Is that REALLY necessary?

You know, I have never wanted to be a man. Not that being a woman has been a barrel of monkeys all the time. But men have to do awful things, like go to war. Oh, wait a minute. It's men who start wars. Well, whatever, the neighborhood was just dripping with testosterone yesterday as my neighbor labored to cut down the enormous sycamore in his front yard. It was not one of these. No, his was really tall, and probably older than all the guys who were in on the destruction put together. This event brought out all the macho guys up and down the street, to advise and confer on the process. They had this uber-noisy chain saw that sounded like the Indianapolis 500 was being held next door. Lots of yelling, some of it urgent as part of the poor tree threatened to fall on the house. Then big cracking sounds followed by big crashing sounds followed by much whooping. Women and children were smart enough not to venture out during the whole thing, which took several hours. I kept expecting emergency vehicles to descend at any moment. Miraculously, the tree is gone today, and everyone seems to be in full possession of all their limbs. If we ever get summer here, they will be sorry, and miss the blessed shade from that noble tree. Perhaps it was really necessary, but did they have to enjoy it so much?

Things change, Vol. XXXVI...

You may remember that a couple of years ago, I marched into Face to Face, our local AIDS hospice organization, to have someone jury a painting I wanted to donate to their terribly chic silent auction, Art for Life. And they liked it, and someone bought it, so now, they ask me back every year, which makes me feel like an artist, and that is good. This is my offering this year. It is the first cow painting I have donated, and one of my favorites. I named it We Three, and emailed the image to the coordinator, who is new and didn't know she should praise me till the cows come home. However, she did email me asking my permission to use my image in their promotional brochure this year. Like, this will be their signature piece. Like, it will have a place of honor at the show. Like, maybe, just maybe, I have arrived? Can barely wait for the event now. My moment in the sun. Validation, it beats it all.

Passages...

The rose in this picture has been gone for a long, long time. Yet, here it is, at the moment of its most beauteous life, immortalized. Well, remembered, at least. This has been a time of passings for the cowwoman. So far this year, six folks in my immediate sphere have left the planet. And I suppose that, as the years pile up in my OUT box, this will be more and more probable. It is good to remember that I have only this day, this glorious Sunday in the little yellow house, with the poopies at my feet, sweet breeze blowing, swallowtail butterfly flitting by. Lots of gratitude welling up inside, for this precious life, and in particular for the sobriety I enjoy. One of my friends died from the disease I work so hard to keep at bay. There was a time I worked with her, on the Steps and the Program. Don't know why I get to have it and she couldn't get it. I just know we all fight invisible battles every day. When I share them with my web of wise women, they evaporate like clouds on a summer day. And they are about as substantial in the sharing, just evanescent ghosts haunting the dark corners of my very inventive little mind. I will hold my lost friends in my heart till the day I die, and, HP willing, even beyond.

Today's episode of How My World Turns...

I got up this morning after an especially chaotic night of dreams, probably the aftermath of the overdose of magnesium I took recently (magnesium - milk of magnesia - duh), and the fur people were waiting patiently by the side of my bed. After the obligatory stop in the ittybitty bathroom, I strolled around the corner to the lovely spacious kitchen, where I started the Sumatra and prepared my pancakes du jour, with sliced fresh peaches, tiny sprinkle of sugar and cinnamon and Cool Whip. Thus armed with my coffee cup and plate of heaven, I sat for a few and ate over the coffee table, watching a little of Clueless on one of my premium channels, just a precious little movie. Now, poochies are curled at my feet as I peck away here. Now, I live just a bit over the poverty level here in the little yellow house, and yet, I am so RICH. I love my fur babies, yes, even the moments I spend combing burs from the Pickle's coat every day. I love my Boo, old fart that he is. And I love my computer. Did you know you can stream live radio on ITunes? Okay, I am not riding the crest of the learning curve here, but I am lucky to have found this out at all. Of course, I found the classical button, and am now listening to a station called Cinemix, all soundtracks, all the time. You know how I believe the art music of the day is being written for the movies. And, gee, there is so much more of it than I own in my little collection! Since I like to leave music playing for the fur babies when I leave the house, this is a treasure. Full of treasures, that's my tiny life. At least, that is the tone of THIS DAY, which is all there is, anyway.

Musings for a summer's day...

The weather is perfection today. The temperature is in the low 80s and there is this tender little breeze whiffling the sycamore trees on my front lawn. A woodpecker works industriously somewhere near. The air is sweet and clean. Northern California in the summer is truly golden. And did you know, that is the reason it is the Golden State, the sun-bleached hills that stretch the entire length of it? And those are not the native grasses, either. Without the Spanish invasion, our hills would be green year round instead of only six months a year. So, I sit here in the little yellow house, thinking there is a painting I need to work on in the studio, and detritus the dogs have dragged in from the yard to be vacuumed up, and a load of laundry from the gym bag. Think I will just saunter into the living room and watch my soap opera instead. Yeah, that's a plan.

The road to Bechtel House...

This is the gate we drove through every morning on the mountain to get to the Bechtel House, where we convened before setting off into the wilderness to endeavor to capture the sheer beauty on our canvases. Sometimes it was open. Sometimes, not. It was always a mystery whether to close it again after driving through. After all, others would be coming in behind me, I was always early. But I didn't want any of the cattle that graze there to wander away, either. I am missing that drive today. It seems that the last few years of my life have been spent negotiating narrow, twisty, steeply inclined roads, often just an eyebrow on the crest of a hill, with dizzying drop on one side and rock cliff on the other. Dusty, too. My car is dismally in need of a wash, and the weather is not cooperating. Cold and drizzly, in the middle of July! Whatever, I am tempted to take the conservator classes in Pepperwood ecology and volunteer up there. It is a precious place, for sure.

Down on the farm...

I dragged my still sick self down to Brown Bag Ranch yesterday for a long awaited workshop given by a local artiest I greatly admire. Funnily enough, I had thought I had found my "style" in the thin, breezy landscapes I did at Pepperwood, my paper towel epiphany, so to speak. Mayhaps that is still so. But now, I find myself ladling paint onto canvas like frosting on a cake, pushing wet into wet, being extra brave, throwing all caution and common sense to the wind. Okay, it's a little jejeune. Perhaps the right word is primitive. Or maybe it is just a mess. Lots of fun to paint, though. Don't know if I learned anything. Well, not true. I like this palette, only seven hues: mixed white, organic vermillion, French ultramarine, hansa yellow, yellow ochre, permanent rose, and burnt umber. And I was introduced to Daniel Smith pigments, really sweet. And big brushes. And an elan that was absolutely envigorating. Till I pooped out and dragged my poor sick self home. Today, my job is just to be sick. Nothing demanding. Well, I may paint, a little.

It is what it is...

Again, this morning, this first of today's opus. It was all orangy, so I palette knifed white all over the place. Then it was all pale, and splotchy. So I wiped it down and did that dabbing thing with the paper towel, and I liked it better, until I put it up against the other one at our little critique at the end of our painting time. Eeeeeeyyyouuuu. So, at home I got out my oh-so-awful REAL cadmium yellows (toxic, big nonos at school) and my Naples yellow, a pigment I forgot I even had, and did it up all bright and sweet. Now, it isn't what the hill looked like today, but it is what I wanted it to look like, and that always works better. In the end.

Foggy day on the mountain...

It was actually drizzling when I embarked for Pepperwood this AM, but, gee, I thought, it will be all sunshiny on top of the mountain. Alas, not so. Hella cold, too. We had a demo on scumbling and glazing, and on soft and hard edges. Verrrrry interesting. Then we headed out into the murk to try to capture the mist on canvas. Well, I tried a lot of washed out colors on my first canvas, then looked over and saw what my classmate had done, and started this one. Finished it in record time, hands were stiffening in the cold. Happily, we convened inside Bechtel house, where I managed to drop a canvas buttered side down on the carpet. Exercised the five second rule and scooped it right back up, so no damage to rug or painting, except that it was a sucky one that I worked over a whole bunch when I got home. That is the joy of oils. You can fiddle with them till the cows come home. No one will ever know. This one, however, I am not touching. It was kind of magical. Like God painted it. And, of course, She did. I just held the brush.

God damned Nature is so freaking COMPLICATED!

My original rendering of this scene was much more complicated than what eventually wound up on the canvas. All the values (lights and darks) were the same. There was a big muddy-looking bush behind the trees. I had experimented with hues in the grasses. None of it was working. So, in the studio, I took out the bushes, darkened the tree, lightened the grasses and the sky, and VOILA! A better painting emerged. Mystical experience messing around with pigments. Fun way to spend one's life, indeed. And, it really is not necessary to paint in every little detail, every leaf or blade of grass. The eye will fill in those details from memory. It is much more illuminating as an artist to just try to get that illusion on the canvas. Funnily enough, I think it is beginning to look like I know what I am doing. Believe me, it's really just an illusion, too. The trick seems to be not to give up, to just perservere, be willing to keep trying new and different methods. Sorry about that glare in the middle. Impossible to photograph a work while it is still wet without it. Maybe it adds something? One never knows, you know.

Silver threads among the gold...

Gee, I would like to be aging like Raquel Welch. Just don't have her money or medical connections. I never did have any sharp edges, and what was soft before is buttery now. In that age old battle, gravity is winning. Oh, it could be a whole lot worse. Grateful for what is still hanging in there. And must get butt to gym! Have not been there in two weeks. Not that I have been lacking for exercise. Just need it to be more specific. Drawing is one of my major pursuits. Taking the sketchbook out front today to draw the hydrangea in bloom under my bedroom window, in preparation for a personal painting I want to do with my new palette of pigments I will be using in upcoming workshop. Just a wonderful life, this art stuff.

Surprising benefits...

I recently subscribed to a twice weekly newsletter (and isn't that so much less demanding than those daily ones, that pile up in your inbox like newpapers on your doorstep when you are away?) from this artist guy who regularly features famous artist's palettes. My favorite was Renoir, who had neat little piles of pigment, each with its own neat little pile of white for mixing. I actually started using that method, hoping to keep from making mud on my palette, which most resembles Gaugin's in its esprit de corps, all over the place kind of way. And how wonderful is this nifty box that keeps it moist so I can use up all my pigments later at home! Painting outdoors means being so much more aware of not only your surroundings, but your little outdoor studio setup. A rock is helpful to keep my paper palette from escaping. I hook a plastic bag around the clasp of my easel paintbox to hold assorted refuse. Even though I am usually in full sun most of the morning, my sweet little folding chair can sit in the shade for a nice rest later. I have learned to be judicious about taking small breaks now and then for water and a terrific tropical trail mix I found at Walmart. And I get to see my immune system at work as it labors to rid me of the mosaic of booboos I have accumulated, like the honorable wound on my shin acquired while bounding into the van on our inaugural tour, the assorted bug bites, the little sunburn on my lower arms from the day I forgot my sunscreen, and the numerous bruises that seemed to have popped up all by themselves. And, best of all, my internal clock has been reset, so that I awaken around 6 every day, not just the days I have to be on top of the mountain by 7:30, making so much more time to pet the pooches and fiddle around with artful things. Good decision, this landscape painting class. On so many levels.

The other end of the spectrum...

What wonders one can work with a paper towel! I put the colors down, then wiped them off. I kind of crumpled my paper towel and dabbed. When I pulled my hand away, this is what I had. Now, most of the rest of my class trundled off for a nice hike to Turtle Pond. I had a really lousy night of not very much sleep, and decided that I would make do with what I could find there at Bechtel house. Not hard to find outrageous beauty at Pepperwood; it is everywhere around us. This is my style for landscape painting, painterly, almost looks like pastel. Why pick with a brush when you can just dippydab with your Bounty?

And now for something completely different...

We all got inspired looking at art books today. Okay, I started it, with one of my own that I brought and wanted to consult. Lots of palette knife, impressionistic paintings. Then we headed up Three Tree Hill, where there is a vista featuring our emblematic geological feature, Mt. St. Helena (pronounced Hell-eee-nah). You cannot miss its distinctive profile in our county's landscape. I started with brushes, then did a little palette knife, with a little bitty palette knife, and then I was off and running. Three hours just evaporated. Forgot to drink any water, smear any sunscreen (luckily it was cooler and I kept on my long sleeves from the morning's cool), or sit down (since I forgot my chair, that was good). Not unhappy, loving the yellow sky (we talked about that before setting out, but I was ahead of the curve with my earlier watercolor of Rollercoaster Hill a couple of semester's ago). The yellow against the blue is stunning, I think. In the beginning, the mountain was too dark, and too bright. Last thing I did was lighten and cool it down, to force it back. It really is like being God, manipulating the scene on the canvas. Then, in case I was not humble enough, the wind blew the whole thing over paint side down in the dirt. Sigh. I think I will leave a few little gobs there, just for authenticity.

Home is the artist, home from the hills...

Today's vision. We hiked all over the place, down little paths into shady spots with huge rocks and venerable old trees. Bunch of cows today, but none would stand still long enough to paint. And I forgot the camera, again. I learned a lot today, about make making, colors, simplifying. Again, nobody did anything close to what I did, but some did some things I did last week, so maybe I am all right here. Oh, hell, I am just fine. I like this, lots of color, some surprises, much delight in the doing. Evolution, it's a wonder.

Thinking too much is my dilemma.

One fine day, I made this painting, with big brushes on little canvas, very impasto, very joyous in the doing of it. Then I decided it was too loose and tightened it up. The plate became white, the pears brighter, the background smooth and flat. Oh, I sold it, at the Art for Life auction last year. It was there because I didn't like it any more. I like this one. Well, it would have had a better chance if I had done it with my new pigments, which are artist quality and very prismatic. That is why I am so excited about my current process. I am on the verge of finding that way that is all mine. Some hues had to be ordered online. When they arrive, watch out!

Rules? I don't need no stinkin' rules!

No, this is not my painting. It is Wolf Kahn, a hero of mine. You see, there really are rules in painting. Warm colors in foreground, cool behind comes to mind. Now, Wolf does sometimes use a realistic palette, blue skies, brown earth, green grass. Most of the time, he just goes with his heart. Lots of heart in his work. I want my work to be like that. And looking at the paintings I deemed worthy that now march around the walls of the little yellow house, mostly tiered on the studio walls, I can see that there is charm there, yes. But something was off. Not exciting, for one thing. Well, not anymore. I am always excited when I finish one of my paintings, wow, I did that? Later, I wonder what it was that got me so fired up. And I think I have found the missing link. After Pepperwood, I am signed up to do a workshop with Dana Hooper, a local artist whose work I very much admire. Her work is so dynamic, it fairly leaps off the wall at you. She was the one that did the 6"x8" cupcakes that sold for $1,050 at the Art for Life auction two years ago. The material list arrived yesterday, and I was not surprised to find 1) a limited palette of brilliant pigments, some I had not heard of, some I already had; 2) small canvases, at least 5 per day; 3) BIG brushes, the smallest 1/2 inch, all flats. That is a dynamic combination, and one that kind of bends all the rules. Well, that's what made Monet and Van Gogh and Cezanne and Matisse and Picasso and Modigliani what they are. All trained academically and were capable of rendering a perfectly photographic realism. And all veered off into their STYLE, the one that stamps their vision firmly into their work, so you can point at one you have never seen and know it is a Monet. It took some time, didn't happen overnight. Well, me too. But it is coming. Yes.

The orphan...

This is actually the third painting I tried, a pastel palette. Hey, Wolf Kahn did it! I am not unhappy about it, though it wasn't quite what I wanted. But it was the second painting on the second day, and I had futzed around with the first (the hose reel ditty) for most of our morning, so I had to do this really, really fast. Looking at it now, I would not be ashamed to hang it on my wall at all. And that is high praise for me. Oh, I forgot. I am not supposed to slamdunk my work. That's artist abuse. Mea culpa.

And then I turned around...

Looking back on the hill behind me, I did this quick sketch. This was a vigorous process, lots of jabbing at the canvas, making it rattle against my easel paintbox. After all, one doesn't need to see every leaf to know one is looking at a tree. And the colors, well, most of them were really there. Okay, I threw in some ringers, but I like the effect, and feel like I am on to something here. This is the most satisfied I have felt about my efforts so far. And in case you wondered, landscapes are hard to paint without being too picky or too amorphous or winding up with green balloons floating above a tan sea. Sometimes things just get kind of magical. Wild, isn't it?

Playing God...

Today at Pepperwood, the sky was amazing. So I just moved it down to the soft rolling hills, eliminating those annoying pine-forested mountains behind them. Everything was very far away, and very small. It felt like a Grandma Moses viewpoint, all those tiny little details so lovingly crafted. Except that I was, as always, in a hurry, so nothing is particularly spelled out. I like that, the diffuse, amorphous blurred aspect. There were cows grazing here, but, from my vantage point, they were just flyspecks. I left them out. And, once again, my painting was totally different from anyone else's. Most folks were using tan and green and blue and black, which is what the landscape can look like, if you don't get in there and observe it. I see a lot of colors there, and I exaggerate them, skip some, add some, just make it my picture and not necessarily the one everyone else is seeing. And yes, those puffy little mushroom clouds really were there. They are the most realistic part of the whole painting.

Just another day, up on the mountain...

I got fascinated by this hose all neatly coiled on the barn fence, and kind of lazy about toting all the stuff out into the chaparral and long grasses where the rattlesnakes live, so I sat by the side of the barn and painted this little ditty. Different kind of palette, different kind of composition, oh, hell, it is what it is. Again, one of a kind. Not one even near it. That could be good. And it could be awful. It was fun. Some shade would have been nice, though.

What I saw, what I painted - two different things.

Ah, the great outdoors. There we were, 26 of us, on top of the mountain at Pepperwood Preserve. We had a dandy lecture, then set up our equipment (note the nifty hand cart, it's new) and began to do the en plein air thing. Now, we had seen a video of Wolf Kahn yesterday. He is a special hero of mine, and I have to admit, I decided color was totally arbitrary, and I could do any old thing I wanted with it. Just a matter of how wild and crazy I wanted to get. And here is the end result, kind of conservative, actually, and too fussy, I futzed around way too much in the end. And it was totally different from what anyone else did. Not that there weren't a couple of others who played with color. I just did it in my own little way. Now, I am not unhappy with the result, as I learned a lot from this one little painting. Some things worked, others flopped. Ready to start again tomorrow. I did get the atmospheric layering thing out of the way right out of the box. This is a good thing in itself. And I got my war wound, slipped on my way up into the van and tore a hole in my shin. Ruined a pair of socks. Ah, well, small price to pay for the privilege of clomping around up there where the air is rare.

Where the hell are my hiking boots, anyway?

It seems the less I have to do, the less I get done. No blogging lately, for sure. Backyard retains jungle status, thinking of hiring someone to do it. Soon. And tomorrow, the summer class starts, a landscape painting class at Pepperwood, local nature preserve on top of a mountain halfway to nowhere. Since it will begin at 8 AM four days a week for three weeks, I will be rousting my ass out of bed at crack of dawn, throwing trailmix and water bottle in the bag and heading out. Now, this sounded really fun. Then the syllabus arrived. Groan. Tomorrow is four hour lecture session, with slides. We will go over every syllable of the syllabus, even though most of us can probably read it ourselves. And some of us already have. I thought college was ever so much more esoteric than this. And even though we will not dip a single brush into pigment, we are expected to bring all our stuff to class, most likely for inspection. It boggles the mind, folks. Okay, never mind. It will all be loads of fun, once I get my easel paintbox opened, laid out my palette, and begin to work. That's what it's all about, brush to canvas, sweet breezes, hawks wheeling overhead. Not to mention rattlesnakes, ticks and poison oak. Oh, my!

Every so often, an idea just kind of bubbles up...

This weekend was Art at the Source, a mini Art Trails, situated mostly in the wilds of West County. But there were a few studios, about a dozen of them, all in the same barn of a building just a stone's throw from the little yellow house, so off we went, three little ladies, out for a day of appreciating art and artists. And there was much to savor. One gal was doing the mbuti cloth thingies we did in Ms. Cohen's color theory class. I did one of those. Never thought to make it my main art thrust, but guess I could. Another had my idea of ink drawn nudes with water color, except she had the idea to do the painting first, then put in the lines. Gee, that makes a lot of sense, and I will be working on some of those soon. My favorite artist was an abstrationist, making wonky and incredibly colorful paintings of landscapes and COWS. I signed her guest book, and added that if she does a workshop, I'm there. Ready to try something in the Chagall mode, flying animals and bubble-boobed women with sad, sweet faces. I can do that!

Everything in its season...

Here, on the eve of my birthday, I am waxing thoughtful. There were years when piling another year on my sturdy frame was not a big deal. There is not a lot of difference between 35 and 36. Or 45 and 46. But between 65 and 66, there seems to be a huge chasm. All of a sudden, 70 looms much nearer. So some reflection is necessary. For instance, what to wear. Now this has always been a topic of great concern for me. I wore all the fashions when I was younger; circle skirts, knee socks with plaid skirts held together with huge brass safety pins, sack dresses, bell bottoms, the Tom Jones shirts. Anything the retailers dreamed up, I wore. In my netheryears, I have tended to be preppy. Lots of blazers, pleated slacks, white shirts, vests, little heels. I now want more than anything to be comfortable. I am not attracted to matchy-matchy Coldwater Creek kind of clothes, that are admittedly cut generously for meatier gals like me, and have a certain elan. Yet they also scream OLD. Every item has some little unnecessary geegaw attached or built in. Or the color is too prissy. If I had the $$$, I would buy all Eileen Fisher fashions. Her clothes are simple, cut to perfection to drape on the figure, in wonderful hues. I actually found one of her sweaters at the consignment store recently. It is hanging in my closet even as we speak. A treasure. Then I had this thought. I have a sewing machine! The clothes I want are only a bobbin away! And I have all this TIME! And the studio is all cleaned up, and there is a table and room for the ironing board! Ah, this sounds like a project about to explode all over the place.

Fasten your seatbelts, it's going to be a bumpy life...

Spring has become more schizophrenic than I could possibly believe. Definitely an "el nino" year. Rain, then sunny but COLD, then thundershowers and hail, then sunny and WARM. Today, the marine layer is back, which makes it look more like summer here in lalaland. My moods have been riding this rollercoaster, too. I got really doI lman again. That turned out being a quick toss of the closet. Hell, I even vacuumed in there! Sweaters and jackets went back to the spare closet. A couple of things came out to be mended. I organized. I found my Adventure Pass, the one that still had 6 lapswims on it at the local aquatic center and was missing from my tote bag when I looked for it. I put away the boots and clogs and dragged out the hiking boots for my upcoming en plein air class on top of a local mountain. It is all good. I am mending. It is just who I am, this person who can easily fall into the ooey gooey pit of self pity. Oh, and I saw two movies. The new SATC was fun to watch, the clothes and the men were gorgeous though the gals are looking a little careworn around the edges (kind of like ME), and City Island was a hoot, the best film I have seen so far this year, bar none. Sorry to see Andy Garcia is no longer the matinee idol he once was (see When a Man Loves a Woman, wow), kind of a fireplug guy, but he has matured into a great actor. And I hit the library for some books. Just love the library, you know. Also bought the first of my new wardrobe, which I have decided will be loose and flowy. I'm aiming for comfort in my netheryears. JJill is right up my alley. Pray for sales.

Little did I know...

I am a highly sensitive person. Really. There is a website dedicated to HSPs. I took the quiz. How sweet it is to be validated, and to know that there are millions out there just like me, you know, the ones that cry at the movies. Hell, I cry over commercials on TV. There is such comfort in knowing that I AM NOT ALONE! All my life, people have looked down their very insensitive noses at me and told me I was OVER-REACTING, or, as one ex-husband who shall remain nameless called me, CRAZY. And I would kind of slither back into my hole, ashamed that once more, I was feeling things too deeply. The truly interesting part of this is that, at this juncture in my life, I am less sensitive than I have ever been. I realize that what people do and say around me is NOT ABOUT ME! It is just what they do and say, and they would do it even if I were not in the equation. And their behavior is on them, not me. Gee, if I could somehow influence how people behaved, don't you think I would have them singing and dancing instead of red in the face and pissed off? Duh. So I am happy to own my sentitivity. The ability to feel deeply may give me awful pain once in a while, but it also gives me delight and joy beyond reason. Small price to pay.

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.