headed west, headed back east

some shocking green in february. this long weekend a visit to the east bay, to the Marin hills, the intersection of college and broadway and likely a few too many pastry shops. all this in the name of special occasion fashion and a chance to get away with the ladies of the family for some well earned, good intentioned frivolity and enough giggling, eating, shopping and getting lost to make even the most poorly testosterone endowed male cower. (although, to admit, part of me cowered too, at times.)

it must be known that i began my college career in the slate gray and damp quadrangle of downtown Oakland, linked to the Berkeley town line on the 51 bus route, shuttled in and out of the Civic Center's heart by more rumbling trolleys and lodged firmly in the many pastel neighborhoods that are neither here nor there. the California College of Arts and Crafts (now, more practically, the California College of the Arts) was quite a shock for a country girl from the mountains. not only ethnically, socio-economically and practically, but also from the huge departure of a well-ordered, four season geographical area. in Utah winter is cold, snowy, sharp and brilliantly lit. in the Bay Area winter is cool, damp, gray and lush. i mean lush. there never exists a shortage of fecundity, fierce growth and unmanageable thriving in the temperate hills of this place and i never truly got over that.

 this weekend, as a student 10 years older, questionably wiser and certainly more worldly (at least a little...) i was still floored to see backyard trees, bus stop shrubs and supermarket landscape architecture heavy with pumelos, lemons, tangerines, oranges, grapefruits and limes. everywhere thick curtains of cherry blossom paved the road below in snowy white, muffled the sounds of hurtling ambulances, cast a pale blush on anyone who walked below. succulents the size of thumbs that we try desperately to force in the windowsills at home are eclipsed by cousins of the same heritage growing, stout as tree limbs, rigid, luminous and thick. i walked about with bare arms, a bare head and bare knuckles. and following that, everything became novel even in the most dismal urban areas where misdirection and a failing navigator landed us.

a trip to a well-loved community market called the berkeley bowl, a paradise for the produce-starved, or those who live in (what i am told, poignantly) urban food desserts further stunned all travelers involved who were accosted, upon entering, not four or five but fully twenty eight variety of edible citrus (discounting lemons and limes which cannot be readily eaten), whole rounders of foraged, wild greens (including wild arugula and upland cress), what appeared to be whole bushels of brussels sprouts, crates of fragrant heirloom tomatoes and more wild mushrooms than anyone could readily catalog.

and that, despite any effort or surge of self control set the pace for the glut of snacks, travel and exploring that followed. none of it practical nor based in any kind of utilitarian reality.

pour over cafe au lait at cole coffee

bahn mi from a vietnamese shop at the Civic Center

a mess of diner vessels at the rock ridge cafe

the happiest succulents, at Stinson Beach

 

and it was of course, brilliant and beautiful, tasty and soporific, lush and lucid and perfect and completely exhausting. there was a distinct lack of restoration, rest, replenishment and quiet, which is as it should be when three ladies scream across the east bay propelled by powder sugar and the desire to purchase spangles. 

and today, curling up with all the loves in my life, i am pleased to have a silent cup of coffee and catch up with the slow simple life. complete with east bay pastry which i smuggled back into the desert in my backpack and browned under the broiler.

novelties

spent Friday rummaging in my new crazy cupboard. there was an infinite project of sorting to undertake: poms poms from glitter beads, pipe cleaners from ribbon, craft feathers from popsicle sticks, etc. etc. and all under the maddening, inescapable and oddly itchy presence of years worth of spilled glitter. below, a few good finds:

 

**

** to be clear, for those of you not born in the dusty and brown-paper lined decades of yore, the above rectangle gridded and labeled with the strange "date due" was an actual card that got stamped (by human locomotion, with a large rubber dating stamp that had a profoundly satisfying sound when fiercely clomped onto paper) and manually tucked into an oaktag envelope on the back of library books to let that patron know when her library materials were expected back because other, eager, book-reading patrons were often eager to have their go at reading them. now you knowwwww.

mecca in its own rite

in the desert, we fragile human beings are blessed with an immediate onset of permeability. it is not a sensation, nor it is a state achieved through deliberation. rather this porousness is
 a condition. it is a kind of luminous assault.

 

from the beginning, though. we took our time and left the City early, to make pilgrimage proper down to what is affectionately called The County. (neither here nor there, precisely, in one town or another, it is nevertheless confined to one county (usually) hence the naming.)

...

leaving...

...going

closer...

...

bingo!

the desert in this part of the country is quietly savage. all aspects, from sandstone drapery to teetering columns of solidified ash are executed in the extreme. while you can throw words around all day long they will only bang and shudder on the desert floor. words like "serene," "tranquil" "picturesque," these would be poor words even for kindling. the other more stout gestures, "grandiose," "monolithic," and i shudder to think "beautiful" are shameful even to form in the mouth and are best swallowed and kept darkly away.

the desert is a forceful animal. every extremity is alive. every animal, every stone, every shaft of gallant light are subject to the crush of silence, the maddening illusions of space and sound and above all to the smug and serene sense of complete and utter self-peace with which the desert carries itself. 

to sit quietly, up high or close to the ground is the ultimate test. for how long can you fold your legs under you in little gales and slams of wind to simply undertake Watching, Listening and Being? how soon before you notice the stitching of your pant hems are coming undone, are you itching the left over paring knife cut on back of your hand, are you spitting at the tassel of your braid that has adhered to beeswax lips? worse: how long before you are overwhelmed by your own, homely smallness? are you made wary of the fragility of your unordered limbs, are you suddenly considering the consequence of all your earthly efforts among the silent spires who cannot even nod and sway sympathetically?

this is the kind of humbling that somehow reverberates at you as well as within you does so immediately. for you need no special radar, nor tuning fork, divining rod, mantra, bodily posture, crumbly pouch of strong smelling herbs or divine will. by stepping out into sage tang of the Untamed places this kind of flattening releases you of all crumbly, petty, brittle concerns and leaves you open, raw scrubbed and immaculate to Receive. just what is its own question. but truly, to have no plan, no intention and no destination is the best way to let knock through you. it takes very little to breathe as the desert breathes, to confuse the sound of a chorus of red wing black birds with the whistling hurry of moving water, to find the patience to endure eons and to give up, only in the most crazy moments, the merest sandy shift in root boulders. all without any landslide of consequence.

balms

kinds of domesticity evolve and shift in the winter months. at this point the cold, flat days, sometimes drifted over with the threats of snow, other times pierced with the glass shard cold of clear-skied sun become monotonous no matter how dutifully one tries to find divine meaning in examining Light.

little miracles of plain things have kindled little bonfires in our small house and plain though they may be, they have helped immeasurably.

**

** training our kefir grains to fizzle and thrive in the cloudy gravenstein juice we so love. turns out, the chalky, sweet juice is never happier than when plunked into a large jar of the stuff. after 24 hours (versus 48 for the water and fruit concoction) the juice is fiercely carbonated from the hard working kefir grains and undeniably boozy. yip yip!

being vs. Being

frivolous escapades into the stuffed pasta world this evening. to embark on a meal that is not only time consuming, but also labor intensive, frustrating, finnicky and rapidly slurped down  (so as to only minimally find time to savor the cook's labor) is reliably a challenge that has me instantly dancing in my socks in the kitchen and thumbing through cookbooks (usually to something akin to these gems).

 

in the name of tortellini and using the aforementioned pasta recipe from My Calabria along with Mark Bittman's basic ricotta filling for cheese-stuffed pastas the kitchen was full. filled with various mismatched dish towels, rolling pins, biscuit cutters, bubbling pots of stewed sweet tomatoes and red wine, teacups filled with egg wash, pastry brushes, tiny spoons and flour streaked aprons. the effort was predictably drawn-out and frought with challenges of all kinds. of proportion of filling, thickness of pasta dough, the proper way to seal the fussy dumplings with enough egg wash without using too much, etc.  of course, by the time the whole hours-long ordeal was spooned onto warm plates, veiled with hard cheese (before topping with sauce as Cosentino stresses in My Calabria, as true Calabrians prefer, yuck yuck...), and set onto a table sprinkled with tiny wine glasses and hard bread it was almost immediately over, plates pushed forward pebbly bits of ricotta dabbed up with bread crusts, that sort of thing. but this is the absolute joy of Being in the kitchen. not merely being in the kitchen, but Being in the kitchen- being in the Buddhist or spiritual sense of existing  in the present, doling full attention onto the task of using hands to form nourishment has me nearly in tears every time. this is not to say, of course, that something stoic and basic- lentils simmered in vegetable stock with just a bay leaf and a carrot or two, or a piece of warm bread spread with almond butter or a bottle of beer a handful of crackers, some crisp apples and curls of cheese aren't perfectly equal gestures in Being in the kitchen, but the fussy, dish pile that results from a true floury and sweaty effort are always remembered most fondly.

set backs

this lady has been bed-ridden by a flu for the last few days. all the usual heavy hitters of any flu and an unfamiliar, complete, crippling and dizzying exhaustion. this sleepyness has been a soporific, balmy weight that is nearly beyond fighting. this strikes me as the most odd, the body's inclination to curl up in a heap of cool, crackling bedclothes: ambrosia for the ailing insides. for the most part, sleep has been the strongest antidote for this set back (which i attribute to sickly little ones, vomiting parents, strangers in town for Sundance (two weeks after the 'festival most Parkites will succumb to something similar like clockwork, every year...) and the many plans, preparations and checklists that have weakened the whole household from the inside out).

in addition to that delicious sleep cure, chicken soup has also fought the battle gallantly,

along with heavy doses of petroselinum hortense, or, the common parsley which is a powerhouse of herbal medicine despite its commonplace presence sprinkled across most anything. parsley is uncommonly high in vitamin C (beating out lemons, grapefruits and oranges) which helps any ailing body out. additionally it is high in iron and calcium, a detoxifier for the kidneys and an appetite stimulant. while most invalids do not have an immediate use for an abundance of iron and calcium (though those without appetite can often become anaemic due to a low caloric intake), a hefty dose of appetite stimulant and kidney flushing will make almost anyone feel better. hot soup in general is also an aid in raising the body temperature to burn out low-grade bacterial infections (essentially inducing a fever.) and there is certainly something comforting in clutching a hot bowl of broth and noodles and sniffing in a self-pitying fashion from beneath the eiderdown one has dragged onto the couch and climbed into up to the throat.

new work and newer work

part of a group show coming up at the end of the month. it's an interesting format this show: an annual showcase called the Rounds (this year, Round 8) at each anniversary of the Kayo gallery's  first year. all artists who have previously shown there are invited to submit a 12" x 12" piece to benefit the gallery's health and ongoing financial wellbeing. imagine, such a sea of square tiles, mismatched and disordered. below is my submission this year and a detail.

much of the winter sky here showcases frosty, brilliant, cutting stars. most notably above the house shine the Pleiades, Orion and the surrounding. we are lucky, up at this wintery summit, to have such uninhibited views of the stars, a gift, i think, that is becoming increasingly rare for folks living in the Modern Age. there is my take on those constellations with a little gold leaf.

lastly, the beginning of a new project from here (well, formerly from there, but now here) and also inspired, always, by this lady...

a few bits of the weekend

two good thing at the weekend's onset.

the inadvertent placement of a bit of the big dipper from washing up tempera paint.

a proper car-snack of little italian rolls, heritage white cheddar, a pixie mandarin and a few tissue thin slices of heady, rosemary rubbed spanish ham.

may errands to find dress up clothes, make dates and commit to various Big Deal kind of propositions. fuel is necessary in this case no?

good work

the new change has turned out to be fully fleshed, luminous and brilliant. so often, such shifts in routine, lifestyle or space seem to be brittle on the onset. there is a kind of disbelief that breeds tentative movements and a kind of contrived preciousness in handling. i am pleased to learn, as i get up each day to stoop down to ruffle tiny braids and straighten snowclothes, that working with the very small to entrust the language of visual aptitude has been only the best of new things.

this monday i set about organizing cabinets (the wealth of strange craft materials is astounding), making up fresh playdough (flour + salt + water + liquid watercolor), making a frenchpress of coffee and experimenting with my rather rusty dusty fingerpainting skills.

it is an interesting way of walking the land to look backwards for those tactile crafts and explorations that have stuck with us for so long. for instance, i have the fondest memories of oil pastel and black tempera scratchboard, homemade silly putty, gloop (that strange neither-solid-nor-liquid concoction of cornstarch and water), life size traceable self portraits, the hovery, bleedy hues of rainbow craft tissue...and now my objective after i make coffee and fold my creaking self into tiny chairs every morning is to pass that tactile joy on to the iPad, minivan theatre system, Go-gurt, and tiny rhinestone emblazoned Toms generation.

and they make beautiful things, nevertheless.