And the next day, finding out a young woman lost her life there. They just recently stopped putting flowers at that site. What a life this is. And how soon it can be gone. Right around the corner.

The learning curve...

I figure one could sit at home and learn to draw from a book. Hell, we used to draw from matchbook covers, remember that? But there is something magical about sitting with a classroom full of folks, all doing their own things. I stood next to Tom when I drew these poses (same model, just both on same page). Tom elongates his figures. And since I tend to truncate them, this was a good place for me to be that day. I got these dandy drawings, much braver than many I have done in the past. Figure drawing is a different process, you know. It is much more physical, involving the whole arm and shoulder, because the objects are much larger and we are trying to fill an 18x24 page. That can only happen for me if I get really brave and trust my abilities. We are just three short weeks in, and we had two days of not drawing in that time, and I was sick for one day. So really, I have only been drawing for three sessions so far, and I am soooooo much more confident than I have ever been, and actually not unhappy with my product so far. It can only get better, right? Well, sure hope so. I intend to keep plugging away. And we are still in graphite. Wait till charcoal!

No other love have I.

So, I said to my self, I'm well now. Time to get butt to the gym. And self said back, not until you make the bed. And answer your email. And catch up on your Freecell games. And look! Pickle needs to be brushed. Surprise! It's lunchtime already! And then there's the soap opera to watch. Meanwhile, I was doing all this with my keys in my pocket and my scarf and jacket on. About 45 minutes into the soap, I snuck out the front door with the gym bag. Self was pretty unhappy. All the way there, she pissed and moaned. But I kept putting one foot in front of the other, always a satisfying activity, and before self knew it, we had finished the circuit of machines, at lower weights due to period of inactivity, but all the reps plus some. Then to the pool. Which was fully occupied. Oh, well, self said. We'll just do a hot tub today. We deserve to take it a little easy. After all, you've been sick. Except I noticed out of the corner of my eye that one lane became available, and before self could blink, I was in the pool. This is always a religious experience, going from the jacuzzi to the pool, but I told self, as I always do, it only hurts for a second. Or two. And those laps felt so good, so liberating, self was not unhappy. No, not at all.

A whole bunch of stuff...

There are many mandates in this life. You know: eat right, get plenty of sleep, drink water, exercise. I have a whole bunch of my own: say nothing I would not want to hear said to me, treat myself like I am an honored guest in my own home (which unfortunately does not come with maid service), never again eat anything I do not absolutely adore, never again go anywhere I don't want to go just to please someone else, read a lot, don't give up on my art even when it seems dismally ordinary and trite. I am feeling particularly burdened with all this stuff today. So I am exercising my right to just opt out, just for today. I am off to the gym, only because I have not been there for a week and fear that I will become a flaccid puddle. And to Trader Joe's, for fresh flowers and toasted slivered almonds, which I will put on everything I eat for a while. I am needing some pampering here. Yes.

My head is bloody but unbowed...

I have risen from my bed of pain, finally. It helped to just surrender to this measly little cold, and to the fact that I couldn't take any medication to stop it from running over me like a Mack truck. Perspective kept skewing on me, and I had to perpetually remind myself that this was TEMPORARY, would not require chemotherapy or radical surgery, and would just go away all by itself. And we are on the cusp of well here, for sure. How wonderful to be out of bed, bathed, blown-dry, dressed, made-up, and headed out the door for a meeting. I am taking a box of Kleenex with me (luckily, I stocked up recently at Costco - on any normal day my nose runs like a faucet), and a throat lozenge, just in case. And I am picking up a non-fat latte on the way, too. I have been an exceptionally good girl lately, after all. Well, I may be old, but I can be immature forever.

The rudeness of it all...

I taught my kids that life is not fair. Crappy things happen, often rather unexpectedly. The best we can do is not muddy the waters ourselves. So, I woke up thinking, this is Wednesday. Wednesday means I get up early, throw on my mufti of jeans and sweatshirt, and toodle on over to campus to arrive before 8 AM, after which getting a parking place is impossible this early in the semester. Then I hike across campus to the new student center, a regular Taj Mahal of a cafeteria, for a breakfast burrito and large coffee, then slowly and with much enthusiam consume them. I digest there for a while before hotfooting it to my locker, slinging my portfolio over my shoulder, and arriving early at figure drawing class to claim the tallest horse and the best viewing advantage. Except that this Wednesday, I was sick. I knew it when I went to bed Tuesday night. I knew it when I woke up later with a throat on fire and a forehead to match. Now, that's unfair. I just began this semester. Losing even one class session is hard for me. Besides, I can't take my usual barrage of cold remedies because of this condition I have in my eyes. They cause dilation of the pupil, which could precipitate an instant attack of glaucoma. So, against all my principles, I am relegated to SUFFERING! It is my ultimate goal in life to not SUFFER any more. Pain, yes, there will always be pain. But suffering is optional. There is always something to ease the pain. And I will take that path, whenever I can. So, I had to content myself with massive doses of vitamin C, orange/cinnamon tea, aspirin, several pillows, a gory mystery novel, two warm if damp puppies, and a new box of Kleenex. I suppose it could be worse. But most of all, I had to reschedule everything. I am now slated to be sick for two more days. That should do it.

Think about it...

Most of my life I spent avoiding change. Well, that was usually after I had changed what I could to get what I wanted. Now, just stay there! Don't move! This is it, my shining moment. Trouble with shining moments is they tarnish pretty easily. They get all glopped up with the daily slop of life. And when you come right down to it, nothing is scripted to last forever. It all comes to pass. Everything is temporary. Ah, but there are those moments when it has all come together, almost of its own accord, without any effort on my part, and that is a moment worth savoring. The high bloom, the one that happens just before attrition sets in, and it withers and dies. Happily, one can bloom again and again, if one keeps feeding one's garden with things like love and acceptance and gratitude and surrender. Always good to remember that, especially on a gray and scummy day when the trees are naked. Oh, but wait! The white camelia is blooming on the porch! Wonder-full.

Hey, I'm walking here!

Ah, the immortal words of Ratso Ritzo, as he pounds on the hood of a taxi crossing a New York street. Brilliant ad lib by Dustin Hoffman, it explained his character better than anything could. Though Ratso may have been the lowest creature on the socioeconomic totem pole, he still had the right to occupy his little bit of space on the planet. I relate. I have spent my life trying to not be a problem for anyone. It has made me kind of invisible, so that, when someone I am meeting is late, I am certain they have forgotten me, since that seems to be remarkably easy to do (and since I am always early, EVERYONE is late in my world). Well, no more Ms. Niceguy. The eye doctor told me he wanted to wait six months for the surgery that will prevent me from going blind should an acute attack of glaucoma hit me. Okay, I would have 48 hours to get the surgery if that happened, but suppose I wanted to go to Aix-en-Provence and paint Mt. St. Victoire for a month, and couldn't get in to the emergency room? And since just sitting in a dark environment too long could precipitate that attack, well, why tempt the Fates? Plus, I am lousy at diagnosing myself. I have dragged my sorry butt to the doctor so many times with fantasized symptoms, but also been hospitalized three times with serious illnesses I did not recognize. I don't want to spend the next six months in emergency with a headache. Also, I read that there can be damage happening with NO SYMPTOMS. Nightmare, that's what this is. So, see me! Take care of me!

Aren't they sweet?

The cows are done, like, over with, no more dabbing away. At least, for today. I like them much better and can find no glaring problems. I like to have the paint be the focus, the subtle shift of values, the texture of it. Magical what one can do with a brush and some pigment. In the end, there are layes and layers there, and most of the time, surprises happen, happy accidents that just make an image pop right off the canvas. I count on those. And in the process, with brush in hand, I am somewhere else, just an instrument of the divine, learning with every stroke. I am at my most content when doing this. Which is probably why my babies here look so peaceful, too. Oh, wait. Cows are always stoic. And curious. Hard to get a candid picture of a cow. What wondrous creatures, indeed.

Flying dreams...

You know how I feel about movies. They should be imaginative, have a message (even Disney does that), express an artform that goes beyond the mundane. They don't have to be particularly cerebral to do that. Avatar was a good example. A mainstream action-adventure with lots of amazing CGI images and 3D that knocked my socks off. And right there, a spiritual message, about the connectedness of things, and honoring the Mother. Touching. And just now, as I was noodling around here, Beethoven's 7th Symphony came up on the ITunes list, and I remembered one of my favorite fun cult movies, Zardoz. It is worth seeing just to watch an already over-the-hill Sean Connery cavort about in a red loin cloth and ponytail for two hours. And for the flying stone head that floatsthrough the clouds to that haunting 2nd movement of the aforementioned symphony. And for the amazing imagination it displays, bevies of immortals living in the "vortex", keeping the brutals at bay with slight of hand and superior intellect. It's message was that immortality is boring, life is ever so much more precious when it is finite. Think about it.

Funky Friday...

Winter is hanging low today, all gray and frigid. And it feels that way inside, too, after all the high drama of the dreaded eye exam. Honestly, I don't know how I survived all the years when that was the constant tone of my life, one adrenalin rush after another, blowing every little slight up into major insult, blaming everyone else, sulking or shouting, or drinking. Now, I just wear myself out, in very short order, too. However, I could use some roses. May just have to settle for mustard, which is already blooming everywhere this year. It is a pretty sweet world when yellow things can bloom in all this grayness.

A little hubris goes a long way...

You know, I take a lot of things for granted. My health, for instance. I am remarkably healthy and strong for a woman of considerable age. There are men at the gym who use the same weight I do on the circuit of machines (I check, you see). And though it has been a few years, like 25, since I could read a price tag in the store, I have gotten away with just over the counter magnifying readers. This is partly because prescription glasses always make me dizzy and nauseous in the beginning, and I have no tolerance for that. Mostly it is because I just don't trust doctors any more. They all seem to be in the pocket of the drug companies, here, have a pill. But I really like my vision, and it now happens that my middle vision is kaput, so off I went to the eye doctor. The real eye doctor, the ophthamologist, because I had some symptoms, like red eyes, and some pain, too. And, I have a CONDITION! My eyes have narrow angles between the iris and the lens, which can cause blockage of the little drains, which leads to glaucoma. Gulp. This is my family's fault, it is a genetic thing, and more prevalent in the far-sighted folk like me, who have short, fat eyeballs. The doctor recommends just waiting a little while, because it is not dire at the moment, but I will be having laser surgery to correct this, sometime in the future. It is miraculous that we caught it, because, if my vision were to go blurry suddenly, without treatment I could be blind in two days. And I really like looking out the window.

Cow for all seasons...

It was a kind of cold, gritty day, and I wasn't up to shopping or going to the movies again, or much of anything, really. I just kind of schlepped about the house, aimlessly, then decided to take a few jabs at the canvas I primed the other night, when I couldn't decide what to do with the first cow image, tighten it up? Rough it down? Well, here is today's cow, probably already overworked, I just kept digging at it. Honestly, if I have a style, it is mediocreness. I looked at other cow images, and none looked like mine. This is either really good, or really awful. I don't hate it. Not in love with it, either. Oh, hell, it could be worse. I'm putting up cow painting #1 for a while, and letting this one sort of lounge around, until it tells me what is next, if anything. Yes, that's a plan.

Celuloid moments...

The cowwoman has done a couple films lately. First, Sherlock Holmes as portrayed by a somewhat craggy Robert Downey Jr., looking like he was just out of rehab. Oh, wait - he WAS in rehab. Very athletic, action-hero kind of Holmes, lots of big bangs. And Jude Law, well, what can I say. Just eye candy for this old gal. And speaking of old gals, Nancy Meyers gave Meryl Streep the Diane Keaton routine in It's Complicated. Older, divorced-but-successful woman, romanced by older-but-usually-with-younger-woman guy. It was a divorcee's wet dream, an affair with her ex-husband who is now wed to said younger woman(that he left her for in the beginning) with titanium abs and five year old son. I think choosing his ex-wife was smart, actually. His current ball and chain was succulent, but apt to age badly, and hard in other areas that were decidedly less attractive. And Meryl, well, she is softened and real, no feral traits left. So let's hear it for age and experience. We are attractive in ways men never dreamed.

Food for thought...

When I was young, and dirt was new, we didn't think that much about food. My mother just made sure that we had meat, starch, and vegetables, pretty much in equal proportions, on our plate every night. Fried chicken wasn't comfort food. It was dinner. And no one thought about organic, or seasonal, or locally grown. Bread was Wonderbread, white and cloud soft. People who ate whole wheat were weird. Strangely enough, I ate pretty healthily. My dad was a butcher, and we had a lot of organ meats, like baby beef liver once a week, and kidneys or brains every so often. And our vegetables came from my grandparents chicken ranch, where they wasted not and wanted not by spreading the manure on their prodigious truck garden. We picked peas and green beans and corn then shelled and strung and shucked them. Digging for potatoes was like a treasure hunt, and oh, the fresh strawberries, boysenberries and raspberries! It was like rapture! Now, I have to worry about my carbon footprint. Grains have to be whole, and eggs have to come from free range chickens. I buy organic when it comes to salad food, but resort to plain old chemically produced avacadoes and cantaloupes, stuff with a rind on it. Hey, I'm not made of money here! I need that extra $30 bucks a month to get another pair of Calvin Klein jeans at Costco!

Out with the old, in with the new...

It was a prolific year, artwise, for this cow-waving woman. Stacks of watercolors now litter the studio. They represent hours of study and execution. Looking at them now, I see that I was trying lots of different techniques, experimenting with this new medium. I had lots of fun. My challenge now is figuring out how to frame them. I really want to hang some up on the wall, beside the oils that reside there now. And, of course, I am back at slapping away at a canvas, certainly a sweet way to spend a rainy afternoon here in the little yellow house. Good beginning for the New Year. Oh, and I went to the gym today, thinking I would be the only diligent soul to turn up there, but, oh, no. Lots of folks joined me, so many that I had to wait 15 minutes to get a lane for lap swimming, until the sweet ladies finished their aquarobics class. I am all toned, and righteous, too.