as the day goes

a review
It seems that lately there are unexpected clusters of color emanating from stuff lying around. My natural inclination is to possess those images. I'm not an artist so I grab the camera I recently bought - a relatively inexpensive new Lumix FH25 P&S that I thought would be perfect for snaps  (I've always loved the Panasonic-Leica connection and the high quality it produces). Turns out that this new model is not as good as I expected - and (in my opinion) unecessarily over-megapixeled at 16! It worked well when I took pictures of the rushing river - stopping the action - but look at those strawberries - way too color saturated and a sort of mushy appearance. It may be that one of the less demanding photographers in the family will inherit this camera sooner rather than later. We'll see. This blog and lots of snaps during my visit will give it a serious test whirl.

knitter partially reveals her shame
In a brief lull this morning, I scanned ufo projects to choose what will travel with me next week. There are so many that I didn't dare put them together, fearing cardiac arrest. So I separated the preferred sox projects and stuffed them into my collection of Knowknits pouches (fewer pouches than projects).

I'll bring only one because a visit to Westport Yarns is on the agenda! And the chance of having blocks of idle time to sit on a beach and knit is a dream that won't manifest. There is a great deal of activity in everyone's life at all times back there and it gets ratcheted up when I'm added to the mix. And now I will admit openly that I dislike knitting in airports and on planes! I always carry a project as security if there should be an extreme delay somewhere along the way, but in general I don't enjoy casual conversation with strangers and get bored easily.  I can't ever watch movies on board planes since I'm not tall enough to see above the seats in front of me. I'd rather get lost in the books on my beloved Kindle. So it's one sock project, dpns and a set of interchangeable needles (because you never know).

Love those bags! The teapot was left over from breakfast - and, yes, I do use knitted cosies - they work, they're pretty and...cosy!

falling waters

water music
No, I'm not on the west coast of northern Mexico, or even southern California, but I did drive toward the Ski Valley early this morning after the farmer's market and the Rio Pueblo is dramatic and turbulent with snowmelt from the mountains. Through the years my visits to the spring river have turned into a personal rite. The sound, piney smells, sheer exuberance of water set free, the much cooler crisp air. Once we took a basket of bread, cheese, grapes and wine and settled down to the mesmerizing noise of the river, so great that we couldn't hear each others' words. In summers past (when the river is calmer) I brought my young granddaughter there when she visited from the east - her neon pink Big Bird backpack loaded with gingerbread bear cookies that she always insisted had to be baked the moment we got home from the airport and she'd unpacked her stuffed animals (once she brought a suitcase full of 55 Beany Babies with her). I miss her and those days, but will see her in about a week and we'll add to the memory bank. And someday I'll take baby Dante to the river and we'll eat cookies together. The weather is perfect today and I wouldn't mind if it never got any warmer than it is in those woods. Woods that looked summer-hazy even as icey water tumbled over their roots.

Water that originates from dark and mysterious deep places where the sun rarely shines and eventually ends up meeting the Rio Grande and flowing down down down until it reaches the Gulf of Mexico. It really is amazing. People all along the way for hundreds (thousands?) of miles, diverting some of it (even into Texas) and irrigating their fields.

Aspens have finally unfurled small shimmery leaves. Growing at higher elevations where it's colder, they take longer to leaf out than other trees. But today patches of lime green are showing up on mountainsides like fake carpeting. In late September and early October they will turn salmon orange. But that's a long way off and I don't want to think about it. Right now the river banks are lush with saplings.

The farmers market yielded lettuces, bread, eggs, and what I wait for - nasturtium petals for our salad! Forget practical. I just want to eat flowers.

aspen leaves whispering
secrets we can't hear as
ice cold river water tumbles past
reflecting every sky along the way
in waters we thirst for

supply & demand

chocolate colors
It's been a pretty calm day for me in spite of it being the beginning of a holiday weekend. There are lots of tourists in town and hundreds of bikers passing through on their way to the Vietnam memorial in Red River - a rumbling three-day parade, complete with do-rags, leather, and boots. This annual run has been going on for many years and attracts huge numbers of bikers. We don't live in town so the noise and traffic aren't a bother. We'll hole up at home with food and wine, books and music, and relax.

relax?
What a concept! I did actually have time to go shoe shopping today, pick up groceries, including organic dark chocolate (they look like M&Ms but aren't). The colors remind me of the sock I'm knitting. At home I settled down with a handful and carefully proofed the pre-press copy of the book. It looks great, but I did find a few nasty little typos that were missed by me and the proofreader. This last part is so exacting and important. There's nothing worse than mistakes in a finished book. It makes me angry when I encounter them in books I'm reading and it makes me want to crawl into a cave if it happens in a book I've edited. Now, if I were an editor at Random House or any other big corporate publisher, I'd have a staff of proofreaders and could order them around, make them do the detail work. I'd just sit behind my big desk and manage (dream on oh great editor and have another purple chocolate).

Deadline looms large, grows heavier each day. Lesley, the designer of the book is leaving for South Africa on Sunday. She'll be gone for more than a month and I don't speak printer lingo. She tells me not to worry. Look for us out at the bridge around midnight tonight.

rockpool thoughts

 to dawdle at last
The wind is still whooshing around and everyone's had enough. It's the first topic of conversation, before how are you? rather it's,  this wind is crazy. I don't think our winds have a name. Other winds do. Mistral. Sirocco. Santa Ana. It's cool again and the sky is greying up. I'm starting to unwind. The anthology's been sent to the printer and until the prepress copy arrives, I have nothing else to do. Last night around 10:30, designer  Lesley and I sat in her office (just down the dirt road from my house) and tried to resolve the latest of the glitches, we suddenly started yawning and suggesting that after we'd finished we should drive to the Rio Grande Gorge Bridge and jump off! Or at least bring a bottle of champagne (last year's edition is a finalist for a Southwest Book award) and smash it against the rocks. Then we couldn't stop laughing because we'd rather drink it. And we did not jump off the bridge -  which isn't funny at all because people do jump off that bridge. The river is 300 feet below - a ribbon of green (or brown during spring snowmelt) and all rock outcrops on the way down. Instead I came home and fell into a soft bed. This afternoon to Wired Cafe - too listless to write in the notebook I'd brought with me. It was warm, windy, pleasant, Billy Holiday on the stereo, a couple of guys playing chess, others at their laptops. Water music from the fountain splashing over a glistening rock into the pond to which the koi have been moved for the summer

The water enters my pores gently.
When it sings all my body listens,
the little hairs dawdle
             in calm eddies.
                                  Pascale Petit (from What the Water Gave Me (V)

forms of progress

survival gear
My motto for today is prepare for the worst, expect the best - it's a juggling act. In the last phase of getting the anthology manuscript ready for the printer tomorrow, a glitch developed that may not be resolved in time. So, with detail bees buzzing inside my head and in my stomach, I am preparing plan B. Two cups of coffee haven't helped, but I needed my own buzz to counteract the other. Whatever happens, there will be a book. This last part is always the hardest and based on past experience, I will probably survive. Unlike the deep purple lilacs I boasted about a few days ago.  They opened beautifully - and got zapped in the next frost.

Now they're all tinged beige and immobilized in time - on this cold rain, cold feet, day. Grateful for the rain and wool socks, but longing for balmy breezes and bare feet. The month of May isn't lusty yet and it's almost over.

star of everything
I know I've written about my love for old movies. Especially Bette Davis. I watched Now, Voyager again and had to add the photo of her knitting to the one I posted of Hepburn a few days ago. These girls really could do it - act, knit, look good, redo scenes, knit on camera and not miss a stitch, nor muss their hair or smudge their lipstick. But here's something. This scene is the beginning of a brief conversation on board ship - discussing the man she's falling for (Paul Henried (sigh). She hasn't progressed far in whatever it is she's knitting. (Dig those sunglasses!).

Before the brief scene ends, the mystery piece has grown considerably - a bit fast even for legendary Bette who could do anything well!

I guess that sort of thing falls into the lap of the continuity editor who missed it. Like the orange Robert Redford is peeling in Out of Africa. It's all peeled in the scene, unpeeled when the camera angle shifts! I love the imperfections of life on all levels. It's just a matter of learning how to deal with them - gracefully or not. I'm definitely in the latter category today in spite of my fine self-imposed motto. In between crises, and while waiting for resolutions, I will probably knit.

twenty-second day

New sidewalk graffiti since yesterday morning's walk. I imagine someone sneaking into the cemetery after dark with a flashlight and painting the cemetery pathway with a spray can of red paint. It seems such an odd thing to do.  Yet the act of blogging is odd, too. Writing often to readers who are mostly strangers. Is it about the need to touch in some way? No matter how elusive or distant the touch?  And then yours truly comes along with her camera and takes a picture that turns out to be more of herself and less of the angel on the sidewalk.

Juggling the camera, the glaring sun and the dog's impatience, caused me to lose the feather that had drifted down to my feet. I felt it was a gift or omen and still I lost it. Several years ago, a psychic visiting from Canada told me that I am constantly being sent messages from the Source - and consistently ignore them. I was thinking about her recently and that I hadn't seen her in 3 or 4 years and a phone message last night informed me that she's in town right now. We're meeting up tomorrow for breakfast. Some things I don't question. It seems that if I'm not getting the messages, the universe asserts and aligns - although why the universe cares is still a mystery.

navigating back to safety
Time to sink into the safety of knitting. Crooked Little Scarf by Ann Hanson in Tosh Merino Light. The color "corsage" is so much of the season, the pattern easy and satisfying. As I work on it I think about the long letter I received today from one of my designated "sisters" and the long response I wrote back. My brother used to say jokingly (but maybe not so): "relatives you're stuck with, friends you choose." I've chosen a handful of sisters in my lifetime. And after reading an entertaining (dare I say "enlightening"?) book called Breakfast With Buddha, I'm in a certain frame of mind.

wind grows stronger, bends
trees from west to east still
singing as I try to decipher
elusive lyrics

petals in my tea

Finally found time to get back to the Turquoise Teapot tea shop and nursery.  Aside from the large selection of teas, collection of teapots, art by proprietor Kathleen, lending library, and lots of other fun, handcrafted stuff, the  place is a treasure of spring flowers and antiques. Sandy and Kathleen have planted flowers in old rusted tea kettles

vintage wooden product boxes and chipped enamel baking pans

a painted enamel, what? - cookie tin? tea tin?

The cafe reminds me so much of a shop a friend had in 1969 in a New York burb (whose name I can't recall, but it was somewhere in Westchester County). She called it The Antique Plant and planted pitchers and pots, crocks and old sewing machine drawers with indoor plants. I still have a couple of her vintage pitchers that I use for cut flowers. I remember wearing a green velvet outfit to the opening reception and sipping champagne amidst the natural greenery. I was still in my 20's and felt the whole world existed for me. She and I once spent a long afternoon in the shop among the plants and antiques talking about and reading Sylvia Plath's Ariel.

The Teapot is quite different. Instead of champagne we eat fresh-baked scones and cookies, sip exotic teas, meet up with creative friends. Like Joan who is a knitter and designer and regularly knits for various causes. She's made scarves and kids sweaters for the homeless, baby blankets, and her latest endeavor, the Mama Bear Project. Knitted bears for kids in Africa who have been orphaned by AIDS or have it themselves. She told me that 63,000 handknitted bears have been collected and distributed so far, and it isn't enough. She finished two bears (named Fred and Ginger) and is planning several more. The bears are cuddly, soft, and washable. You can read more about the project and get free patterns from their website.

We salute Joan and her commitment to love of knitting and sharing. Somehow in this very busy, somewhat stressful day, I found a small window of calm and beauty.

the fibers of myself

Fell asleep last night to steadily falling rain - a rare and welcome sound. The electricity went out, then blinked on and off for a few hours - really, it was only rain, not a hurricane. There was no drama. Not even wind. Sometimes I do feel as if we live in another dimension. Like this is the parallel life we're all supposed to have but aren't aware of? How does one identify which life one is living? And is it snowing and hailing in May in another life? Because that's what we awakened to this morning. New snow on the mountains looked like confectioners sugar had been sprinkled over them by some New Mexican Zeus. For a brief time it looked like the sun was coming out and the scene was tranquil.

So I went outside, picked a bouquet of wet and cold lilacs for the table. Hope in my heart.

By the time I'd found a pitcher, taken them out to the deck for a picture, the wind had whipped up and it started to hail. The horses were po'd and began nipping at each other.

This is the coldest, most changeable spring I can remember here. It's always unpredictable, sometimes lusty and lush, but this year is a test of faith. What will summer bring? Will summer come? It gets clearer in times like this, why primitive people who lived in so-called temperate zones made sacrifices to the gods to insure seasons of growth and abundance. Around here Persephone is trying to emerge, but keeps getting pulled back down by that nasty underworld guy.

forget your troubles, c'mon get happy
How? Knit happy. I even kept the label. Opal (of course), Wolle Schafpatenschaft (right), color: 2711. I've completed about 6 inches of the leg so far and the pattern hasn't repeated yet. The idea was to start this sock and then put it aside for traveling. Except that I really want to see what the full pattern looks like. I think the designers outdid themselves on this one.

hidden in May
scraps of the coming summer
still so hard to find

leaning toward round

Wise people have said that there are no coincidences, but I beg to differ. I've been busy buttoning up the anthology manuscript so that we can get it to the printer by month's end while simultaneously ticking up in my mind the stuff I'll need to pack in a week or so to go east. It's still chilly here. What will it be like there? Dry as a bone here. Humid and rainy there? What knitting projects should I take with me? Should I start one or two before I leave? Like that. Around midnight I was looking through my collection of necklaces. I am fortunate to know a couple of beautiful women who create jewelry from ancient materials, beads and ammonites, stones. I was stopped by this clay bead. It is about an inch in diameter and the focal point of a necklace I received several years ago from one of those women. It is Indonesian and 600 years old.

Imagine! six centuries! and it's not a priceless million-dollar bead. It's considered a common bead. One that continues to move through countless centuries and possibly thousands of hands. A modest bead containing secret worlds of stories and places locked within it forever. It was on my neck this morning (moving again) when I headed out to pick up the proofed manuscript, grab some solo time and a pedicure. The last two didn't happen. When I got home I found that the friend who had made the necklace had posted on her blog some reminiscences of when she worked with ancient beads and traveled far and wide to find them. And how her interest in them is renewed. My bead was part of her collection. Now that's coincidence. The blog is called An Examined Life. Check it out.

And speaking of round things....the full moon last night? A silver poet's disc with crisp sharp edges, hovering over the mountains like an untethered balloon. I took numerous pictures with both cameras, but can anyone tell me why my eyes see it crisp and clear and the digital camera sees the atmospheric junk around it? I can't quite remember if this occurred with film - surely I took hundreds of moon pictures with my old 35mm cameras - I just can't remember. And I think I've asked this question before but haven't gotten answers yet. I guess my fate is to look at the moon. Wish upon the moon. Write poems about the moon. Even knit socks with moon-colored yarn. But I cannot own the perfect moon in my little camera and carry it with me.

smudgy moon

For a person who has the spirit, everything he sees 
becomes a flower, and everything he imagines 
turns into a moon. 
               Basho

tricks & more tricks

ufo
Finished pair of Opal socks that had been languishing for quite a while. Chosen from other ufos by color mood. No label manifested, but Opal self-patterning sock yarns are all interesting in some way. Stress-free plain ole sock knitting that ends up anything but plain ole. Great travel companions on planes, cafes, park benches - and trains if I ever took one.

the tricks
I tumble outside during a brief lull in editing, juggling eyeglasses, camera, cellphone, remote phone (waiting for critical calls), to seek out the perfect photo backdrop. The dog doesn't budge from his favorite place under the bench. He watches hopefully - will this action involve him?  It doesn't. Wind and sun shadows play tricks with the light, no camera setting is satisfactory. I get pulled into apple blossom and lilac themes. We seem to miraculously have the only blooming lilacs in the whole county! Just one bush nestled against the protective, warm adobe wall. There is definitely a dearth of lilacs up here this spring.

sox blossoms
No sign at all of apricot blossoms on the leafing-out tree. Another trick. Flowers never even had a chance to bloom and freeze! Apparently nipped in the bud! The tree has become a friendly meeting place for sparrows who create a pleasant chirpy background chorus outside the window of my workroom. I'm grateful for the meadowlarks and finches and their melodic rackets, too. I think I'm even growing fond of the wind's moaning voices. And that wren in town who I saw pull out a gigantic (for it) piece of insulation from the broken end of a signpost. Its nest will be cushiony, warm, and hopefully roomy enough for the fledglings. And I remember,

a bird story
For years, a swallow couple returned annually to built an adobe mud nest around the light at our back door. The light is small, the nest was small. In a few weeks, four long-necked largish fledglings would appear, screeching with wide open beaks that looked like Joker smiles. At some point, the strong spring winds would swirl up into the portal and blow them out of the nest before they'd learned to fly. I dreaded the day when I'd walk out the door and find four tiny lifeless bodies on the concrete walk - the parents chirping frantically nearby. One year we watched for the couple's arrival and chased them away with lots of noise and banging of pie plates. It took several tries, but they finally left to build somewhere else and have never returned. We learned this foolproof method when one spring day, literally hundreds of swallows suddenly enveloped our house and started frantically building nests. It was creepy and very "Birds". I called a nature center for advice. "Pie plates, pot covers", they advised, "make as much noise as possible." Ron and I were a duet version of the parade that Christopher Robin and friends had with pots, pans, wooden spoons. The swallows flew away in a disappointed swoop. The remnants of the last nest still clings to the light, but we are warned by the elders that to remove a swallow's nest brings bad luck. So there it stays, unoccupied, until nature reclaims it completely.

still trying

 First day of the Taos Farmers Market. It felt like summer and the place was buzzing. Music, honey, goat cheese, breads, scones and coffee, plants, lettuces, fresh eggs. It felt so good to be there again after a long winter and even longer painful spring. Not only did the wild plum blossoms freeze a couple of weeks ago, but it seems that most of the budding lilacs were zapped too. Some Mays the abundance of lilacs all over town and beyond is intoxicating - this year I'm noticing that most of the lilacs were destroyed just as the flowers were beginning to bud. It's most depressing. It seems that in my neighborhood we have the only lilac bush that will bloom fully. That's one out of two bushes and only because it is up against an adobe wall and sheltered from the high cold winds by the house!

I met a poet friend for tea this afternoon and, in philosophical moods, we asked each other, "creatively, what are the closest things to your heart?" She's been through a good deal of personal stress and trauma and had found it difficult to find the time and incentive to write. In recent months she renewed her commitment and is happier, freer, able to face the tricks that fate might have in store for her. I considered the question too. My necessary and well-loved pursuits are writing, photography and knitting. I was shocked to hear myself say that I'd give up knitting before the other two. And then, if some diabolic god made me ditch another love, it would be photography (but I'd fight that mean god to the death!). So there you have it. An interesting, perhaps revealing conversation. Fortunately, no more than discussion. She's a fine and well-published poet and before we left the cafe, we planned an evening together with a group of kindred spirits.

However, I'm not planning on abandoning knitting anytime soon. Late last evening, watching a very old movie I had to snap this picture on the tv screen of Katherine Hepburn knitting away in Holiday.

Later on, we watched another old movie and it was Bette Davis knitting. But I wasn't quick enough with the shutter that time.

May your life be filled with lilacs wherever you are. We're still waiting for the lusty part of the month to take hold, but maybe there won't be any more snow.

fine voices

Today was the official last Latin class and our professor invited our small group to a Roman lunch at his home. I struggled with the thought of how to dress (togas required) and decided to go as Athena/Minerva - warrior goddess of wisdom and craft. She wielded lightening bolts as competently as her father Zeus/Juno. Last night, falling asleep, I still didn't know what to wear and hadn't had time to browse the second hand shops which always yield good costume stuff. And where would I get a lightening bolt and an owl?
          At 6 this morning I started rummaging around in my yarns and notions looking for an owl button I remembered. One thing led to another and because I was one of the victims of novelty yarns for a few years, there is an abundance stash of sparkly yarns and ribbons. Snatching a few dusty silk flowers from a vase on the floor, I added gold ribbon and fashioned a suitable goddess crown. (When I looked in the mirror I resembled an aging flower child more than a goddess).

It sparkles, reflects light, shoots out miniature lightning bolts (tamed by photos). Undaunted by the thought of making a fool of myself, I added a creamy pashmina shawl, sandals, the owl on a black silk cord, silver bracelets and off I went. Once there we were greeted by an orgy of food prepared by the prof himself (he swore the delicious but mysterious chicken-like dish was peacock), wine, dolmas, fava beans, stawberries, cheeses, salad. A ruby ring found its way into the strawberries

We toured his house set in a tranquil, yet powerful area of Arroyo Seco. Art, photos, history, words and pictures painted on ceilings and walls like flowing prayers and blessings. He did most of the creative work himself, painting the ceilings on his back like Michelangelo. Larry Torres is well known in Taos as a teacher, radio personality, author, linguist. He has so many personas and talents that I can't begin to list them all here (I don't know all of them). We talked wine for a bit and he showed me Antonio Banderas' favorite Spanish wine kept on hand for when he visits! Antonio Banderas! And the kitchen cabinet door that has a painting of a saint that Georgia O'Keeffe sat for! Oh yes, and the rooms where the documentary film crew came to interview him about Dennis Hopper! He graciously gave me the go-ahead to publish a few photos of his home to share here.

a prayerful ceiling

a day of the dead altar in a corner of an entire wall that contains his family tree.
        Michael is a young man who was dressed in a red (sheet) toga. As he bent down to pick up the stick for the Chinese gong, he looked just like a Buddhist monk. I captured his silhouette against the keyhole windows and as I left I bowed and called out namaste to him! He laughed, the others followed suit, and it seemed like a normal gesture in that amazing house.

blown on the wind, chaos
calls to enter the house
sacred gong stills the voice