rough metaphors

"I really don't know clouds at all"

No, I don't, and I'm not sure about reality either. Shifting sands come to mind, but I'm not on a beach caught in the grip of an undertow (L. Cohen) nor am I even on the windy shifting sands of Dunes National Monument in Colorado (an amazing place). Just lots of incomplete song lyrics in my mind and the shift and drift that occurs when someone in your life-sphere dies. So I try to write. The wind blows the pages wildly and my favorite new ballpoint pen falls and slips right into the opening between the slats on the deck. Impossible to retrieve. How many pens have I lost that same way in 22 years! I haven't kept count, but it must be dozens. I don't dare use the good fountain pens out there. Suddenly the wind stops and not a blade of grass moves. Heat descends heavily and I search for my Chinese fan. Swish, swish, move the air. It feels good.

I send out a call to my friend in San Francisco (coming to visit in a couple of weeks) and ask her to buy another pen for me at Russian Hill Books. Retrograde Mercury will be gone by the time she arrives and maybe I'll be more grounded and not seeing illusions in glasses of wine.

Or writing endless eulogies that get deleted or crumbled up and tossed away. All beginning with the words: John, faraway, so close.

A story is like water
that you heat for your bath.

...enjoy this being washed
with a secret we sometimes know,
and then not
                                     Rumi

addictive nostalgia

Help! I'm having a nostalgia attack! Spending Sunday afternoon looking through a humongous box of old photographs, seeking pictures of my nephew John for his memorial next weekend.

I hadn't seen him for many years of his adult life, but the earlier pictures, when we were often in each other's lives, brought a flash flood of memories. And then I found a picture of myself around the age when he was born. I love the almost double image.

Back in the olden days, it was a disappointment when we picked up our pictures from the local drugstore and found some "ruined". Now I look at them and think they're actually more interesting than crisp digital pictures that need special fx programs to achieve the same look. (oh dear, it's a vintage look!). Never mind. As an aside, my nephew in his young adult years was a professional photographer who worked with master papparazzo, Ron Gelella.

whoosh

Instead of vintage me, I'll show you a less personal vintage item. The chipped French coffee bowl with a frothy cappuccino from the French-style cafe in San Francisco, La Boulange, where I spent many an hour with notebook and pen. 

It seems so long ago already, that trip. Sidewalk cafes, long city walks, cool wind and moist air. But I'm happy to be home again, beginning to process the experience in various ways. And so far I've kept my vow to not commit to any freelance work for a while longer - hopefully until the end of the year.

now what, life?

Local astrologer Josseph said that there's a touch of dissatisfaction in the stars. Don't make a Big Deal out of it.... I'm trying not to. There's talk about Mercury in retrograde and how it's messing up all manner of things including, in my case, unexpected criticism and the inability to get anything to go smoothly - from knitting a sock to cooking pasta. I haven't exercised since I returned and feel as if the fitness advantage I gained in miles of city walking is gone with the alpine wind. My pants are tight again. But we have had rain every afternoon - a little or (like today) a lot. Lovely grey skies and cooler temps by late afternoon. Good sleeping weather.

Many things to take care of, not all positive. I'm sad that I won't be able to go to my nephew's memorial service in Connecticut next weekend. They don't need my presence, but I would like to be there (Josseph's voice: don't make a Big Deal of it).

Fernando Pessoa, the Portuguese writer, once said:  Literature is the most agreeable way of ignoring life" and although I'm not ignoring, I have gotten lost in books more than usual (and that's a lot!). After seeing the The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel movie on Sunday, I downloaded the novel upon which it is based, written by Deborah Moggach (who also wrote the screenplay). Moggach has an uncanny way of pinpointing the subtle (and not) shifts in long term relationships and aging. She writes with poignancy and humor. This line could have made me weep, but I smiled: "...she has Alzheimers -- the old dear; turned up at the airport carrying three handbags. It took them ages to get through the security checks." I could almost see myself doing that someday. My mother had Alzheimers and it was sad and funny at the same time. At the so-called "home" she collected other people's dentures. I have many handbags.

Impermanence. Exquisite, obscure, dangerous, pointless....

Find the still point...

cheers!

Today is our dear granddaughter Megan's 17th birthday. And I can't help getting all nostalgic about it. Wasn't it just yesterday that she was a toddler? Because we lived so far away when she was born and no one had the money to hop on a plane, and because there was no Facetime or cellphone videos - or even (gasp!) digital photography (is that possible? a world without digital photography!!!) I didn't get to see her until she was 8 months old. We bonded immediately and that mysterious bond will always exist. Happily we've seen more of each other through the years and have traipsed into Manhattan, Santa Fe, Taos, Connecticut together. Her smile lights up the sky and we wish her all the best that life has to offer. 

We send her a message today (from Buddha), because in spite of everything good, she's still an adolescent - a most critical and vulnerable time of life. It's hard to imagine a world beyond friends and fun and the desire to reach adulthood quickly; so Megan, hear this:

you are what you think,
all that you are arises with your own thoughts;
with your thoughts you make your world

choose your thoughts well...

elderly & beautiful

Sunday clouds built up all day, it was hot, occasionally breezy, rain sprinkled here and there (mostly there) and we decided after dinner to drive to the Rio Grande. Spike jumped into the car so he came along.

As we got closer to the river and the foliage along its banks, my allergies kicked in with an intensity that nearly did me in. I haven't stopped sneezing and dripping since. Am loathe to take a pill because I know it will make me dopier than I'm feeling as I'm still adjusting to 7500 feet after three weeks at sea level. Welcome home, Self. Lovely drama though, as dusk rolled in and the air grew cooler. I guess I'll survive.

5 stars for the elderly and beautiful
Went to a Sunday matinee showing of The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel.  Oh my! what a great movie! What a great cast! The audience was predominantly the older beautiful people of Taos. Mostly women, I must admit. I saw practically everyone I know and one who was ill the last time I saw her, was recovered enough to get to a matinee! (with some help). I loved the humor, characters, colors, poignancy, settings...all of it!

Lately I've noticed that there are more movies with attractive yet older characters in them (as well as Love. And. Sex.). To see, still vibrant and brilliant on screen, Vanessa Redgrave, Judi Dench, Maggie Smith, Meryl Streep, Diane Keaton, others, is an empowerment that will shape the futures of our daughters and grandaughters (as well as our own). Men, too. Marigold and Downton Abbey are filled with them! Such a far cry from the 1950's when movie stars were finished at 40. Take Bette Davis in The Star and All About Eve. And scary Sunset Boulevard ("I'm still big, it was the pictures that got small"). Well, we are a new generation, the 1960's did change the future, and the vows we made to ourselves to remain visible and vibrant - and as attractive as possible (even if it costs a fortune in maintenance) - are being fulfilled by the in-betweeners and baby boomers. Hooray for us! Hooray for the producers and writers who are changing things toward the positive. We may be of a certain age, but we are no longer invisible.

jiggidy-jigg

One last visit to the Bay before leaving...still amazed by the woman who swam there every day, endlessly (I never saw her come out of the water).

One last look at the Bay-facing skyline from a long pedestrian walkway out into the water (scenic postcard view)....

home again, home again jiggidy-jigg
Arrived home in the wee  hours this morning after about 15 hours of airports, layovers, connections, lugging stuff. I could have driven faster than my airborne return. Jeesh, it was only San Francisco to northern New Mexico! Should have ended up in Milan or London or Paris - or China - after all that traveling, not Albuquerque! But I'm fine now. Sorting and organizing today. Making vows not to get too absorbed in outside commitments at least until the end of this year. Getting set up for my friend coming in early August for a visit.  The last two days before my return were days of walking miles around the city and mourning with my nephew. He's devastated and we needed each other. I wish I could have stayed longer.

Ron survived quite well without me although his approach to housekeeping is quite different from mine (and I'm not good at it). He's not great with details. Found some strange fruit around the kitchen...avocados? plums?

their eyes watching

Starting to sort out my stuff and do laundry in preparation for leaving at week's end. If I don't begin now I'll manifest the pre-travel-worry-dreams I'm already having - losing stuff (shoes & ID), being late, forgetting where I'm going. In my case, a less casual attitude and more preparation tends to assuage the concerns and leave time for other things. Housemate Jackson is quite interested in this activity and keeps a steely eye on me. So does the handpainted mask in the window of my room.

Since I've been feeling a big hangdog about not getting as much accomplished as I'd hoped, I received this advice from Alan Watts via a fb friend : if you're writing, you're a writer. Write like you're a goddamn death row inmate and the governor is out of the country and there's no chance for a pardon. Write like you're clinging to the edge of a cliff, white knuckles, on your last breath, and you've got just one last thing to say; like you're a bird flying over us and you can see everything, and please, for God's sake, tell us something that will save us from ourselves. Take a deep breath and tell us your deepest, darkest secret, so we can wipe our brow and know that we're not alone. Write like you have a message from the king. Or don't. Who knows, maybe you're one of the lucky ones who doesn't have to.

october in july
Cold and overcast again today, invigorating. My nephew and I had one more dinner last night at a great Thai restaurant just a short walk away (I love cities!). We've been exchanging family stories and filling in gaps from the years when we were out of touch. He's leaving tomorrow to deal with his brother's apartment and other connected things. His parents are unable to travel here and I'm leaving soon, so he will do it alone. I look forward to the next trip when I can spend more time in his cosy coffee shop, Bread and Butter Cafe. Check it out if you're ever in the area. It's a good place to work, eat excellent sandwiches, soups, coffee and pastries. Good neighborhood walking too, with interesting architecture, and a short distance to Golden Gate Park where it's always lush and lively.

the world is full of magic things,
patiently waiting for our senses 
to grow sharper
            Yeats

the art of true finding

A photography book I browsed recently stated that "sometimes pictures are just about color and they're boring. Other times they're about color and they're art."  Well, however my pictures are judged, there is lots of color. Buildings in this city, unlike the gray canyons of Manhattan, are rife with color. And, of course, my whole reason for being is about yarn and color (even though I dress mostly in blacks, browns, grays - yeah, boring - with an occasional hit of plum or olive). But I love to knit with vivid yarns, and socks, mitts, scarves are the way I most comfortably wear color. So what colorful thing did I do today?

sweet tea in name only
I walked 5 or 6 miles (roundtrip) to Greenwich Yarns where I was hoping to find yarn for the Sweet Tea lace mitts pattern I recently received from Knitspot. I found what I think will work: Simply Shetland silk lambswool from Scotland in a silky (59%) tweedy green (nicer than in photo).

we walk so we can see
Walking in the chilly overcast city today, I couldn't help remembering that famous Mark Twain comment about San Francisco: how he spent a winter here one summer. Yes. Today. Wind. Cold. Sea-mist dampening my hair, face, clothes. So happy to arrive at the cosy yarn shop that I forgot to take a picture to post here. Six or so women sitting at a big table with three doggies, snacks, knitting, and gossip. They didn't invite me to sit down, so after my paltry purchase I just headed out the door and walked home.

I would not have been able to walk that distance two weeks ago when I arrived. I feel stronger now and more fit. This city does that to you. What with the moisture in the air plumping up the skin and hair, and the plethora of young people biking, running, walking - it's either join 'em or go sit on a bench and be an observer. At least that's the way I see it, and although observation is a good occupation for a writer's mind, walking is better for her body. On on another day (with sun) I was mesmerized by color.

Even on this gloomy overcast day I can conjure up colors that sustain during sad times. That yellow flower with the red striations breaks my heart, but I don't know why.

I say: let the trifles that strangle us be seen merely as
trifles, remediable inequities. Then when the wind 
has had its way with us/ we can see ourselves as we are,
face to face with the invisible.
                       Neruda

trifles

Lovely organic strawberries from the source, and a light meal based on that scene from Eat, Pray, Love when Gilbert was in Rome. I've liked the way it was presented (I remember it from the book, too) and it is delicious: smoked salmon, hard-boiled egg, fresh asparagus al dente drizzled with good olive oil, sprinkled with coarse salt (and a few nut-rice crackers).

Alone in the city I feel a combination of freedoms and pressure. The freedom to do whatever I wish (or eat however I wish) and the pressure that comes with freedom -- a promise to myself that I'd accomplish something while here. I'm doing well in the food department, but the writing isn't flowing. The events of the last couple of days have definitely thrown me off balance. But I'm trying to maintain a Buddhist attitude to let it flow and let go.

brrr!
Meanwhile, it is very foggy, cloudy, chilly here in San Francisco and I had to wear my friend's fleece jacket when I went to the market. My quilted vest (worn daily) just isn't enough today. Wind is actually howling down this dead end "alley" -- reminds me of home. But my nephew is coming over soon and we're going to walk to a neighborhood restaurant for dinner together. I'll add a wool scarf (also borrowed) to the fleece jacket.

finis
I finished the socks last night while watching Bette Davis in The Letter. See it for the crocheted lace she works on in the movie. I think Davis was already proficient at the craft because it seemed so natural to her, no awkward movements -- but maybe she was just a really great actress and could do anything. I read once that she did needlepoint, and in Now, Voyager we see her knitting a mysterious something quite easily. As for me, I'm working on the cable and lace mitts again. My hands were so cold walking back to the house.

My brain is only a receiver. In the Universe 
there is a core from which we obtain knowledge, 
strength, inspiration. I have not penetrated into 
the secrets of this core, but I know that it exists.
      Nikola Tesla

ode to things

A couple of weeks ago I packed and sent to myself, via Priority mail, a little too much knitting. It seemed I had loads of time ahead of to fill. I have been knitting at night watching movies, but how did I know that my friend would give me that gorgeous ball of sock yarn before she left, and that I wouldn't want to work on the other "old" stuff. No matter that there's cashmere in the box, and silk blends, soft warm butterscotch alpaca. No. It's all about the newest in my fickle yarn world. I did work on the second of the piquant lace and cable mitts - mostly because my hands were cold, walking these city streets in chilly wind. I actually thought I could finish and wear them by today. But after a couple of inches I was drawn back to the socks. I'll finish those and give them to my friend when she returns. A thank you for letting me live in her wonderful oasis of a home in the heart of this city. A place of coffee shops, jade water, orange leather handbags, Corinthian columns.

And a six-block neighborhood strip of frivolous shops that I browsed through this afternoon during a mindless break from today's staccato-like unfoldings. Family phone calls, sadness, cleansing wind, inability to sit down at the laptop or notebook and write anything more than feelings. That's okay, I know I'm not the only one doing it today.

prayer flags when needed

It' s been an amazing time here in San Francisco. At home I'm not usually alone for more than a few hours at a time and, frankly, I didn't know how I'd react to nearly three weeks of solitude. The reaction has been less than dramatic, just a quiet settling in and gradually slipping into my own body rhythms which aren't so different from what I usually experience day to day, except that I can guiltlessly allow myself to be self-indulgent. Bubble bath with candlelight at any hour. Sandwich or hummus for dinner. Chilled wine. Knitting until midnight while watching Dark Victory or An Affair to Remember. Writing at 6 in the morning or 11 at night. Taking city walks whenever the urge hits me. Happily donning a sweater and silk scarf against the foggy chill of morning and evening, getting a haircut yesterday, hearing the doleful sound of the foghorn out on the Bay even when the sun is shining inland. Coffee and sweet California peaches. It's all good. And then life and death intervene.

unspeakable loss
I left the house mid-morning and headed out to my nephew's coffee shop, Bread and Butter Cafe. We'd had dinner Saturday night and talked non-stop, so I looked forward to taking up his invitation to hang out in his place with my notebook. Over latte's when I first arrived, we jumped right into intense conversation, planned another dinner together -- and then he received a call from his mother that his older brother had passed. Today. He'd been ill, we thought he was getting better. He lived in Oakland, his parents live on the east coast. Is it a coincidence that I happen to be here at this moment in time? A friend commented: "timely, as it should be." Needless to say, the rest of the day took on quite a different aspect than expected. Through the weeks preceding this trip, many things conspired to keep me away and to change my plans, but something else always prodded me to hold firm. There are plans now that need to be decided upon, but one thing I know is that fate weaves a web of unexpected circumstances and we'd better be strong. Life is what happens when you're making other plans.

catching up

in my mind alone
An image that's been haunting me since my visit to SFMOMA last week is Tina Modotti's closeup of Jose Antonio Mella's typewriter with a bit of his political writing in it. He was a young Cuban Communist activist assassinated in 1929 while walking in Mexico City with Modotti. He is still considered a hero in present day Cuba because he tried to "internationalize" the Party. After his death, Modotti was arrested and held by the Mexican police as a suspect. It's a long political story: Mella, Modotti, writers, photographers, Diego Rivera, Communists, artists, Revolutionaries. An interesting one. I sort of added my reflection into the photo behind glass so maybe that's why it's haunting me today. Like stepping into a parallel life that I've always been fascinated with, minus the politics; those times in Mexico were intense with creative types. So, if I were brilliant like Woody Allen (Midnight in Paris) I would write myself into a new story about those times. But, alas, I am not.

Instead, I'm leaning into this life of solitude and writing, where my outside commitments have dissolved into a thimble-full and I'm faced with the tyranny of the blank page. Which, honestly, isn't a problem because I love to fill blank pages. The challenge comes in filling them with something worthwhile still being sought. And if it eludes me?  well, la de da (or slit my wrists).


so what's she doing there?
I take long walks, feeling more fit each day, if you discount the damp cold seeping into my arthritic bones and the shock to my system from the city rat I saw last night. I know cities are rife with them (I read that somewhere) especially cities near bodies of water. But still. Walked all the way to the Cannery, was nearly run down by weekend tourists, but managed a latte on a bench overlooking the glorious Bay. The Cannery, part of Ghirardelli Square, really doesn't have much going for it except history and location. It was built by Del Monte as a peach-canning plant in 1909 and remodeled a couple of times in recent decades. The guide books tout shops, restaurants, galleries, but (sorry) the choices were pretty uninteresting - except maybe for the chocolate shop and Lola's, which sells good blank notebooks (and souvenirs) and has a nicer stationery shop in North Beach.... 

and then...
Told Ron I had a date with a good-looking younger man one night. He sighed and said he hoped it was with my nephew. It was and I met up with James for a delicious dinner at Luella, an upscale neighborhood restaurant where a few years ago, when I was last here alone, I saw a Ben Stiller film being shot there. Back then, at night, I walked my friend's gorgeous golden retriever and the film crew always stopped to talk to us (mostly they talked to the dog). I never saw any movie stars. Anyway, James and I started talking and didn't stop for three hours. It feels so good to be reconnected with one of my favorite people. And in a couple of days I'll visit his new cafe over in the panhandle area. (I'm turning into such a local! (have no idea of how to get there).

City living is such a kick (rats notwithstanding). I actually had a Thai dinner from a great restaurant, delivered to the door last night. Can you imagine! Delivered. To the door. The only place that delivers in Taos is Dominos and only within town limits. Oh yeah, and a glass of wine, followed by a bubble bath with candlelight. sigh!

Should he find he couldn't work it
there would still be time enough
     Henry James (Wings of the Dove)

a day in the sun

My companion in this experience doesn't talk much, but makes sure I note his presence.
It's late now as afternoon turns toward evening, sun still shining brightly. City sounds outside, mostly sirens and airplanes overhead, the cable car that rings its bell now and then. Soon I'll pour a glass of wine and finish the tuna sandwich from lunch - the one I bought earlier at the organic market. Later I'll figure out a late dinner. Maybe the Thai restaurant a couple of blocks away.

photography in Mexico
Thinking about the Photography in Mexico exhibit I saw yesterday at SFMOMA. From the 1920's pictorial world of Weston, Modotti, Bravo and others, to recent photojournalistic investigations of "the complex region surrounding the country's border with the United States." It is an amazing exhibition that closes on Sunday. Edward Weston is one of my heroes. Not just his innovative way of revealing beauty in the mundane (toilet bowl, peppers, ollas) but the way he wrote every day. It was his daybooks that inspired me to start keeping journals. What struck me about breadth of the show is that Mexico has always been rife with aesthetics and turbulence, art and politics, scenery and diversity, revolution and class disparity. And a kind of sober loneliness. Just check any news report today (yesterday or tomorrow) and it's all there. The city of SF was, however, shining in the sun. There was music in Yerba Buena Park across from the museum, and lots of traffic and conversations in several languages blowing on the wind. I love the architecture in this city...

And the old Brownie camera, French edition, that I saw on display in a shop....

I am just here.
I see the leaves fall in spite of 
my noisy chattering mind.
...this is the magnanimous life!
             Jakusho Kwong

kneel to life

Reading Neruda on a rooftop city garden...

Can't believe how fine it feels...an oasis amidst a bustling noisy world a few steps away. I love the open vastness of northern New Mexico, the mountains, the drop dead sunsets. I also know how much I love a good city. And San Francisco is one of the best.

I haven't quite gotten down to work yet. Today is actually my first full day alone and it will take time to settle into new realities. Find my own routine. Establish work and leisure based on my body rhythms. I'm writing. Rather, scribbling in notebooks -- the warming up, the release of pressure to make room for whatever is coming (hopefully, something!). I walk and get a total body workout on sidewalks that go up and down hills and nearly kill me as I slowly try to adjust. This isn't park walking, this is my beloved sidewalk walking, but it would be nice if they were flat! I walk for my groceries, to the Bay (the way back is uphill), to the cafe for a cappuccino and a bite to eat.

Will any poems come out of this? Or a story? An essay? Can I actually work on editing what I brought with me? Pages that seem somewhat stale and dreary in this cool windy atmosphere of sea-washed air and city noises? We'll see. Meanwhile I wrap a scarf around my neck (it's chilly) and keep my notebook and pen nearby because there won't be a warning when the muse finally strikes. While I'm waiting I'll read and knit the sock that is growing out of the yarn my friend left for me. I watched four episodes of Downton Abbey last night and knit, knit, knit.

This yarn is so delicious I'm sure it's Opal, but there's no label. It reminds me of chocolate chips and summer fruit. Watermelon and apricots and grapes. Neruda said:

...the hands' work is a destiny
and life shapes itself to their scars

I love that quote. My own hands, slightly gnarled and painful sometimes, are still capable of knitting socks so beautiful that Neruda would have been inspired once again to write a poem to them, perhaps called, An Ode to 21st Century Sox: lori lori brought me a pair of socks that she knitted with her own two hands...

Neruda reflected, the world does not really belong to the poet: perhaps the poet is not totally a child of this earth. Isolate, spacey, reflective, he is only "a child of the moon."
              (from the intro to Pablo Neruda: Late and Posthumous Poems (Manuel Duran)