color afterlife

crafty spring
Picked up boho bracelet at the show in the park. Made by two artisans from Albuquerque who call themselves The Wild Strawberry Muddy Wheel! Their jewelry is unique and one of a kind. They use beads, semi precious stones, tin, silver, brass, fusion processes, paint. This is about the highest level that my day will achieve and it's not of my doing. After yesterday's big push to finish up the manuscript, I'm a bit depleted and plan to let go and veg for the rest of the day. It is Sunday. Mother's Day. And I talked to one of my sons on the phone for an hour and a half! Received text messages from the others. Also must give some thought to outfit for a toga party on Tuesday that my Latin professor is throwing on our last day of class. Would it be permissible to arrive sans toga? I don't mean naked (heaven forbid!), just not in costume. Although I did contemplate showing up as Athena/Minerva - goddess of wisdom and craft - Head Goddess. But I'd need an owl and a crown. What to do?

bogey's linen suit
In the process of searching for leftover yarn to repair a washed and demothed sweater for someone, I came across this ahtsy yarn ball thing I'd put together and placed on the window ledge in my workroom a long time ago - and forgot about. For a while its photo adorned a note card that knitters and other crafty types bought by the dozens. The original photograph is mysteriously unretrievable, and the actual object dusty and faded (the top ball was green, the center brown!). It's all biege-y and gray now.

I am always grateful for this gray.
I take it from my plastic bag of grays feeling good about my choice,
the way that Humphrey Bogart, private eye,
would select a linen suit for a busy summer day
     (excerpt from "762", The Very Stuff, by Stephen Beal)

what it is

Left the house early this morning for the first day of the farmer's market only to find that I'd been given the wrong information and that it starts next Saturday. So I headed to the park for a walk and right into a craft show. I walked for a while on the back paths then browsed the show in intense hot sun (when did summer arrive - it was snowing less than a week ago). No matter, I had my baseball cap on my head, sandals on my feet, and very little money. Still I managed to put something on hold till tomorrow.
     There was lots of new graffiti in the park and noticing one image felt sort of hip since it had been explained to me by one of the 20 year olds in my Latin class. Hot Boxing.

It seems that when one is in an air-tight room or vehicle that contains one or more pot-smokers (they told me "cigarette smokers") the smoke circulates and is breathed in deeply. I researched the words on the net and found this to-the-point explanation: "Smokers in a hotbox may find themselves totally f----d beyond the point of speech after about 30 minutes. Hotboxing is an event that requires some amount of planning, but ensures optimal weed usage." So there you have it. I won't be trying it anytime soon - since I'm not 20 it might kill me.

The garage door at the community auditorium was newly decorated.

And a prop truck parked outside.

The chicken coop has some new art as well

back to work
When I returned home I dove into the finalizing of the anthology manuscript and literally spent the whole rest of the day doing it. But I made quite a bit of progress and may actually meet my self-imposed deadline of Monday morning. What I found as I read the submissions again carefully is that this year's edition is going to be the best one ever because the quality of the work is so excellent. It comes from a stunning array of award-winning writers and poets who generously submitted work for this humble book. What surprised me is that many writers who generally work in prose, sent poems, and vice versa. And it's all good!
     So now, as I sit here at my desk it's around 8:00 p.m., the sun is still shining and it sounds like my neighbors are all doing something to their properties. Vegetable gardens are being installed, trees watered, soil turned over, kids laughing and gleefully screaming as if it were a summer evening. My workroom window is open and the curtain (the only one in the entire house because it feels nice in here) is gently blowing in and out just like in paintings. As soon as the sun goes down fully it will get cold and I'll have to close everything up again - that's the mystery of mountains - always a cold breath coming down from the highest peaks even on the hottest days.

UFO
Here is the latest quickly finished project (because when I picked it up a few days ago it was already half done - I just had to knit the columns).

Probably the last one for a while. This is in Classic Elite so-soft Alpaca Sox "watercress". Delicious! Tonight I'll work on the rainbow socks and plan to get back to the craft fair early tomorrow to pick up what I put on hold - and maybe a couple of other things that are tantalizingly poking at my tired brain.

drishti
I learned a new Sanskrit word today because it appeared in one of the poems I read: drishti - a gazing technique that develops concentration and teaches you to see the world as it really is.  i.e., gazing inward and outward at the same time. Try it.

the spirits tantalize

After a too busy day yesterday, I hauled myself out of my chair, put aside the so-pretty think-summer sock I'd started

 and drove off in the night to the Metta Theater for a poetry reading. This was something I didn't want to miss. Pascale Petit is an award winning British poet who teaches in London at a number of organizations, including the Tate Modern (I love that inspiring place). She has researched and studied the work and life of Frida Kahlo and her newest collection of 52 poems is called "What the Water Gave Me: Poems After Frida Kahlo".  In fact, each poem is titled after the paintings and written in her voice. A Poetry London review states, "...while Kahlo's voice is subtly distinguished from Petit's own, both women have a way of taking painful, private experiences and transmuting them, through imagery, into something that has the power of folklore. They capture the unsettling spirit of Frida Kahlo and her work perfectly." Yes.

Petit, who lives in London,  has fallen in love with Taos and hopes to return soon. This is not an unusual happening and one of the reasons why the audience at last night's reading was mostly made up of Taos poets and writers. Most of us have been transplanted from other locales and tend to support each other. Pascale's poetry is a fusion of art and words. Not surprising since she was a visual artist for many years before turning to poetry full time. Her knowledge and sensitivity toward Kahlo's work and life are vividly set into the poems.

The theater itself is a phenomenon. Small, intimate (you have to start somewhere) the brainchild of actors/writers Bruce and Michelle McIntosh with, I suspect, the help of dedicated friends. The vintage seats are red velour, the stage backdrop is curtained in black, good lighting and an intimate and "happening" atmosphere. It reminds me so much of off-broadway theaters in Greenwich Village in Manhattan in the 1950's and 60's. A regular audience is slowly developing and there are hopes to expand into larger quarters at some point. Meanwhile, they have frequent bake sales to keep up with expenses. Don't you just love it? I do. And the spirit and commitment propelling it. They hold acting workshops too. So who knows? If Lady Gaga could do it, why not a woman past a certain age? As a Leo, I've always wanted my name up in lights. Hmmm Something to think about before the moment passes. Pink hair. Gold lame mini's. I'll give it some more thought.

recordings

Windy and pink! This I can live with. Met up with a friend this morning and we found ourselves talking about Taos winters and how, as we get older, they seem to be getting harsher. We traded information about Arizona and named the people we've known in Taos who spent winters there - like Frank Waters and his wife Barbara. Frank always complained when it was time to go, but he lived well into his 90's. Did those gentle winters have something to do with his longevity and the writing that never stopped until he did? One year I made several jars of raspberry jam and gave one to Frank. I was told that he brought it to Tucson with him and wouldn't share it with anyone! After his death I wrote a poem about that. I also had the privilege of taking photos of his memorial for Barbara's book, "Celebrating the Coyote" (MacMurray and Beck, 1999).

right in my own town
On Sunday afternoon I went to a signing of Lyn Bleiler's book "Images of America: Taos". This is a series from Arcadia Publishing that chronicles the history of various places in the United States through vintage photos and text. The book is filled with historic images for which she had to delve into museum and archives. The event was held at the Ernest Blumenshein House and Museum.

Blumenshein was a painter who first came here in the early 1900s because his vehicle needed repair and broke down in Taos. He stayed. He painted iconic images of adobe villages, Indian and Hispanic figures, rocky vistas. His work helped define the perceptions of the area. The weather was foul on Sunday and I wanted to stay home and knit, but I'd promised and it turned out to be a worthy detour. The museum/house is filled with his work and life. I'd never been there. So close, yet so indifferent to it.  Walking through the maze-like rooms I got the feeling of a real home. There were fun facts. Blumenshein and his wife brought into Taos the first electric stove.

The rooms have been recreated as authentically as possible so there were more fun old things to see - as well as a selection of his paintings, his easel, an old dusty box of paint tubes, his fishing tackle basket, and a cake of yellowing soap.

As I explored the rooms Lyn signed books for a large waiting crowd and I didn't notice the snow clouds growing thicker and darker. By the time I left for home, I drove through the start of Sunday night's snowstorm - a  fading memory on a day when the temp reached nearly 70 degrees and pink is in the air. Have I mentioned that we keep our sweaters and shorts available all year long?

A curious friend seeks me out.

"No artist had ever recorded the New Mexico I was seeing. No writer had ever written down the smell of this air or the feel of that morning's sky. I was receiving...the first great unforgettable inspiration of my life."
                                                                                                      Ernest Blumenshein

call me Rebecca

We're all about sun again as each day the temps climb higher into the 60s. All snow disappeared, the apricot tree still hasn't blossomed so hope springs eternal. Years ago (many) there was a book I didn't read but we always referred to in a cynical sort of way called "Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm". None of us girls wanted to be a goody-good like her, but since we lived in the city, we liked the idea of farms. Until my husband and I drove cross-country in 1986, I'd never actually seen a farm or ranch. Things do change and this evening when I looked out from the deck, the new horse was muching away at a denuded chamisa bush.

Far beyond the horse's near presence, our 95 year old neighbor Manuel was irrigating the fields. His stooped figure, his wellies and shovel are well known to us and when we see him out there it seems like everything is balanced and right with the world.

His artist son created an iconic image of Manuel to represent his Des Montes Folk Art Gallery.

Okay, so that covers the irrigating and ranching parts of my day, but then came the chicks. A young woman from my Latin class came into the room a few minutes late because she'd been picking up a variety of chicks. They were in her truck in a cardboard box and when class was over we walked out together to see them. I couldn't resist taking a picture. Soft, tiny, fluffy, little cheeping things. Of course the moment I looked down into the box they all began climbing on top of each other and squeezing into the corners. I must have looked like a giant predatory monster to them. They were totally irresistible and I wanted to pick one up so badly - but didn't. Instead I remembered that when I was nine years old, my 22 year old brother came home one spring day with a half dozen ducklings - they were as tiny as these chicks and he and I took care of them in the attic until they were old enough to live outside in a specially built pen.

By that summer, I'm sorry to say, they were the main course at my tenth birthday party. My father eagerly accepted the task of beheading them. He sharpened his axe, prepared the block, and after the first blow, fainted. My brother's friend was called in to take over. Ross was a cook at a Bronx Zoo restaurant and he was the most qualified. He finished the job cleanly and quickly and my mother prepared the ducks for the feast. She wasn't sentimental and they were soon ready. During the birthday dinner (which I did not attend) aunts and uncles dove into their plates, licked their lips, complimented the cook for the sumptuous treat. I sulked until cake was served. My cousin Carlos, who sulked with me, planned a fowl funeral - but there were no bodies to bury. He stayed with us for a couple of weeks that summer and we created a memorial to the lost ducks. A crude cross made from branches, plastic flowers stolen from the dusty vase on top of the refrigerator. When Carl left for home, my mother undid the cross and reclaimed the flowers.

These chicks, however, are destined to become roosters and laying hens and won't end up on someone's plate. We talked about the art of building chicken coops (which I know nothing about) and I told Meg about my next door neighbor's chickens. Remember the green and brown eggs? and the heart stickers that their little girls stuck to the ones they sold to me? One middle of the night a month or so ago, coyotes got into the coop, killed all eight prize hens and left  few traces. In our bedroom I heard some unusual squawking, but was too sleepy to get up and look out the window. I've felt a bit guilty since, but I'm not sure how you stop marauding coyotes. Rock throwing, shouting? Too late. Rebecca will stick to her books. They're much safer.

bemused spring

"Lifeless in appearance, sluggish dazed spring approaches"

William Carlos Williams wrote those words around 1923 and good poetry being universal and timeless and spring being spring, it still resonates. Especially today when the sun is (temporarily?) bright and warm. But let me tell you about yesterday.

And this morning.

Williams also wrote, "the overall picture is winter". Yes. All afternoon and night, first day of May (the lusty month of) snow fell on icey fields and disappeared mountains. I heard that in Mora (where I went a couple of weeks ago) they had ten inches! In less dramatic ankle deep snow this morning, without the familiar wind, the horses moved about in the early sun. A meadowlark cheerfully sang from the top of a fencepost and vaporous clouds like amorphous waste fibers from spun fleece dissipated against a cold pale blue sky. One of the horses, hearing me outside (taking pictures) ambled over to say hello.

He would have stayed awhile - these guys are big friendly creatures - but Spike went crazy and barked ferociously until he moved away. When I tried to calm the dog down he snapped warningly at my hand. So much for domestication and dominion.

finding spring in unlikely places
There weren't any movies that we wanted to see or that we hadn't already seen numerous times on any channel last night so, as the snow fell outside, I read and knitted and finished the latest Colonnade shawl in the "catalpa" Lorna's Laces shepherd sock yarn.

Still in petite shawl mode I searched through yarn totes and found an Alpaca Sox UFO in a nice spring green that I'd put aside after completing a plain triangle section. It was started for a different pattern but the basics were the same and I only had to knit three rows to meet the stitch count for the shawlette. I clearly remembered what I'd planned with that yarn and also that I'd unsuccessfully tried the lace pattern several times. It wasn't difficult, but each time I started anew, after about two inches one side went all wonky and I never could figure out why. There was no errata connected to it and I simply accepted the premise that my mind and the designer's just weren't in sync. No regrets. Now it will become something else. So easy to correct bad knitting decisions. If only.

under the surge of the blue
mottled clouds driven from the
northeast - a cold wind
                              William Carlos Williams (excerpt from "Spring and All")

miles to go

We awaken this morning to our neighbors' four horses on our land. Three are well known to us as they are often here and spent the winter. But today there was a new guy.

He's leaning against one of Ron's sculptures (and who knows what else he's doing). He is slightly smaller than the others and his colors of grey, brown, and black look like they were randomly painted on by some artist god with a sense of play. For awhile this morning he was relentlessly chased back and forth across four acres by the other horses. I ran outside in my PJs with my camera (it was 39 degrees). Horses are beautiful in motion  - and so big and scary. But up on my deck with an adobe wall and a flimsy fence between us (they don't seem to notice that they could break through with one good push) I feel safe and privileged to be so near to them - to be able to observe from my kitchen table over tea! After madly running around for several minutes, with loud galloping noises, they suddenly all stopped dead at the same moment and started quietly grazing together. What I know about horses is minimal, but I guess this is all about teaching the new kid in the pasture who the bosses are. Horses do make a landscape more beautiful, as Alice Walker so famously said. I'm glad they're back. They add tranquility to the scene (when they're not galloping wildly).

lusty or dusty?
The words to the song from Camelot, it's May, it's May, the lusty month of May have been circulating through my mind for the last couple of days. So today it's finally May and anything but lusty.

Snow threatens and our surroundings are still pretty much monochromatic - except for greening fields. The wild plum blossoms at the edge of Pueblo land, which usually make a magical fuzzy white display with intoxicating fruity scents, were zapped by the last bout of freezing rain and snow and are now a dark shade of brown - the operative color for frozen blossoms in the mountains in April and May. Our apricot tree hasn't bloomed yet so we still have hope (but no expectations). Possibly it will dodge the freezing bullet this year.


I'm off to a friend's book signing soon and thinking about the family back east who are getting together at my brother's house to introduce him and his wife to the new baby and his father. Lots of text messages flew back and forth and I'm looking forward to cellphone pictures later today. Wish I were there. But I made my plane reservations at midnight last night, so can relax until the time comes again when I can be with them.

plum blossoms turned brown
float by on the spring rivers
       out of sight again