tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29272400949598141942024-02-07T20:31:49.692-08:00What the Cat Dragged Ina compilation of observations, jottings, and haikurefgoddesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04828650322400274190noreply@blogger.comBlogger204125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2927240094959814194.post-11204152134291643492021-11-03T16:21:00.001-07:002021-11-03T16:21:40.406-07:00Where in the World...<p> A friend checked in the other month: "where are you, what are you doing?" I've stopped blogging and posting to Facebook and that's how most people keep track of me. So I thought about it. Why am I not communicating, why am I not connecting? I glanced through some of my draft blogs (the whiny/sad/exhausted/introspective ones that I did not want to share), and I thought....hmmm. But, for the sake of people who are wondering.....</p><p>I stopped blogging in spring of 2020, and previously had not done much in 2019. I'm not sure what made me stop. I had plenty of time and most people were documenting the hell out of Life in the Time of Covid. But, I didn't want to think about The Former Guy's daily assault on democracy, and I didn't want to think about how circumscribed my life was. I told people that my 3 years of being a nomad had prepared me for this, and that is sort of true. While I traveled, my connections were mainly virtual, and my activities solitary. But, of course, my activities were not pursued in solitude while I was petsitting. I visited museums, attended performances, checked out towns and countrysides, shopped for food, chatted with neighbors. Although most of my time was spent reading and knitting and writing, I did get out. I had something to write home about.</p><p>2020 was something else. I had no housemate and no pets to keep me company. I visited M once a week when I picked up my veggie share. Once I was vaccinated in 2021, I played some duets and trios, masked and sitting under the trees, but for a year my music was totally solitary. I learned some fiddle tunes and attempted some of the Bach unaccompanied sonatas and partitas. I practised my mini-piano. And of course I did other things. I folded 1000 cranes in solidarity with my nephew who was undergoing chemo. I tried to write, walk, and draw. I learned a bit of Norwegian on Duolingo. I did weekly virtual yoga with my Portland friends. I re-did The Artist's Way and started doing daily Morning Pages while I sipped my coffee. I also did Tai Chi Chih while I made the coffee and did the dishes. I posted a daily pic to Blipfoto. I set up a clay studio in the garage and made a LOT of pots. (They all got fired in the autumn, when Coyote Clay reopened.) I knitted and listened to books and podcasts. Mom called me every day. I lost 50 pounds. And these routines sufficed and continue to suffice in 2021. But they are nothing to write home about.</p><p>Eventually, things opened up a bit. In August, 2020, I drove to TX to bring back my housemate and her pets. In September, 2020, M died from a recurrence of cancer. I still can't write about it. In October, 2020, I went to Portland because my aunt had been calling me several times a week; she was not dealing well with isolation. She had technical problems with her computer and phone and emotional problems that led to medical problems. So, I car-camped across the West and ended up at B's house in SE Portland. She had just lost her husband and welcomed me into her guest room for as long as I needed it. I kept postponing my departure: I was helping my aunt, driving her to appointments, keeping her company, clearing up technical issues. I walked with S several days a week and saw several other friends and family, totally masked. I was reveling in B's company; it had been too long. I celebrated my aunt's birthday, Solstice, Christmas, New Year's. I made wreaths. I sewed a coffee cozy. I made jewelry. I watched spring return.</p><p>In March, I returned to NM, via a road trip with V through CA wine countries and various wild-flower spots. I arrived home in a freak snow storm. And here I am now. I've been pet-sitting for pay (a mere $25/day) at the co-op and in Santa Fe, but that's the only scheduled and gainful employment I have had. In the fall I went back to Portland to catsit for friends, and then to IL to join a sister for a roadtrip through TN to VA, where I met my nephew's fiancee. Last month I returned to IL for a trip to Branson MO; it was the sort-of annual Spider Reunion, but C had to bail. On these trips I saw some family, including two of my grandnieces.</p><p>It's all good, but somehow it's not enough. And the horrible politics that I tried to escape in 2017 are still there. It's been such a relief to have Biden in office: no more daily news bulletins about crazy and vicious behaviors. But, on my recent travels, I became sharply aware that the civil war is still in place: TRUMP WON and Fuck Biden signs were scattered throughout the Heartland. I don't know if we'll ever recover, and it makes me sad and anxious. And I miss the regular travel and the distraction it provides, although I hate flying in the time of COVID. I miss having gainful employment, although I don't want to be under someone's scrutiny and I don't want to be living under someone's schedule. I miss being productive, although I cannot define what I mean by productivity. None of what I'm feeling now is new, nor is the supportive feedback I'm getting. And that's why I'm not writing about it. It's small and boring.</p><p>My friend suggests that I look into reframing my inner monolog, which, again, is not new advice. But how? I want to run and hide again, instead. But that won't happen while the pandemic rages and the borders remain closed. So for now, I'm here in NM. I take pix, I read, I craft, I make music. Surely that's enough. I'll write again when I have something to say.</p>refgoddesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04828650322400274190noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2927240094959814194.post-46326339453911962392020-05-18T19:47:00.001-07:002020-05-18T19:47:57.733-07:00Toi toi toi Operaman<div align="center" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Calibri",sans-serif; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">From my Facebook post for October 30, 2017:</span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Calibri",sans-serif; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">A fabulous evening with the Barber and my charming host in the
over-the-top and delightful Coliseum. Wonderful music, sprightly physical
comedy, great company. Thanks, Stephen!</span></i></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="clear: right; float: right; font-family: "Calibri", sans-serif; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="720" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNK-Fgu8ZbIdtegzGZ6G46nRY7P0apCeHexSTFJoS4vvNZERtR1cXbNQfunV1xzSlv53wiYFgf906PNZOMcGlXBJ0z0QXpMoRvN-MmshBs7vhXvZhSmNRcRtgV0AVNLA_l8z0Wu0Aah9ud/s320/23031211_10211538188743579_4136297102628884445_n.jpg" width="240" /> </span><i></i></div>
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Calibri",sans-serif; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">I'd spent
most of the day at my cousin's house, pottering and tutoring, but got to the
Charing Cross tube station in time to stop by the National Portrait Gallery
(one of my favorite places in London) before meeting Stephen at the bistro by
the English National Opera house. The bistro was a brightly lit narrow
room, with a long bar along the left-hand wall and small tables for two
lined along a banquette to the right. I snaked through the crowded aisle
between these two points and found my companion for the evening, a tall smiling
aquiline-nosed man in his late 70’s, dapper and genial.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We ordered a hummus plate and good champagne
and commenced with the catching up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His
bubbling, now somewhat creaking, tenor voice talked of his fiancée, his recent
years in Ipswich, the opera we were about to watch (<i>The Barber of Seville</i>),
his relationship with the English music world, and news of old friends from
Portland (where we met so many years ago.)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I talked of my recent 6 months as a nomad and my upcoming book
plans.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It had been many years since our
respective moves away from Portland, years which included the death of his
mother and the death of my marriage.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>But, his warmth and interest in the world around him made those years
inconsequential:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>we talked delightedly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjt4kT-GcMDf347D-gTVk2AQZfRjqWcTdh72T_2V7y7gjr1GSRu1vDmxdnpg1JAS9gAPPO5FISEMpUSs5vZxzblJ2xUhTbajN4g5vvlgGRjwX8NOvOuYrL7crv_YiosNlH21zl21Lihcdw9/s1600/22851822_10211538191743654_2845235828034580670_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="720" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjt4kT-GcMDf347D-gTVk2AQZfRjqWcTdh72T_2V7y7gjr1GSRu1vDmxdnpg1JAS9gAPPO5FISEMpUSs5vZxzblJ2xUhTbajN4g5vvlgGRjwX8NOvOuYrL7crv_YiosNlH21zl21Lihcdw9/s200/22851822_10211538191743654_2845235828034580670_n.jpg" width="150" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "Calibri",sans-serif; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Afterwards we
walked down Piss Alley, a dark narrow cobbled affair with door niches at
intervals. It </span><span style="font-family: "Calibri",sans-serif; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">was a connector between two major thoroughfares and a place for
drunks and drug deals. Our destination was the stage door for the ENO, where he
dropped off a bottle of champagne for the tenor, to whom we were indebted for
our tickets.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then back up the alley to
the ENO’s Coliseum, a rococo structure, inside and out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Here’s Stephen’s take on it:</span><br />
<div style="margin-left: .5in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Calibri",sans-serif; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">It so happened that an old friend, KH was in town and this
provided a perfect opportunity to get together. K is a violinist and although
she has played as an orchestral musician in the Overture to the Barber, had
never seen it and knew next-to-nothing about it. From the moment we went into
the auditorium K was oo-ing and aaaah-ing over its splendor of the venue. We
had excellent seats in the stalls and settled in for some fun. From the opening
notes of the overture, K was smiling. Over the course of the next 3 hours and
10 minutes, I would glance at her from time to time and that smile never left
her face! Not once did I catch her without that happy grin. And that made two
of jus ‘cos I was doing a lot of smiling myself.</span></i></div>
<span style="font-family: "Calibri",sans-serif; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsBXxyhVoeqS8JncyU23qaAx8eRd5O1qbF01jDuduPjVkKO1EPgbASZiKJEOCObOn6dO5tQ2hiljR-f3gog_ens1AjM1BKn3laBYgN_4laSVJ7YOz1Z8cbBKbsk4ewQxt6W-BhZY_vNX0_/s200/23031138_10211538187743554_3351454278869156108_n.jpg" /> </span><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="699" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiM-T3_h4zpFx5viJAg5qI7dtBZ2V7UGfUTBZ4zYwIXA9ZIiBkzSFJoNcLSIJp8snhYsx9mP3kjm_Gx1MzYhU6RkZ3qsK0xRGGvsvw0XFHneTVnLgifa5m9m4KUA008XF8ADv-Bnxu3sMz8/s200/22852054_10211538190303618_4070814079685479904_n.jpg" width="145" /><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="720" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi43QitFShtswnaRp8aSONU2doXmw4H-kg_iGj5mNNWB0IkgJcBf_-omFhyDD9xj-K6nlsqKgA9ghUJv86s28rOnvir_DjVCaROc1nEd8TwEkgZQEKy5D42Y_t8Equi7QcFvqVLw-YtVAjH/s200/22852874_10211538191103638_6022419977104247512_n.jpg" width="150" /><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="671" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9-B4_ulv-WrN_3Yk3eER3id3dHg-3lgKpOVeE3dRQTeTUJwtc2HLoC5-PdBX6uyj9aikm6QJRQsqx5NPhfpPpfikPHgcl_v7q8cwW9tXZPXgkhqcHNU8hQFSq8305NNTyZO2QncQwM3lG/s200/22852068_10211538185943509_2576136341440179162_n.jpg" width="139" /><br />
<span style="font-family: "Calibri",sans-serif; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Afterwards,
we shared a taxi to Waterloo Station where he caught a train back to Ipswich
and I caught the Tube to Leyton.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was
the last time I would see him.</span><br />
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Calibri",sans-serif; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">We met over 20 years ago when he visited my friends H and E,
current caretakers for my cat Simone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>He was living in Marin County at that point, with an ex-wife and pre-teen
daughter nearby. I never got his trajectory clear.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was an English choir boy whose father flew
planes in WWII.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I think he sang under
the baton of Benjamin Britten. At any rate, he was involved with the Aldeburgh
Festival and was invited to sing in the 50<sup>th</sup> anniversary of <i>The
Building of the House</i>:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>he was one of
2 people who sang in the original performance for the Queen.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was a Cambridge scholar. He was a fabulous
cook. He was a solicitor, complete with wig, in Hong Kong. He hung around with
Steve Miller and the band. But I knew him as H and E’s <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>LeBoyfriend, a charming and funny and erudite
man who loved all things opera and was a kind and delightful friend.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Eventually he moved to Portland.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He worked for the Portland Opera a bit and
wrote the opera’s blog under the moniker of OperaMan, even after he left the
Opera itself in 2007.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At one point, when
I first contemplated living with D, he became my housemate/catsitter for the duration
of that experiment (the conclusion of which should have warned me but
didn’t.)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We were witnesses and
signatories to the marriage certificate when H and E joined the throng of gay
couples getting married at the Keller Auditorium that giddy and joyous March 3,
2004.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(The Multnomah County ruling was overturned,
and it would be 10 years before such marriages would legally stick in Oregon.)
I was his guest at many an opera dress rehearsal at the same venue; as OperaMan
he was comped for most of the operas.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
following email exchange is representative of this time:</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">
<a href="https://www.google.com/s2/u/0/photos/public/AIbEiAIAAABECMeD-_GPpOuQ-gEiC3ZjYXJkX3Bob3RvKihjZmZkZmMyODBiNjc4NTdlZTM0MWZiOGVhYmYwZmQxZTVkYjZjYjhkMAH7SguucfbXNiAxiA3pxgXervg05w?sz=80" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://www.google.com/s2/u/0/photos/public/AIbEiAIAAABECMeD-_GPpOuQ-gEiC3ZjYXJkX3Bob3RvKihjZmZkZmMyODBiNjc4NTdlZTM0MWZiOGVhYmYwZmQxZTVkYjZjYjhkMAH7SguucfbXNiAxiA3pxgXervg05w?sz=80" /></a><span style="font-family: "Calibri",sans-serif; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"> </span><i><span style="font-family: "Calibri",sans-serif; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">To me:</span></i></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Calibri",sans-serif; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">See you at Jake's!</span></i></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Calibri",sans-serif; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">H and I will be the couple sitting doing today's NYT crossword
and drinking many gallons of beer (she's a real toper when she puts her mind to
it as you can imagine - sometimes she will even have a second pint!)</span></i></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Calibri",sans-serif; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Love,</span></i></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Calibri",sans-serif; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">S.</span></i></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Calibri",sans-serif; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">To Stephen: </span></i></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Calibri",sans-serif; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">I'll be the person in the short tight black dress with the bright
cover-up that is failing to cover-up sufficiently.</span></i></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: "Calibri",sans-serif; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">In 2009,
Stephen initiated one of the grandest gestures in a life filled with kind
gestures. The story involves Twitter and a Washington DC music teacher named
Priscilla Barrow.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Stephen entered the
Twitter-based OperaPlot contest (the idea was to summarize an opera plot within
the 140 character-limit of a Twitter post.) He won the Grand Prize, 2 tickets
to the Washington National Opera’s production of <i>Turandot</i> followed by
attendance at <b>the</b> social event of the year, the Opera Ball. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Stephen decided to give the tickets away.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>H suggested he choose a music teacher in
DC.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At the end of the story, which
involved such luminaries as Placido Domingo and Aretha Franklin, Priscilla was
the belle of the ball, bedecked in jewels and beautifully wearing a dress
donated by the Opera.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Stephen delightedly
stage-managed from afar. The link to Stephen’s inimitable blog entry about it seems to have disappeared, but here are<a href="https://operatoonity.com/2011/09/07/up-close-and-personal-with-stephen-llewellyn-aka-operaman-two-time-operaplot-winner/" target="_blank"> links </a>to two <a href="https://www.oregonlive.com/news/oregonian/margie_boule/2009/07/portlands_operaman_becomes_a_h.html" target="_blank">other</a> stories:</span><br />
<br /><span style="font-family: "Calibri",sans-serif; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Shortly
thereafter, Stephen moved back to England to care for the Aged Parent and
delight his Facebook friends with her trenchant comments and his loving stories
and political commentary.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His girlfriend
was a frequent visitor, and I watched their long-distance love affair from
afar, rejoicing in the happiness which glowed from the pictures he posted.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(My favorite was from their visit to
Ascot.)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I visited England several times
during his final years there, but I never met her and only saw him on that
fabulous evening in 2017.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Calibri",sans-serif; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">A year into
my nomadic lifestyle, I logged the following journal entry from Norway:</span><br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Calibri",sans-serif; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">April 14, 2018</span></i></div>
<i><span style="font-family: "Calibri",sans-serif; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">There
is one cloud to my content, however. My friend Stephen Llewellyn, who took me
to the English National Opera last year, fell and broke his neck. He's alive,
but obviously in a serious condition. His fiancée posted the news on FB, and I
just read about it. Reportedly, he is in good spirits and wiggling his toes,
but Jesus. He's had enough health crap, with various cancer episodes.</span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-family: "Calibri",sans-serif; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"> </span></i>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">The next 2 years would be full of setbacks and jumps forward.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But the love story continued, and his plans
moved onward. In January of this year he was set to move into a house in
Ipswich, to be joined later by his fiancée, who is currently working in the States
as a visiting professor of music.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sadly,
he developed septicemia and by March he was in hospital. He died on May 8, of
complications from COVID 19. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was a
smart, principled, kind, talented, and generous friend, and the world is much
poorer without him in it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I asked H if
he died alone and she said that, because of COVID, his only contact with loved
ones was a tablet, given to him by one of his many friends.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>However, she wrote, knowing Stephen, by the
end of his stay the staff were all dear friends. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">I guess that is a reasonable epitaph for any life.</span></div>
refgoddesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04828650322400274190noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2927240094959814194.post-33843958768360371712020-05-15T12:31:00.000-07:002020-05-15T12:31:04.194-07:00The Five Senses<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<img border="0" data-original-height="320" data-original-width="255" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8SN5h4XGGR2CPo4BqNOyGYIpXPWy84Dt1xkvHxsvIey23s6LXBvef0wquqRTMDO_lkNBerxvlQLbC4cofg3Jkf-6QnlbG05UB7jIzpqKGKpmZVofMjnwPuPB-r-KdQP06QHf4wMR7e3pu/s200/IMG_0451.jpg" width="159" /></div>
<br />
<br />
As I sit at the brightly colored batik table cloth,<br />
the scents of sweet, pungent spices permeate the air;<br />
I can almost feel them, prickly and penetrating.<br />
(The cinnamon predominates.) <br />
<br />
And I can almost feel the gentle plucking of the lute,<br />
today's choice in the daily experiment,<br />
finding a new compoer, A to Z<br />
(Today's is Luys de Narva'ez.)<br />
<br />
The mug I made from speckled buff cradles the warm brown of the coffee.<br />
I savor the sip of acrid richness;<br />
it craves a complementary sweetness. <br />
(Is the bread pudding ready?)<br />
<br />
Tasting touching, seeing, smelling, hearing:<br />
all present and accounted for, not one missing.<br />
But I float in a sensory deprivation chamber.<br />
(If a tree falls in the wood and no one is there....?)<br />
<br />
Not so long ago I sat at a friend's table.<br />
We clinked glasses, we shared smiles.<br />
I can almost feel our voices, rising and falling softly. <br />
(I am comforted.)refgoddesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04828650322400274190noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2927240094959814194.post-43688255940863222932020-04-18T12:11:00.002-07:002020-04-18T12:11:42.252-07:00Invasion of personal spaceThe hummingbird showed up at the feeder today. I'm so relieved. There was only one day of snow, but it was a long day of solid wind and fall. The snow piled on the roof and fell with a thump that sometimes shook the house. I bundled in my sweater, enjoying the soft snowy light, but wondered where the birds were sheltering, how the little hummers with their high metabolism could manage. I still wonder, but it seems they are fine. There is comfort in that. Maybe I cannot travel during this pandemic, but they can. And they are visiting me in my solitary confinement. It's nice.<br />
<br />
They are not the only travelers. I hear the constant whoosh and hum of I-40, down below my hilltop home. Who is out there on a Saturday? Why are they not sheltering in place? It's not all trucks by any means. Clearly, people are out and about. Not me, though. I find myself flinching from the very idea of it, rather the way I flinch when I turn the corner to my PO Box and see a person fewer than 6' away. I have become a recluse, and other people are a source of fear and discomfort, an invasion. <br />
<br />
The crowded and crazy world has been leading me up to this point. A year ago, I sat in the top row of the Saddle Dome in Calgary, Alberta. I felt both acrophobic and claustrophobic. I thought about random shooters and the long crowded hike back down the beer-sticky cement stairs. Then I thought, no, I'm in Canada, I don't need to worry about gun violence in public places. I breathed carefully and watched the Flames fall to the Avalanche. At the end of the game, I followed the crowds into the rain and walked slowly back to the hotel, sympathizing with the low-spirited silence of my fellow walkers, such a contrast to the pre-game exuberance walking in. The wet streets reflected white and yellow headlights and bright red tail-lights and neon blue streetlights. People passed me, without a glance. As I turned away from the crowds, my nighttime caution kicked in, and I watched doorways and approaching pedestrians for signs of danger, walking briskly and attentively in the way the self-defense people taught me: don't look like a victim, don't look hesitant. If your spidey sense tingles, cross the street. <br />
<br />
I remember another spring in Portland, 30+ years ago. A workmate and I were walking down 10th street after a quick Safeway run on my lunch break. We were talking animatedly when an unkempt man accosted us, asking for money. I looked at him and said, "Sir, you are invading my personal space." I was irritated, because he had panhandled us on the way in and I thought that once was enough for one day. The trees were budding, the sky was blue, the street was clear of litter and this person was an affront to my pleasant day. <br />
<br />
Now personal space has a whole new meaning, and the invasion of it is more than an affront: it is an assault. But it's an invisible assault, not overt like the guns in the mass shootings or the muggings on the empty streets in the bad neighborhoods. One doesn't know how to defend from it. My mom calls me after her food is delivered, panicking because the delivery people aren't wearing masks or gloves or standing 6 ft away. "They are breathing on my food!" I tell her that even if she did her own shopping, she could not guarantee that no one has touched or breathed on her food, and she would have even more people standing too close. "Just wash the items and wash your hands," I say. You can't live in fear, I think. The world has always been dangerous.<br />
<br />
Meanwhile, I watch the birds, envying their freedom, and flinch away from people at the post office. refgoddesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04828650322400274190noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2927240094959814194.post-70905440762697656232019-03-01T06:04:00.003-08:002019-03-01T06:04:22.340-08:00Astro/Carto chartAs per usual, an innocent query turns into a bit of sibling rivalry and apocryphal story-telling. <br /><br />
<i>I start the ball rolling:</i><br />Any of you ever know what time I was born? Mom thinks after noon, M thought around midnight, either side. My copy of the certificate doesn’t have a time, but I have a visual memory of a previous one that has 12:42 as the time...but a.m? p.m.? And is it an accurate memory? Inquiring minds (an astrologer friend) want to know!<br /><br /><i>Oldest sister replies</i>: <br />I was going to suggest birth certificate. I think M is correct dad woke L up to tell him he had two new little sisters and he said girls! disgustedly and went back to sleep.<br /><br />
<i>Brother replies: </i>I actually knew this at one time. Seems to me Dad told us in the morning that the event had happened - i.e. it had probably happened during the early morning, but that would imply Dad was in St. Peter when Mom delivered and you were born in the Twin Cities. It would make more <br /> sense that Dad was with Mom and someone else was watching us - I do have this probably false memory of Dad being with us. I am almost certain you were (appropriately) born in the Twin Cities. And I believe the two of you were 6 minutes apart.<br />Mom really should know, it was kind of an important event - she was there.<br /><br />
<i>Me again:</i><br />You would think Mom would know, but she has forgotten many details of my childhood. I think you guys wore her out.<br /> I do know that they didn’t record the names until late June. I wish I hadn't lost my previous copy of the certificate. The new one is very laconic. M is going to look for her copy when she returns to Monmouth. But yes, 6 minutes difference, born in St Paul.<br /><br />
<i>Brother:</i><br />
Yes, you came home with your name labels - "H- baby #1" and H- <br /> baby #2". Maybe a presage of Thing 1 and Thing 2.<br /> E only punched Dad so I don't see how we could have worn Mom out.<br />
<br />
<br />
<i>E finally checks in, in defense of Mom's memory:</i><br />I remember being upset with Mom when I was a teenager and she couldn't tell me which childhood illnesses I had had. Fast forward 40 years. I was trying to remember which vaccinations and illnesses J had--I was uncertain. I only had one to remember; she had 6. I immediately forgave her.<br /><br />
<i>Me:</i><br />
Exactly! That’s why I was hoping you guys could augment/correct her memories. But since you can’t remember your own son’s deets....<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<i>My twin also writes about memory loss:</i><br />I vaguely remember some question of what day we might be born on, so I'm thinking it was after midnight, but I'm not sure where that memory is from and if I just made it up.<br />
<br />
<br /><i>Somehow Mom gets in on the thread and comes through with some details:</i><br />
I do remember this much. I was staying in a hotel in St Paul and was supposed to go into the hospital to be induced on the 28th. I got up in the morning and called a cab to take me to the hospital. The driver was very nervous, asking if I were getting close and I reassured him. When I got to the delivery room shortly after, I presume about noon, they discovered I was already in labor. I had been in labor for some time, but didn't have the muscle tone to deliver. They gave me induction pills and before long M arrived. They said, Mrs. H you have twins and the second is a breach so we're going to put you under. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<i>I am satisfied, but can't help waving another flag at my dueling older siblings:</i><br />Perfect! Clearly I was nothing but trouble from the get-go, and as I suspected, there are many apocryphal twin stories out there. Thanks for the memories, Mom! Was Dad there?<br /><br />
<i>My twin capitulates gracefully: </i><br />
Thanks K! I had forgotten about you being breach delivered. But I did remember we were born six minutes apart. And I thought I was born first, because I always claimed to be older than you. Don't know where I got the midnight scenario from. I never heard about the rest of the story-- the cabdriver, etc.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<i>My bro takes up the challenge:</i><br />Not to interject in front of Mom, but if L's story and my memory are <br /> correct, Dad was with us. Of course I am not sure how L would have <br /> known what my tone was when Dad gave me the news. I don't believe she <br /> was right at the scene.<br /><br />
<i>L defends: </i><br />
I did not hear dad tell you. Dad simply reported that's what occurred.<br /><i> </i><br />
<i>My brother ripostes: </i><br />
I have trouble believing Dad had that to say about my tone.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<i>L delivers the coup de grace:</i><br />I didn't hear it directly so cannot verify its truth. Am just reporting what dad said and we can't ask him. He was rather amused by it.<br />
<br />
The point of all this sibling discussion was to find the accurate time of birth for my <a href="https://carolmontoyaastrology.com/">astrologer friend </a>C, who was pledged to give me a reading. Since my recent catastrophic trip (broken ankle, lost/stolen wallet, bronchitis), I had been pondering my choices and my nomadic lifestyle, and she is an intuitive astrologer who has known me for some time (she was the backup caregiver when I was living with E.) She also could use the work, so it was a win-win. We settled on a birth time of 12:48 p.m. and video-conferenced a few days later.<br />
<br />
<br />
She thinks that my writing will be the exciting part of the upcoming year. However, the influence of Capricorn is a strong grounding one, which is not conducive to the nomadic life. The overall story is that I should be looking for a stable place, a domestic sort of thing. The ankle break also indicates that. However, since I'm booked to travel for at least another 6 months, I'll have to get my stability from having a pied-a-terre with P in Tijeras, and from traveling in a way that settles me into a community and home environment. Trusted Housesitters will be my stability, I guess.<br />
<br />
Still, in order to provide me some guidance for future homes or travel locales, C checked on some Astro-Carto lines, picking the largest cities nearby. The Jupiter lines lead to my happy place, where I'm confident and relaxed (but need to watch out for culinary temptations.) The closest cities are Anchorage, WInnipeg, and Dallas. I immediately tossed Dallas out of the mix (no Texas heat, bugs, or politics for this chick), but found a house-sit in Winnipeg during the folk festival this coming July. L (Mom's partner) is from that area, and he says it's quite nice. I'm less sure: while it has an international population, it's also basically Canada's Midwest. And no ocean? No mountains? Anchorage would be better, geologically speaking, but I have yet to find a housesit there.<br />
<br />
My home area of Santa Fe and Albuquerque has the influence of Mars (so does El Paso, but...Texas.) Mars' influence is exciting, but difficult, and would be a testing ground for independence and romantic relationships. I think I've already had this experience. Next!<br />
<br />
West of Phoenix, Venus holds sway. C describes this as a place for the creative and uncomplicated life. While this attracts, I would apparently feel lost without a partner. And....Arizona. Next!<br />
<br />
Mercury is in charge, east of Minneapolis/St. Paul. Apparently, it would be a positive place to explore my roots, my psyche, my plans. That makes sense: it's my birthplace and home of much of my family, past and present. However, it's also cold. Then again, that seems to be a theme for the places C has found for me, and I do like the colder climes. I wouldn't say no, although it's not really calling to me at this point. <br />
<br />
East of Green Bay, Wisconson, is where I confront my polarities, my relationships with my parents, and my past. The Sun, Moon, Chiron, and Uranus converge here, and it's a great place for passionate relationships and procreation. Ummm...Next!<br />
<br />
If I give rein to Neptune's complexity and power, I'll probably end up changing my goals. If I want to be reclusive and spiritual and work with gurus, creative illusions, or entertainment, I could move to San Diego or..... Boise? I don't see myself as spiritual or mystic, although I wish I did have that sort of passion. It would be nice to think there is an underlying power, but I'm skeptical (and too interested in comfort and community.) And neither place appeals, although there are other towns in the area, of course: these are just the largest communities near the lines.<br />
<br />
It appears that the Pacific Northwest is not the place for me: while fostering creativity and filled with family and friends-who-are-family, it holds negative energies. I had come to that conclusion already and asked her astrological opinion out of curiosity, so I'm not overly chagrined. However, I do wish she had found some places outside the US for me to consider. I don't see the upcoming civil war as conducive to finding my happy place. But the only international place she suggested was Budapest, and it has never called to me. And, while I love Norway, it doesn't fit in any line. Besides, my correspondents from last year seem to think I was miserable for my 3 months there. Just because the snow came up past my chin, I had to shovel the deck and roof and keep the wood fire burning, and I had to walk a mile one way to the store....<br />
<br />
Actually, I do like to hunker down in the winter, and I do like the northern climes, but, thinking it over, I was a bit lonely, even though I had the downstairs neighbor/friend, the Gjovik symphony, and P's visit. So, in the final analysis, I do need to find a lifestyle and home that provide a community of like-minded individuals as well as comfort and beauty. <br />
<br />
I know it's out there.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br /><br /> refgoddesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04828650322400274190noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2927240094959814194.post-74182605509686786412018-12-12T15:45:00.000-08:002018-12-12T15:45:41.107-08:00It was messiier than that<br />
It was a glorious fall day. I was in the Ghost Ranch Library, working on donations, when my phone rang. The call was from my ex-sister-in-law. I last saw her in August 2017, when my sister and I drove up to Oregon from my house-sits in California in order to say a graveside farewell to Aunt J. (Some ceremonies take longer to arrange than others, especially when everyone is farflung.) After the ceremony, I dropped my sister at the airport and drove out to Mulino to stay with R and L in their new (to me) home. Cousins, daughters, and granddaughters came out for a potluck, but D and my stepson K chose otherwise. I was sorry about that, as K and I are on reasonably good terms and I do love him, but I was relieved to have the uncomfortable meeting with D postponed for some other visit. He had suggested a getaway, and that just was never going to be in the cards.<br />
<br />
Now that I was back in the States, I did plan to visit Portland, and I was happy to hear L's voice. I took the phone out to patio, where the reception was better. The heart-shaped golden cottonwood leaves were blowing about, and the sky was a deep blue. It was a gorgeous day. We talked a bit and then L told me why she had called. D took his life on Oct 1. He had apparently been struggling for the
last year. He was her only sibling, and their parents passed some time
ago, so she's the last of that nuclear family.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
We talked about that, and about K, and to my surprise, I found myself weeping. Mainly I was grieving for his pain and despair, and for his family. I left D almost 6 years
ago, so my personal sorrow was buried deep, compounded by some guilt. Could I have saved him? He never did well living alone. But then again, I did not do well living with him. And in the long run, this was his lifelong battle. I was only a small part of the army of friends and family that fought beside him and ultimately could only stand aside and watch him flailing and losing in single combat. It was heartbreaking then, and it's heartbreaking now.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
October passed. My college friends were scheduled to visit that weekend and were a loving distraction and sounding board. The Ghost Ranch management continued to be dysfunctional and provide both drama and angst for most of the staff. I volunteered at the Balloon fiesta and played in an APO concert. I played trios with nearby friends. I hiked through the golden autumnal weather. And I provided pix, words, and memories for L as she and K and M planned the memorial and attended grief counseling.</div>
<div>
<b><br /></b></div>
<div>
<b>Memories of his affiliations and accomplishments:</b></div>
<div>
<i>I know that he belonged to the Oregon Alternative Educators’
Association (can’t recall exact name.) He helped produce E’s
play, </i>Home to Walata<i>. His coffee klatsch did something with Panera,
can’t recall what. KA would know. He did overnights at a
few homeless shelters. KL could speak to his involvement with
the day shelter at UU. Lots of UU involvement: singing in Chalice
Choir, teaching in the Learning Community, Men’s Group, donating to the
building fund. He marched in NAMI parades and Parkinson’s walks. He was
a loyal and supportive friend, which is a huge accomplishment in my
book. GR included him in the thank you credits of his
woodworking book.</i></div>
<div>
<div>
<i>The list of activities and involvement is long, but could be summed up by a spiritual and social activist sensibility.<br /><br />In a word, a good and complicated man.</i></div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
<div>
<b>Adjectives, good and bad:</b></div>
<div>
<i>Loving, lovable,
frustrating, creative (especially in the kitchen), needy, fun-loving,
caring, giving, ethical, intelligent, socially conscious, angry,
depressed, fiscally incompetent, sports loving, jazz aficionado,
TV-addict, fatherly, impatient, well-dressed, opinionated, abrasive,
devoted (to family, friends, and causes), selfish, never boring.</i></div>
<div>
<i><br /></i></div>
<div>
<i>I miss the good times and am grateful for the many gifts of spirit and connection, especially with his family (my family.)</i></div>
<div>
<i> </i></div>
<div>
My sisters came to visit from Oct 31 to Nov 7 and during that time frame I learned that E, now 103, was in hospice. I went out the next week for a farewell visit at her Berkeley care facility. While there, the dates were set for D's memorial and wake: Dec 8/9. I cancelled the next several weeks with Ghost Ranch and arranged a trip to Portland. In the midst of that, Ghost Ranch decided to make me move out during Thanksgiving week, despite the fact that no one was going to be<i> </i>in the farmhouse, and I wanted, as a professional, to come back in January and wind up my projects. But that's a story for another post.</div>
<div>
<br /><i></i></div>
<div>
So, I came to Portland, to drink the wine that L and G had been storing for me during my 18 nomadic months, to visit friends, and to say goodbye to D. I thought I was okay until the night before my flight out, when I started weeping again. I came out to the living room and told P: "I'm never going to see D again." Suddenly, I was no longer grieving for him and his family. I was grieving for myself. </div>
<div>
<br /><i></i></div>
<div>
For the most part, my friends and family understood, but they also reminded me that there were good reasons I gave up on the marriage and good reasons I had a restraining order for the first year after I left him. For the memorial service, I sang <i>Fragile</i> at the end of the prelude, the song he sang to me at our wedding. "On and on, the rains will fall, like tears from a star, like tears from a star. On and on, the star will say, how fragile we are, how fragile we are." True of our marriage, true of his life.</div>
<div>
<br /><i></i></div>
<div>
It was a beautiful service. Most of my personal friends and family did not attend, but those who did benefited by hearing the loving words and memories. There were good reasons I loved him. Friends talked of Big Red, Robbie, Big Unc, the boy and man with a joyous lack of boundaries, the man who held his friends and family close in love and laughter until the last year, when he shut them all out. He stopped initiating gatherings, stopped cooking, stopped returning calls and emails, stopped accessing the joy that surrounded him. His mental illness took him. But, while acknowledging that battle, the service and reception celebrated the lovable D. </div>
<i> </i>Still, I could not get through the final hymn, thinking how the peace it epitomized had failed him. <i> I give thanks to the waves upholding me
Hail the great winds urging me on
Greet the infinite sea before me
Sing the sky my sailor's song
I was born upon the fathoms
Never harbor or port have I known
The wide universe is the ocean I travel
And the Earth is my blue boat home</i> <div>
That night I stayed with R and L, helping with preparations for the wake. I learned how D's last year had spiralled downward. Although R and L were his lifeline and he stayed with them every weekend, he spent his time holed up in the TV room. He
ignored the weekly messages from one of his oldest friends, a friend who
spoke at our wedding and spoke equally movingly at the service. The last time L saw D, she told him he needed to resume therapy and he later asked her to drive him to a therapy session. When she arrived for the drive, he was not there. I asked R, who found D. And that's when I discovered how D chose to end it. It wasn't drugs, his choice in several previous attempts. As L told her cousins, "It was messier than that." And irrevocable. I don't need to wonder if anyone could have saved him. But the image of that final act is indelible, and as I watch him crying in my imagination, I cry too. </div>
<div>
<br /><i></i></div>
<div>
I wish I could have saved him. I wish he could have saved himself.<br /><i></i></div>
<div>
<i> </i><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6LVAacOmI1CrIuJu8K0KIeU6PNmdkJJQeNMwRj1uEKX833xQ-6oyIPr8JJNF3fGf2z7q0_xoq30wgcItxGTJWtpts6SCYROfA4lu98z5hcNTvxFFbW2feMdyFvJL5aUmct-y1mgxWD0FI/s1600/44365111_10213977033633177_4166917841116725248_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="719" data-original-width="960" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6LVAacOmI1CrIuJu8K0KIeU6PNmdkJJQeNMwRj1uEKX833xQ-6oyIPr8JJNF3fGf2z7q0_xoq30wgcItxGTJWtpts6SCYROfA4lu98z5hcNTvxFFbW2feMdyFvJL5aUmct-y1mgxWD0FI/s320/44365111_10213977033633177_4166917841116725248_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><div style="color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica,Arial,sans-serif; font-size: 14px; margin: 0px 0px 6px;">
We walked together<br />And with friends. I walked endings<br />Alone, then and now.</div>
<div style="color: #1d2129; display: inline; font-family: Helvetica,Arial,sans-serif; font-size: 14px; margin: 6px 0px 0px;">
RIP Dave. I will always love you.</div>
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="960" height="133" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjV7CynN2oYH-qNXqevsGFYO_13wBqmPnIwKtEDX524EuCjy_rCnOJC2EwMHCqw4ygo7orKmSJihO1heoMINdHqWQreuYDUYQK-qcuw3MEtqxsKzDbekfeOckhp6hNfbm0xJQF1Tgyoyx1L/s200/IMG_2689.JPG" width="200" /><img border="0" data-original-height="784" data-original-width="960" height="163" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4-2Xe0IUDXPLRwbuYQW8CBZIIhsw2_viLCu-OZkYWDV0Hyvlcb06Agp_f3BpIYYRF_3TOdiCmQuQ-gAD8ljXGd2mAqClNCdHXDLETYYUgZnadgkRpCwujDl7uhoilXB3xqZXfcmJy7Fto/s200/IMG_5020.JPG" width="200" /><img border="0" data-original-height="240" data-original-width="320" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiF1VH5Wi6J7HY4oSIQsgive5LUF_yQ7jROlq4bnJPszUfk54Agr7g5vZdZBn0GaN7GPqOIZ7T1ifrPjnS4_bNXBR3hgefPBfYxNmI_rKLx66JkgORKpnJ26JXZhm2FpPT7pW2GREuqFkaW/s200/IMG_5032.jpg" width="200" /></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="240" data-original-width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJrFYkoWUiAiPqJb7_ftx75o5s8kbgiQ95-ecfNbNKKnUNhImqvuqkmnKUPibiTjIA4plbznlXL5L8hfJBDCvUtmCyUrPfi3fIdDO28b7A6RNZxMnU0ZyoaBVA-pyd_2qqFMg8MnkBa9rU/s1600/IMG_5049.JPG" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">On our honeymoon</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKkp7VK1Zwy5djyrULBHBqy0g237hO_KAi2jIhUwDgoctD6hZLDK8OwTdMnAeh31kNkCYeCkjsf0FseLXdLDJUldfObWi0wEedZoiaFfl6uvrMbrdEZNwHaCN64mE0dFAXLM-WZqVRw727/s320/IMG_5052.JPG" width="200" /><img border="0" data-original-height="240" data-original-width="320" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAdk8l1NlgPIGdaRwVKgURtpa5Pz8ZBJOAQBsXkHTEkzNvQc58kv7jTY1QOmSPCmgNx3p-SoYDkNLokNAt6OzN1B4u-Vw6MUTMATZZ4aHg0ZB8z9MmW6B03y9JWh9vqaBeTYMgImdON2Gm/s1600/IMG_5050.JPG" width="200" /><img border="0" data-original-height="240" data-original-width="320" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5AU1_okoq6f4U680CzKoy2X3Iw8f9HnbaE06lcuI18VIlfXxMscJQtXSrrnVR3q-HZIJdrVtyhKHW2RdGhWiM_lHXO3St84iFnqg9_HJVq2xnsuiQk42kOiiFFyq4HBAwbCWkdiNxWDgk/s1600/IMG_5051.JPG" width="200" /></div>
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<img border="0" data-original-height="750" data-original-width="1000" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitV1ReTj9ha_yFgjj1N8_v6YF_ZqO0SfkDBaKyp2JQ1yzzVu8xO7ta1NiZoPaZfGESom3Z6cNgYPFt1BmkxfF3J8BTAHHIASYU_2GCR1hM37huThM-WxWbnnFT1ByNfyzsybhvC65xwPil/s200/IMG_5057.JPG" width="200" /><img border="0" data-original-height="750" data-original-width="1000" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAGrSUaBpYf6JgdLrrnKNR9PfQVatFSOTIq8MPgTKoQhecSAHYH3GoqLCWYGJq68w_3aoojtA6hVaPKDl2PZmdwK2oFaq3B7QUHhyphenhyphenhHBDGF0vyyBqPcp_h5Y8bfs7mu4EUi6GCB72ei7-Q/s200/IMG_5055.JPG" width="200" /><img border="0" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="750" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjucjnnVfL0FQ6DEBDRVgHnceuE2Wv06aqhYkcLaJuczZlgwqO1fN4J0DGMiOFjKe4ZmdWouUldq12KIyEHKmu2H7IIqY8o35Zap8Csc_kPr8SbW4b68kbMblxjWDzGcBglJdtxwAYu4dXg/s200/IMG_5053.JPG" width="150" /><img border="0" data-original-height="750" data-original-width="1000" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEho70YbChjX4vLqEYeSWYx5-84VQA4VvD1Fx3_TZ9XB99QHhn15_3mzaWPaoer7u3TrJhxsZj2-5A3a6gzs6TcqSdlj6qgYlD9AugF0PBoX2MTuv1VEkQgBuJJHO2WlPJ4Oee60cG-ZlyUz/s200/IMG_5056.JPG" width="200" /><img border="0" data-original-height="240" data-original-width="320" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfo_5s6MZoZa9GZkFi4DWCjZ5a-8jd9Bj51j029CwyBu4eFfye3wTWSTSx6AXBstz2RV4JZTWH0udVBAKdmkBp9iuBcawUDjSvijXZhfQjpGbXY_IV0sqK9SA23-QFkr6g3jnMVvy7Gwbe/s200/IMG_5064.JPG" width="200" /></div>
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<img border="0" data-original-height="465" data-original-width="491" height="189" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiag5_j5yJ1G2jya5w-5RMGxZtVTtR00kRCu80LnxlcZ50qYlDa7-8q8_oqGo_woOkEoQK0iEGKR9G27DfrlTQ0Dxz9eQOVxMsU5Ir-fJ_oLcZ4XMxEw3QJh6Wg9Bo-x5WQ-LhXMNLSSdYn/s200/IMG_5062.JPG" width="200" /> <img border="0" data-original-height="750" data-original-width="1000" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEij2MXQAPc3MCNRMlKmuVtFnfu30_YY_jb4JT-pvJt1rX1ddPzthaP8O3Sehs4rDaUl0wB5bs2XQzVy4H0Fan5MGkO5oxIUMKPRv8Rtcxloi3yeNvtSRTWG2GQaGVvTc_Sx-qRxQXm3XRHQ/s200/IMG_5060.JPG" width="200" /><img border="0" data-original-height="750" data-original-width="1000" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBr6DAU3SdPVGUKtU8qKFymCRfHb4jW7gwSbtXLmu2KRLgSUcnUwgJ3Dur-B8fPkmrdB7N9POoQl4jaV0bOFZSKUAlQhZqeX2xlW1E7S_YcvPhfO5QAeK-zGhyphenhyphenXCc2OAko5fTyBlCewsPm/s200/IMG_5061.JPG" width="200" /></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="750" data-original-width="1000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEie8OfcNcx4NxioKNlUnaS7OdAYTog-73FqFdQFHa5z5HYcQVZe-bhu4dvwokbKMkn9537hBRQm6zsVT_gyNJghqpuZDeoOGIBjkDQFnhy62kjqR4ShppeMYfRQyT1oyuFhi0dZutbQUrK9/s320/IMG_5063.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="320" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Do we have to go home now?</td></tr>
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<img border="0" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="750" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQNjv5GKqdoXvVbVmUFMle4frl5GRHuDYvlJG5qGM7LGoWunZ5PnV-7U40OmcKJEYNa4xynV3I9jbn4QuuM-oUqNUM2tFC51k3TFUJyUjQglE-MAOZqBv5jL0pKo5bmMhGP_sO2fZMNbmm/s200/IMG_5069.JPG" width="150" /><img border="0" data-original-height="819" data-original-width="1000" height="163" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNShr3hxUjTaVeYR7LrITHf7gbUZ8HwoORufjLUgT9hIBOx0KGX2_G8NzI5PnQlW43M42UYzJ8kB9oErmPQ6Z8GEQ6tRjGSfrWZUywFZXWtnVa30SG-nxzB1bQbBw3F3dQ_PTlQPq9MUOd/s200/IMG_5070.JPG" width="200" /><img border="0" data-original-height="240" data-original-width="320" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEja3dco74GH5Ucubwlanbrqa_ig6SAypR3LaxQyHC8SQEjRHJ1YqXW9R5vCt0WihQ2geciWlrSFF41aAPGybePys-yiDIc5EEg93sA2aHluYrFmV_o4ke87oy0J5ZrH3ESJy6WyFnSg6_8L/s200/IMG_5034.JPG" width="200" /></div>
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refgoddesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04828650322400274190noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2927240094959814194.post-85253247526598995752018-12-12T10:15:00.000-08:002018-12-12T10:15:54.236-08:00Ghost Ranch book pitch<div>
The Treasures of Ghost Ranch</div>
<div>
Ghost Ranch, now an
educational retreat center in the isolated Piedre Lumbre badlands of
northern New Mexico, is famous for two things: a dinosaur and an
artist. The burgundy red hills with grey stripes are fascinating to
paleontologists because the 200-million-year-old streambeds hold a treasure trove of Triassic dinosaur
bones. Since the 1930's they have excavated the "blueprint" bipedal carnivorous dinosaur Coelophysis, VanCleavea, and the 20-ft long
crocodilian phytosaur (perhaps the source of the local legend of
Vivaran, the huge carnivorous snake.) Those same hills would ensnare the
20th century artist Georgia O'Keeffe: after one visit in 1934, she
knew this was her creative home, and she lived and painted here for the
next 50 years. She would paint Pedernal, the flat ridged mountain 10
miles visible to the southeast, 28 times, saying that "God said if I
painted it enough I could have it."</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
But the
story of Ghost Ranch is so much more. From cattle rustling in the
1880s to movie making in the 1980s and beyond, from a close connection
to the scientists at Los Alamos, to visits from Charles Lindbergh (who
shot aerial photographs for local archeologists), from conservation efforts to an impromptu piano recital from Leopold Stokowski, the remote
sanctuary of Ghost Ranch, with its wild geology, has enchanted and summoned people
from all walks of life. For 30 years a dude ranch for the elite Easterners, this
magical place is now home to artists, poets, scientists,
environmentalists, hikers from the Continental Divide Trail, campers,
and people who want to escape the stresses of modern living. Is the
treasure of Ghost Ranch it's dinosaur skeletons, the olla of gold buried
and lost by the cattle rustling Archuleta brothers, the hundreds of
paintings by Georgia O'Keeffe, or the shining mica of its mesas,
shimmering in the moonlight? And will those treasures survive the politics and poor management of the 21st century?</div>
refgoddesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04828650322400274190noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2927240094959814194.post-69272805931616663212018-09-26T08:45:00.000-07:002018-09-26T08:45:08.396-07:00Scofflaw<br style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 21px;" /><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 21px;">So, life just gets more interesting. I’m sitting in the lobby of the magistrate’s court, waiting to get my BENCH WARRANT removed. I may be here all day, and it’s my own damn fault. I forgot that yesterday morning was my hearing for the speeding ticket, and I was lollygagging around in Santa Fe, having breakfast with J.</span><br style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 21px;" /><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 21px;"></span><br style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 21px;" /><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 21px;">By the time I got back to Ghost Ranch and remembered that this was the week of my hearing, it was too late to do anything about it. I called and said that I thought my hearing was <a dir="ltr" href="x-apple-data-detectors://1" style="-webkit-text-decoration-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.258824); color: black;" x-apple-data-detectors-result="1" x-apple-data-detectors-type="calendar-event" x-apple-data-detectors="true">9/27</a>, but that I couldn’t find my paperwork; they verified that it was 9/25, I had missed it, and there wasn’t a damn thing I could do to prevent the judge from issuing the $100 warrant. I sighed and said, okay, so what do I owe for the ticket to which I’d pled Not Guilty back in August. They said, it hasn’t been assessed yet. So, I couldn’t just pay over the phone, I had to see a judge, and I couldn’t come by that afternoon because the judges had all left. I could do a walk-in on Thurs.</span><br style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 21px;" /><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 21px;"></span><br style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 21px;" /><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 21px;">I decided to come in today anyway, because I don’t like having a warrant out for my arrest and I’m hoping to get fines reduced.</span><br style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 21px;" /><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 21px;"></span><br style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 21px;" /><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 21px;">All this to avoid a $250 speeding ticket.</span><br style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 21px;" /><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 21px;"></span><br style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 21px;" /><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 21px;">An hour later....</span><br style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 21px;" /><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 21px;"></span><br style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 21px;" /><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 21px;">I was just typing that when I was called to the window. The clerk had checked with the judge, who fortuitously was available to fit me in before she began her day of meetings. I gather that this was unexpected, as I’d been told the judge had a full docket. I think my judge was there because she cancelled a morning appearance in Chama, since she had <a dir="ltr" href="x-apple-data-detectors://7" style="-webkit-text-decoration-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.258824); color: black;" x-apple-data-detectors-result="7" x-apple-data-detectors-type="calendar-event" x-apple-data-detectors="true">a 1 pm</a> meeting here in Espanola. </span><br style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 21px;" /><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 21px;"></span><br style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 21px;" /><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 21px;">Don’t ask me, it’s a hellava complicated world. ANYWAY, she said she couldn’t toss out the Bench Warrant, because it was already recorded and my excuses (no memory, lost paperwork, road construction on the route from ABQ) were not sufficient. Only accident or illness would work. She had to have a legitimate excuse, because she gets audited. However, she could reduce it to 14 hours community service, and my volunteer work at Ghost Ranch will qualify. I come back again <a dir="ltr" href="x-apple-data-detectors://8" style="-webkit-text-decoration-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.258824); color: black;" x-apple-data-detectors-result="8" x-apple-data-detectors-type="calendar-event" x-apple-data-detectors="true">on October 10</a> to bring the paperwork. </span><br style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 21px;" /><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 21px;"></span><br style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 21px;" /><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 21px;">The ticket was thrown out, because the officer was also a no show. Woo hoo! I was totally guilty. (Just not 65 mph in a 45 zone guilty.)</span><br style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 21px;" /><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 21px;"></span><br style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 21px;" /><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 21px;">She was a lovely Hispanic woman who used to bring her Kindergarten class to Ghost Ranch. We had a nice chat about the drought, the legal system, and northern New Mexico. Then she put on her robe and left the court to begin her day. I waited for Mario to finish printing up my paperwork.</span><br style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 21px;" /><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 21px;"></span><br style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 21px;" /><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 21px;">Then, I walked across the parking lot to the conveniently located MVD office, My number was called 30 seconds after I got it. I got my license reinstated, updated my voter registration, and took care of the address problem (I’d updated my address, but the cops told me I also needed to get a new license.). Total cost: $27 to reinstate the license, $18 to get the new license. And a day spent in Espanola judicial district.</span><br style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 21px;" /><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 21px;"></span><br style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 21px;" /><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 21px;">The license picture is nicer, at least.</span><br style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 21px;" /><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 21px;"></span><br style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 21px;" /><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 21px;">I’d talked a fellow volunteer into bringing me in, since I didn’t want to drive with a bench warrant out. Good call, as the Bench Warrant meant the license was suspended and driving on a suspended license is a REAL problem. (What a Catch-22!). Sharon is currently in Santa Fe, running some errands, and I’m settled with my knitting, portable keyboard, book, and iPad. I had totally not expected to finish this process in under an hour! Life is fine. The only frustrating thing is that NOW I have to say that my license has been suspended (for less than 24 hours) every time I renew it. </span><br style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 21px;" /><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 21px;"></span><br style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 21px;" /><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 21px;">I’m such a scofflaw. And I used to be such a squeaky clean citizen. New Mexico has been bad for my character, clearly.</span><br style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 21px;" /><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 21px;"></span><br style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 21px;" /><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 21px;">Sent from my iPhone</span>refgoddesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04828650322400274190noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2927240094959814194.post-13798647464318339792018-09-09T12:30:00.000-07:002018-09-09T12:30:15.095-07:00Tales from a Contented Sloth: Summer at Ghost RanchI joined the Ghost Ranch community on April 30, and stopped journaling and writing to the Gang of Four. It seemed that, since I was no longer traveling and being a nomad, the daily missives were less necessary, at least from a safety point of view. I had housemates and workmates, and I was staying put. Still, I rather missed the focus of a daily message to friends, even though the letters I did write were remarkably lacking in news. Every day could be an adventure, with enough variety to make me feel like I was traveling inwardly, if not outwardly, but for the most part I was a contented sloth. <br />
<br />
1. Settling in<br />
<i>There’s a huge windstorm blowing the dust around. I am unpacking my
boxes and it looks like I’ll be able to bring most of what’s in storage
because this is a very large three bedroom farmhouse. I’m alone at the
moment so I got to pick the best room with the best view (of Pedernal.)</i><br />
I was lodged
in the old farmhouse. It has three bedrooms and living area and a
long enclosed portico/conservatory outside the bath and two bedrooms.
The only fly in
the ointment was the mouse that I saw in the bathroom, and the fact that
the clawfoot tub wobbled when I stood in it. It felt like I was going
to topple out. The next day I put in a work order, but I ran into an
acquaintance from Taos, and he told me to put a quarter under one of the
feet to shim things up. Worked like a charm. Later, we discovered ants, camel spiders and the occasional scorpion, but my housemate handled those for most of the summer, as did the lovely whiptail lizards.<br />
<br />
2. More housesitting<br />
In late June I house-sat for my boss’s friend, S.
She’s a retired nurse practitioner, on a kayak trip off Quadra
Island. It's a small world: I have fond memories of a trip to April Point, watching birds drying their wings,
fishing (V displaying her catch with a grimace), and eating salmon
with a huckleberry compote. Also playing with phosphorescent water off
the dock...but that was the place en route. Memory fails me.<br />
<br />
So, while S was enjoying the waters of the Pacific Northwest, I was watching smoke from the Sardinas Canyon forest fire, feeding the horse, donkey, and chickens and enjoying a
pretty awesome house and garden. It’s a half hour drive to Ghost Ranch,
but it’s a beautiful drive so I was fine with that. The $50 she gave me didn't even cover gas, but it’s more than I got on my travels! And
I expanded my skill set. I remained cautious around Ruby, the semi-skittish horse, but on a later visit she came up to me and rubbed her head against my shoulder, so I counted that as a personal triumph.<br />
<br />
3. The Library and other projects<br />
The Library is open 24/7, so I can justify any schedule I choose to work, which is nice. Because it's always open, the checkout system is manual and depends on an honor system. With the help of intern college staff, I started barcoding most
of the library and discovered a bunch of titles that never made it
into the online catalog. So I guess I’ll have to be less snarky about
the guests who insist on using the old card catalog (which I’m not
allowed to move, along with the unused newspaper poles.)<br />
<br />
I don’t know why I started this big project...I could have just sat back
with the status quo instead of trying to get circulation and inventory
into the 20th century (forget about the 21st). And there are plenty of
peripheral things that I could have been doing: hikes and tours are actually
encouraged for work time, because the more I know about the Ranch offerings, the better I can share them with guests. However, the national forests surrounded the Ranch were closed during June and much of July, because of the severe drought and fire danger. Even before the closures, the heat kept me from even considering much hiking: I wandered down Box Canyon one morning and tried Matrimonial Mesa another morning: both hikes were abandoned before I reached the end. I only planned to
take an hour for Matrimonial: it goes along a ridge looking down into the Chinle formation and across to Orphan Mesa, and it gives a nice birds' eye view of the Ranch. My plan was to start at the trailhead near my house and come out by the Staff House and Dining Hall, but I kept getting lost trying to find the proper end of
the trail. I retraced my path twice, drank up all the water, and spent 2 hours acquiring a sunburn before I gave up. Still, it was a
beautiful hike and I found a piece of petrified wood while I was
exploring an arroyo. I also startled a pronghorn antelope and numerous
lizards. No rattlers thank god. <br />
<br />
In general, even without hiking, it’s a great place for wildlife. A voracious horde of hummingbirds
drained the feeder daily throughout the summer, and my fearless paleontologist housemate set up a bat box to serve as
home for a bat that got trapped in a museum bathroom. Coyotes howl outside our windows and apparently bears and cougars come out of the hills, searching for water. I haven't seen or heard evidence of them, but the bears apparently killed the pigs before I arrived.<br />
<br />
Anyway, instead of hiking, I started up a
night sky tour, along with two of the Museum staff. Many years ago a guest donated a large Meade telescope with many lenses. It had not been used since the gent in charge retired 8 years ago, and pack rats had chewed through some key wires. So JustJ cleaned up the shed and contacted Meade about a manual, we got some training on the mechanics, and Telescope Tuesdays was up and running. I was able to find and photograph Jupiter and its Gallilean moons, Saturn and its rings, and the pretty amber star, Antares. Sadly, around the time that Mars appeared, the focus knob got torqued, the monsoons clouded up the night sky, and the telescope is now off limits while the powers that be come up with a plan for maintaining and sharing the equipment. It was a nice run while it lasted. I'd work until half an hour before sundown and then climb the mesa behind the Library to the pack-rat infested telescope shed. While I fussed with the lens, the wind would come up and blow my skirts around, the sun would set, and the Milky Way would brighten into its pearly path across the sky. Or, the gibbous moon would rise and the mica in the cliffs would shimmer in its light.<br />
<br />
4. Wedding crash<br />
Security is not the best here. We are very isolated, but we are also only a mile or so from Hwy 84. One hot June night around 11 pm, JB and I heard a woman screaming,
full-throated. It took awhile to realize what the sound was...almost
sounded like a rooster or some other creature. Eventually we heard
words: "Don't let me go home!" JB was
concerned there were drugs involved, so we turned off lights and locked
doors and I called 911 at 11:15. They said they'd try to contact Ghost
Ranch security. At 11:30 I called back, because the person seemed to be
outside our house. 15 minutes after that, JB called and gave them our
location and asked them to come by and check on us. They never did,
but about 15 minutes later we saw a car approaching down the dirt road from the highway (we can see cars from our living room window.) It stopped for
several minutes, near the climbing area I think, and we heard the
screaming again. The car then continued on and turned towards the welcome
center. We saw several other cars coming and going during this time
frame, mostly from the road to the staff house to the welcome center
area and back again. By 12:30, all was still, although I saw headlights until I finally got
to sleep at 2 am. Not sure when and if JB got to sleep. We found out the next day that the woman was a guest at a Ranch-held wedding. The incident sparked a discussion about night security and security for the many weddings that we have scheduled here, but it never got much better.<br />
<br />
5. Tsankawi<br />
I tagged along with a class field trip to Tsankawi. It's an Ancestral Puebloan site at Bandelier National Monument (located on the road to
White Rock.) We had it mostly to ourselves, as the majority of tourists
visit the the main site; but this one was replete with petroglyphs, pot
shards, chert and obsidian flakes, cave dwellings, carved-out foot
holds, and breathtaking views of ash-flow. The trail followed paths that
cut deeply into the tuff, providing run-off from the reservoirs on top
of the mesa to the now sage-filled fields below. It was a very hot day,
and we stopped often for water breaks, but most of us suffered some form
of heat exhaustion. After 3 hours in the sun, we cooled off at the Los
Alamos Bradley Science Museum and thought deeply about radiation and
atomic bombs. Then we took a dash to see snakes at the Nature Center
before it closed. A long day, but full of wonder. <br />
<div>
<br />
6. Musical adventures<br />
<div>
My friend C in Taos hooked me up with some of
her musician friends. (She is the Taos Community Chorus accompanist and
plays violin duets with me. She hurt her wrist and just had surgery,
so she can't play anything for awhile.) They were in the Taos area for the month of
August and wanted to play quartets.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
The first jam session was rather a fiasco: I turned the wrong way
out of El Rito (a little town on a scenic route towards Taos) and thought, well, this road is going the right way,
it'll just hook up with 64 eventually. It didn't: it turned into a
dirt road and I had to turn around. Because of the mountain road, I was
unable to call the others until I reached the Rio Grande Bridge, by
which time I was an hour and a half late. I got there at 1 pm, just as
they were finishing up trios, and they graciously stuck around another
45 minutes. We played some Mozart and Mendelssohn and they sent me home
to practise Op 44, #1. We played that the next Thursday and the 2nd
violin has a lovely moving part in the third movement. I'm not a big
fan of Mendelssohn (which is weird because I love Brahms and they are
both emo treacly composers), but I loved this quartet.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
We had a final session following week and then the cellist and violinist went
back to their respective homes in Berkeley and Austin. Fortunately, APO
starts up in Sept, so I'll keep my chops up.</div>
<div>
<br />
7. Coffee house<br />
The college staff ran weekly coffee houses on Thursday nights. My friend DH read poems for most of them, and I contributed the following (courtesy of Museum staff comments) for the last one:<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Overheard at lunch:</div>
<div>
“I have to go and flip the</div>
<div>
Phytosaurus skull.”</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Barefoot, she sweeps and</div>
<div>
Steps on a beetle. Eyes closed,</div>
<div>
She says “Don’t throw up.”</div>
<div>
#itsgutsareonmyfoot</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
The monsoon rains pass,</div>
<div>
Pitter Patter on the fringe.</div>
<div>
We want a deluge.<br />
<br />
One of the college staff interpreted them, physically, while he read.<br />
<br />
The coffee houses in general were great fun: instructors, guests (including kids), and staff all participated, and there is some amazing talent coming through. I performed at 3 of them. At one I recited <i>Jabberwalky</i>, at another sang <i>The Mouse</i> and played a violin duet with one of the wranglers. At the last coffee house I played a flute/violin duet with one of the college staff and sang "Cry me a River," accompanied by a VERY sweet and talented college staffer, whose career I plan to watch. I flung a boa over my shoulder, leaned on the piano, and let out my inner torch singer. I wowed them, if the later comments are any indication.<br />
<br /></div>
</div>
<div>
8. Hemorrhaging staff</div>
<div>
Ghost
Ranch got a little depressing after college staff left in early August. Museum volunteers DH and JustJ left too, and JB (my sweet paleontologist housemate) followed soon after. LM (the best boss ever)
gave her 3 week notice and I miss her
terribly. Housekeeping and Dining Hall were understaffed, as they were in
the summer, but with no college students to abuse, guess
who they wanted to fill in? I refused (because I did not contract for
that, and, anyway my asthma kicks in when I dust and vacuum), so I was given extra Welcome desks and museum volunteers became the new janitors.
In addition to the staffing woes, the Ranch was at 20% capacity, and I started worrying about its future. And the
mosquitoes arrived in the wake of the monsoons and I got TOTALLY
covered in bites. The fires from CA and OR affected the views negatively and the
sunsets positively, and other volunteers became friends.<br />
</div>
So, I tried to focus on that. But it's difficult, when volunteers leave every 10 weeks, and 8 key staff have left (without replacement) in the 4 months I've been here.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
</div>
<div>
One of those volunteers, PS, is still around, but leaves at 5 am on Sept
14. He is planning to drive for 12 hours, arriving in Kansas City in
time to watch the Minnesota Twins and add that stadium to his list. He
can be such a geek! MC (the remaining Outdoor Adventures staff) borrowed my cheapo bike for a ride to the base of
Orphan Mesa: he and PS climbed it last Thursday, but PS didn't make
the last bit. He sat clinging to a boulder while MC continued on,
chanting "I'll cut off my arm, I'll cut off my arm!" Apparently that is
his mantra for doing what it takes to get back alive from a dangerous activity. I would have found it quite disconcerting, myself, to wait at
the saddle between two gulfs, listening to that.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
The
next night the three of us were playing Settlers of Catan when SL appeared at the kitchen door, seeking guidance and support: apparently a
sheep had been bleating frantically for some time, and SL was
worried it was caught on the fence. We gathered up flashlights and
followed her to the pen, where we discovered all the sheep gathered
around a white ewe and a shaky tiny black lamb. They glared at us and
we retreated hastily back to the kitchen, where SC watched the game
for a bit. I won.</div>
<br />
<br />
So, life continues into the fall. I've started driving the tour bus, I've done some sunset and sunrise kayaking, one of the wranglers has started up campfire parties by his trailer (there was a ban on burning for the summer), and I'll have no excuse to avoid the hiking trails. 4 months down, 5 to go.<br />
<br />
<br />refgoddesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04828650322400274190noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2927240094959814194.post-47624993909161438602018-09-09T11:26:00.000-07:002018-09-09T11:26:12.265-07:00Misadventures in July: letter to a friend<span style="background-color: rgba(255,255,255,0);">As the curse goes, “may you live in interesting times...</span><br />
<div>
<span style="background-color: rgba(255,255,255,0);">I
had a rather bizarre weekend. On Friday I discovered that Forrest (my
new/used 2013 Subaru Forester) wouldn't start. A GR maintenance dude
came by and discovered that pack rats had eaten some wires. The poison I
had put in the engine was gone, so apparently they ate it up and then
returned for the wires. On Sat I had a AAA tow into Hernandez (just
north of Espanola) for Lio to fix the wires over the weekend. My friend
B from GR picked me up there and drove us to Santa Fe, where we
attended the Intl Folk Art Festival and I spent $1400 on 2 old saris, an
embroidered handbag, and a tunic. The tunic was the big ticket item,
at $1250. It was an impulse buy: the artist tossed it over my head and
said "it's YOU!" and I said, yes, I think I need to take it, and then
he took it to the people writing the receipts and told them the price
and my jaw dropped but I just couldn't say, oops, my bad, not taking it
after all. I talked myself into the fact that it's a one of a kind,
that I'm supporting indigenous craftsmen, and that he's an up and coming
STAR!</span><br />
</div>
<div>
<span style="background-color: rgba(255,255,255,0);">Then I met some more GR people at <a dir="ltr" href="https://www.blogger.com/null">Harry's Roadhouse</a> for dinner, and my boss drove me to Tijeras. I slept <a dir="ltr" href="https://www.blogger.com/null">through Sunday</a> and P dropped me at the ABQ rapid ride stop near Four Corners. I bused down to the RailRunner, arriving <a dir="ltr" href="https://www.blogger.com/null">at 7:22</a>. The train had left <a dir="ltr" href="https://www.blogger.com/null">at 7:19</a>and the next wasn't <a dir="ltr" href="https://www.blogger.com/null">until 9:35</a>. So, I texted M, and she met me at a sweet hippie coffeeshop near by: <a dir="ltr" href="https://www.blogger.com/null">Zendo</a>. </span></div>
<div>
<span style="background-color: rgba(255,255,255,0);"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<div>
<span style="background-color: rgba(255,255,255,0);">Combining friendship</span></div>
<div>
<span style="background-color: rgba(255,255,255,0);">And the elixir of life.</span></div>
<div>
<span style="background-color: rgba(255,255,255,0);">Would not want to choose!</span></div>
</div>
<div>
<span style="background-color: rgba(255,255,255,0);"><img alt="image3.jpeg" class="CToWUd" data-image-whitelisted="" id="m_-694337673162125282605F6383A-03D1-43A9-960D-8B3E96AC3EB0" src="https://mail.google.com/mail/u/0?ui=2&ik=43cbcc84e5&attid=0.1.1&permmsgid=msg-f:1606399118387833071&th=164b137cb301e8ef&view=fimg&sz=w1600-h1000&attbid=ANGjdJ-COxan_6XYqaPSlfzhSo3N_FOdBKgNv0VkPX-HkoaVTwGkUpahPR4zMS1p1WSIJA7Pyp43-gl37O8Sj934dmp5XddzY0BIMU1z30cMPxIrgXdEKomDY_xHypo&disp=emb" /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="background-color: rgba(255,255,255,0);"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="background-color: rgba(255,255,255,0);"> I caught the RR <a dir="ltr" href="https://www.blogger.com/null">at 9:20</a>, and arrived in Santa Fe at 11ish, where I discovered that the Blue bus was leaving <a dir="ltr" href="https://www.blogger.com/null">at 1:45</a>, arriving in Espanola <a dir="ltr" href="https://www.blogger.com/null">at 2:50</a>, and then I'd have to wait <a dir="ltr" href="https://www.blogger.com/null">until 5:55</a> to
catch a bus north. Lio's was probably going to be closed by then. So I
called a taxi: $88. No. Then I called an Uber. $1 a mile, so I paid
$28. I arrived to discover that they had another hour to go, and there
were more wires damaged. So, I sat and listened to books and texted
folks at the Ranch about my late arrival and then Lio told me that they
had fixed all the broken wires they could find, but the computer was not
talking to the engine. </span><br />
</div>
<div>
<span style="background-color: rgba(255,255,255,0);">Why would a manual transmission not have a manual starter, I ask you?!</span><br />
</div>
<div>
<span style="background-color: rgba(255,255,255,0);">Long
story short, one of the gents at GR came and got me (an hour drive).
I'm home, and Forrest is still in Hernandez. Sigh. But it looks like
my insurance will cover it all, so life is not bad.</span></div>
<div>
<span style="background-color: rgba(255,255,255,0);"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="background-color: rgba(255,255,255,0);">Meanwhile,
I’m enjoying life here. Got to play with micaceous clay last week and
made a mug, a bowl, a pear-shaped rattle, and several beads.</span></div>
<div>
<span style="background-color: rgba(255,255,255,0);"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="background-color: rgba(255,255,255,0);">I
also am playing duets with one of the wranglers, and I recited
Jabberwocky at the coffeehouse (a weekly event run by the college staff)
to resounding huzzahs! This week, in honor of Forrest, I plan to sing
“The Mouse” from Britten’s “Rejoice in the Lamb.” </span></div>
<div>
<span style="background-color: rgba(255,255,255,0);"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="background-color: rgba(255,255,255,0);">It’s monsoon season. </span></div>
<div>
<span style="background-color: rgba(255,255,255,0);"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<div>
<span style="background-color: rgba(255,255,255,0);">After the rainstorm</span></div>
<div>
<span style="background-color: rgba(255,255,255,0);">The birds discover puddles,</span></div>
<div>
<span style="background-color: rgba(255,255,255,0);">Which make a great bath.</span></div>
</div>
<div>
<span style="background-color: rgba(255,255,255,0);"><img alt="image4.jpeg" class="CToWUd a6T" data-image-whitelisted="" id="m_-694337673162125282659508A92-483A-4D9C-A031-4B46DED12080" src="https://mail.google.com/mail/u/0?ui=2&ik=43cbcc84e5&attid=0.1.2&permmsgid=msg-f:1606399118387833071&th=164b137cb301e8ef&view=fimg&sz=w1600-h1000&attbid=ANGjdJ-sIA9NqPrN7ofGJwGOdnmiWocBbd7a14gRMldl5-YBIUYGPfkf4BqUrniI9ulxW0PxAcFuhDeDEVhn8pQi7QVPIFDBmgXbdaM3vR_ab5OTeOuawRIgBA4x20k&disp=emb" tabindex="0" title="null" /></span></div>
<div>
<div>
<span style="background-color: rgba(255,255,255,0);">I leave work and walk</span></div>
<div>
<span style="background-color: rgba(255,255,255,0);">Into a magical hour</span></div>
<div>
<span style="background-color: rgba(255,255,255,0);">Of cloudlit delight.</span></div>
</div>
<div>
<span style="background-color: rgba(255,255,255,0);"><img alt="image1.jpeg" class="CToWUd a6T" data-image-whitelisted="" id="m_-69433767316212528260F29BD9D-C714-4FCF-89D1-B95741D6A88D" src="https://mail.google.com/mail/u/0?ui=2&ik=43cbcc84e5&attid=0.1.3&permmsgid=msg-f:1606399118387833071&th=164b137cb301e8ef&view=fimg&sz=w1600-h1000&attbid=ANGjdJ-ccjwyOKsUaC5cxx9sGavpMVNXxxA3VmI86zfR_AHrFLO52AM-nSHvNqeolnFy0eKulP-2u3chcRoFmFxCwGtCkXPn_XT3nnf9KcmBNsuvoGtRQ3NcYS6DAyM&disp=emb" tabindex="0" /></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255,255,255,0);">And that’s my news!</span></div>
refgoddesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04828650322400274190noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2927240094959814194.post-19966540232322141802018-09-09T11:19:00.000-07:002018-09-09T11:19:01.730-07:00Summary of my first few weeks at Ghost Ranch<div>
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This is a letter I sent shortly after I arrived at the ranch:<br />
<br />
Sorry about the phone problem: it basically doesn't work on the Ranch. We're in a
total dead zone, but fortunately we do have wi-fi, so maybe we can try
another Skype session sometime! I'm working a variable shift, depending
on what is happening here. For example, next week is the BlueGrass
festival: a week of people learning how to play bluegrass banjo,
fiddle, guitar, and a few other instruments. They end with a coffee
hour on Friday and a concert on Saturday, so I'm going to work Mon-Sat,
with Tues off to keep me from going overtime (they don't like overtime)
and the following week I'll work Sun-Thu and take a long weekend for my
birthday.<br />
</div>
All this means that you won't be able to reach me until I leave the Ranch on my days off.<br />
</div>
I
was insomniac on Sunday night. Don't know why, it wasn't a mental
thing. I was quite content, staying at P's house and starting to
retrieve my things from G's condo. He wants me out of his hair,
although he says there's no rush. But his girlfriend is apparently threatened by strong female friendships, so it's time to move out physically as well as emotionally. <br />
<br />
Maybe I was thinking about that,
unconsciously? Anyway, I woke up every hour on the hour from 9 pm to 3
am, at which point I threw in the towel and got up. I had planned to get
up around 5:30 so I could get to GR by 8 am breakfast, and that's
basically what I did. I took a shower, started loading the car, and
then chatted with P when she got up: she goes in to work at 5:30
too. Unfortunately the oil light came on 2 minutes into the drive, so I
had to stop by a gas station for oil and help. That added some time to
the trip. And then I became so drowsy that I was literally weaving
into the oncoming lanes. So, after Santa Fe I pulled to the side and
napped for half an hour. I got to breakfast about 8:45. The nap
helped, as well as another half hour at lunch, but I was sleepy all
day. I drank so much coffee that I was THEN unable to sleep
again. I took a sleeping pill around 11, but that makes me groggy too,
and I totally slept in. Fortunately, I was scheduled for an event in
the evening, so I just started my day late, and skipped breakfast.<br />
</div>
Anyway, that's why I didn't get back to you: busy taking care of stuff in ABQ, and then sleepy here at the Ranch.<br />
</div>
Tomorrow
I go on a hike to the Tsankawi pueblo ruin, near Bandelier, but less well known.
I'm joining a group of kids and their Ghost Ranch guide. It was my
boss' idea: she is very encouraging of my taking part in events and
getting to know the area and history. <br />
<br />
Right now I'm logged into
Tutor.com. I end up making about $400 a month, which is nice, because I
am going to be paying for the clutch to the car I was using in Norway.
It apparently gave out the day after I left. But, my expenses were
minimal while I was there, since the snow kept me from exploring and
spending money. So, I guess it evens out.<br />
</div>
<div>
Mom called while I was in ABQ. It seems she's not well again. It's too bad, she looked so good when I saw her in April.<br />
</div>
</div>
And,
that's my news! I'm sending a pic of the sunset from the other day: I
was sitting in my jammies, knitting and listening to an audio book,
when I noticed a beautiful light in the southeastern sky that is my
living room view. So I got up to take a pic of that and then looked
west and saw these amazing red clouds. I put a jacket over the jammies
and walked down the private drive to get past the telephone wires.
Every day is another stunning sight. I wonder if I'll get tired of it?refgoddesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04828650322400274190noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2927240094959814194.post-3522324376648710412018-07-08T09:31:00.002-07:002018-07-08T09:31:36.096-07:00Next stepsI've been at Ghost Ranch for a little over 2 months now. As per usual, I am flagellating myself for not being more creative and productive, and now that the forests are closed to hiking, I'm upset with myself for not getting out on those trails while I still could. There's always something to regret. And yet, I am so happy here. Every morning I wake to a view of Pedernal.<br />
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Every day I walk to work with a view of the mighty sandstone cliffs that surround this canyon. Every evening I walk home with my face to the sunset clouds. In between, there are beauties and books and people. Almost everyone is so happy to be here. So, perhaps it's okay that I'm just hanging out. For 9 months, though? I need another project.<br />
<br />
My book went to press this week, and I started thinking about another one. Yes, I have my own books (the haiku book and the family history and the NaNoWriMo novel), but I would like to be paid for something a little less personal. Here's the pitch I sent to my editor (that sounds so official!)<br />
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<div>
The Treasures of Ghost Ranch</div>
<div>
Ghost
Ranch, now an educational retreat center in the isolated Piedre Lumbre
badlands of northern New Mexico, is famous for two things: a dinosaur
and an artist. The burgundy hills with grey stripes are fascinating
to paleontologists because their ancient stream-beds hold a treasure trove of Triassic
dinosaur bones, from the "blueprint" dino Coelophysis to the 20-ft long
crocodilian phytosaur (perhaps the source of the local legend of
Vivaran, the huge carnivorous snake that would slither out at dusk to consume the unwary.) Those same hills would ensnare the
20th century artist Georgia O'Keeffe: after one visit in 1934, she
knew this was her creative home, and she lived and painted here for the
next 50 years. Twenty-eight of those paintings would feature the flat-topped Cerro Pedernal, source of the ancient Puebloan's chert. A mere 10 miles away, it dominates the southeast horizon, and O'Keeffe appropriated it, asserting that "God said if I
painted it enough I could have it."</div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
But the
story of Ghost Ranch is so much more. From cattle rustling in the
1880s to movie making in the 1980s and beyond, from a close connection
to the scientists at Los Alamos, to visits from Charles Lindbergh (who
shot aerial photographs for local archaeologists), from conservationist
efforts to impromptu piano recitals by Leopold Stokowski and Ansel Adams, the wild geology of this remote
sanctuary, has enchanted and summoned people
from all walks of life. For 30 years a dude ranch for the elite, this
magical place is now home to artists, poets, scientists,
environmentalists, hikers from the Continental Divide Trail, campers,
and people who want to escape the stresses of modern living. Is the
treasure of Ghost Ranch it's dinosaur skeletons, the olla of gold buried
and lost by the cattle rustling Archuleta brothers, the hundreds of
paintings by Georgia O'Keeffe, or the shining mica of its mesas,
shimmering in the moonlight?</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
On the other hand, that may be all I have to say about it. It's a mishmash of the stories I tell people, questioning and awestruck, who arrive at the welcome desk or the library. While there does not seem to be a kid's book about Ghost Ranch, do I really have much to add to the literature? Probably not.</div>
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It's enough to just be here, another enchanted wanderer.<br />
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refgoddesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04828650322400274190noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2927240094959814194.post-16784777910738614792018-03-21T13:18:00.000-07:002018-03-21T13:18:29.570-07:00Orchestral haikuIn June, 2012, my husband and I moved from Portland, OR to Albuquerque NM. Our marriage was in trouble, and so were our finances. The two facts were not coincidental. ABQ was our fresh start. In September 2012, I joined the Albuquerque Philharmonic Orchestra. Within two months, I had left my husband. During the next few years, the orchestra probably saved my sanity. It gave me a community and a focus, both of which I desperately missed and needed. <br />
<br />
I've played in orchestras since I was in fourth grade, in semi-professional ones since I was 16. In the latter, I've always been the worst player in the group, hiding in the back of the 2nd violin section, usually in front of the timpani or french horns, all of which serves as concealment. I am lazy about practising and I lack confidence, but I am a pretty decent sight-reader. And, while I feel guilty about my errors fuzzing the sound and dragging down the quality of the group, I care more about my own needs. I love playing in an orchestra, surrounded by the music. There's something deeply satisfying about the rehearsal process, learning how the other parts fit with mine, watching the conductor, watching the first stand for bowings. I am part of a wonderful whole; I am part of the growth and unfolding of musical moments. When I open the case and rosin the bow, and then find my chair and set out the music, I feel the comfort of a routine that cradles me, comfortable and right and mine. I am home.<br />
<br />
A large part of the experience is determined by the conductor, naturally. Conductors vary in temperament and ability, but they are always interesting in some way. One conducted rehearsals in snippets, and we didn't play the entire piece until the dress rehearsal. He used to slick back his hair with water, and by the end of the concert, it would have dried into a frenzied mop like Beethoven's. Another would say "Uff da!" when we messed up, delighting my Norwegian soul. Some would tell interesting anecdotes, and most would sing, scatwise, to emphasize a point about sound. In Norway, the conductor began speaking English for my benefit, but soon he was back to Norwegian, telling long stories which my stand partner did not bother to translate. <br />
<br />
In Albuquerque, I discovered two unique aspects to our conductor. First, as a professional violinist, he could tell us how to produce the sound he wanted. It reminded me of the teacher (who had also taught my Mom), who could describe the physical aspects to bowing and vibrato in a way that I could easily translate to my own motions. It's a joy to work with someone who can succinctly explain the mechanics as well as the interpretation and emotion. In May, 2013, I sent the APO conductor a <a href="http://tinyurl.com/cuystl6">link</a>, alluding to his dual nature:<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
"I saw this in a new book (pg. 42 in <i>Sorted Books</i> by Nina Katchadourian) and thought of you. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
(I'm the APO 2nd violinist who always comes flying in late and who works in a library.) "</div>
The second unique thing about the APO conductor was allied to the first: his manner of giving directions was bright, snappy, funny and....haiku.<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
A revelation:<br /> Our conductor communicates<br /> In haiku format.</div>
<br />
For years I've used haiku for my Facebook posts. The idea was to take my mundane day and transform it into poetry. At the very least, I would keep it brief. Orchestra rehearsals had already received the haiku treatment, but now I began to jot down the conductor's actual words, and then form them into haiku. Today I have gathered up the observations from 2012-6, and I am posting them here. <br />
<br />
<b>About rehearsing, performing, and listening:</b><br />
<i>Sept 11, 2012: and so it begins</i><br />
I so much prefer<br /> To just play, sans audition.<br /> But, I'm in. Feels good.<br />
<br />
<i>Dec 2012</i><br />
Waiting for the cue,<br /> Listening to the solo,<br /> I watch his baton. <br />
<br />
<i>At New Mexico Philharmonic Orchestra concert</i><br />
Luscious, sweet, intense:<br /> Mendelssohn played by the great<br /> Rachel Barton Pine.<br />
<br />
Once upon a time<br /> Rehearsal breaks were a bond,<br /> Bit mow we just text.<br />
<br />
Recently saw a<br /> Muted tuba. Awesome, but<br /> Somewhat phallic, no?<br />
<br />
The sweet notes trilled while<br /> Melody soared and tears dropped:<br /> The lark ascended.<br />
<br />
<i>March 2013</i><br />
The engineer eyes<br /> The violin fingering:<br /> "It's inefficient."<br />
<br />
That feeling you get<br /> When you're performing music<br /> You don't recognize.<br />
<br />
We're playing a piece<br /> Commissioned by "Q"'s father<br /> (Cue Star Trek geeks' gasps.)<br />
<br />
All dressed up at home.<br /> Concert went well and I'm wired.<br /> Firebird will do that. <br />
<br />
<i>August 23 2013</i><br />
All I did was think<br /> About skipping rehearsal.<br /> Now i have a flat.<br />
<br />
<i>He plays the Barber</i><br />
1. Precise yet fluid,<br /> The music made visible.<br /> Our guest conductor.<br />
2. Eyes closed, eyebrows raised<br /> (The notes go by like the wind)<br /> He's a vehicle.<i> </i><br />
3. Albuquerque folk<br /> Please! You owe it to your selves<br /> Come listen to this<br />
<br />
<i>On an evening spent with Bruckner...</i><br />
1. After three hours of<br /> Tremolo, my arm feels like<br /> Overcooked pasta.<br />
2. My stand partner wrote<span class="text_exposed_show"><br /> "Terror!" at the beginning<br /> Of the last movement.</span><br />
3. At least there's only<br /> One key per movement. But it's<br /> Three flats. Sometimes five.<span class="text_exposed_show"></span> <br />
<br />
<i>Observations....w/ Santa Fe Orchestra Chorus, Spring 2014</i><br />
1. Before going out<br /> To start the concert rolling,<br /> He checks his zipper.<br />
<div class="text_exposed_show">
2. The French Horns emptied<br /> Spit in perfect unison<br /> And played the next bit. <br />
3. Enthusiastic<br /> Singing makes the risers bounce.<br /> I'm told they will hold.</div>
<br />
<i>Sept 13, 2016</i><br />
The same note repeated...<br /> I get lost. Where are we now?<br /> Yes, it does matter.<br />
<br />
At dress rehearsal,<br /> At last, NAILED the saltandos!<br /> Cue triumphant grin. <br />
<br />
She said, he is like<br /> A border collie. We're sheep.<br /> He was not amused. <br />
<br />
We walk in out groups.<br /> The students are skateboarding<br /> On the parking ramps. <br />
<br />
I love to listen<span class="text_exposed_show"><br /> To the Gorecki III, but<br /> It's deadly to play.</span><br />
<br />
<span class=" UFICommentActorAndBody"><span><span><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="UFICommentBody"><span>She sings in Polish<br /> But it needs no translation.<br /> Somebody must cry.</span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<br />
<i>Sept 27, 2016</i><br />
On rehearsal break;<br /> Checking posts and rejoicing:<br /> I'm missing debates.<br /> <a class="_58cn" data-ft="{"tn":"*N","type":104}" href="https://www.facebook.com/hashtag/notthatidwatchthemanyway?source=feed_text"><span class="_5afx"><span class="_58cl _5afz">#</span><span class="_58cm">notthatidwatchthemanyway</span></span></a> <br />
<br />
<i> Oct 2016</i><br />
I just have one job<br /> As second chair: turn pages.<br /> Tonight I blew it.<br />
************************************************************** <br />
<i>Oct 4, 2016, my confession</i><br />
For four years, I say,<br /> I've quoted you in haiku.<br /> He is quite amused.<b><b>A conductor's words</b> </b><br />
<br />
"Listen to the brass--<span class="text_exposed_show"><br /> They will not be hearing you.<br /> I must follow them."</span><br />
<div class="text_exposed_show">
<br />
He adds, "That's the best<br /> Deceptive cadence EVER!"<br /> Now I like Bruckner. </div>
<br />
<i>On an evening spent with Bruckner...</i><br />
<div class="text_exposed_show">
"There are not many<br /> Rhythms in this piece. We can<br /> Really learn them." Right.<br />
</div>
Humane conducting:<br /> "Strings, adapt....they need to breathe."<br /> Sounds reasonable.<br />
<br />
<span class="text_exposed_show"></span><br />
<i>Play pizzicato<br /> With joy. (If you can,</i> he adds.)<br />We nod agreement.<br />
<br />
<i>Haiku for the APO spring concert<br /> (Rachmaninoff, Rhapsody on a Theme by Paganini)</i><br /> We play the 18th<br /> Variation. He recalls<br /> An awful movie.<br />
<div class="text_exposed_show">
<br />
<i>(Bruckner 8, trio of Satz Scherzo.) </i><br /> The trio's a search<br /> For a lost dream melody.<br /> He never finds it.<br />
</div>
He says,<i> I don't want<br /> To conduct. But I'll be here<br /> If you need me.</i> (Thanks.)<br />
<br />
This concert's riddled<br /> With transitions and also<br /> With dotted rhythms.<br />
<br />
He says,<i> I won't stop</i><span class="text_exposed_show"><i><br /> Unless I have to. Promise!</i><br /> We stop seven times.</span><br />
<br />
<i>Thoughts on Schumann...</i><br />
He was bipolar.<br /> "And we need to reflect that."<br /> Time to be manic.<br />
<div class="text_exposed_show">
<br />
"A sigh has two sides."<br /> Crescendo is easy. Now <br /> Diminuendo.<br />
<br />
In the SFP,<br /> P is the important one.<br /> (But it's not as fun.)<br />
<br />
<i>Rehearsing the Barber</i><br />
1, <i>It's a jig</i>, he says<span class="text_exposed_show"><br /> <i>Let's try it at full tempo <br /> And see what happens</i></span><br />
<div class="text_exposed_show">
<i>2. A haiku to understatement.....</i><br />
"It's going to be<br /> An adrenalin rush if <br /> We don't know it cold."<br />
<div class="text_exposed_show">
3. (Rehearsed the Barber<br /> Third movement at half tempo.<br /> It is still scary.)<br />
4. Ferocious triplets:<br /> "See, it's what the people want."<br /> If they only knew.<br />
</div>
We play the trio...<span class="text_exposed_show"><br /> "It's a mid afternoon sound."<br /> Um, that's naptime, right?</span><br />
<br />
He tells us we should<br /> Glue those eighth notes together.<br /> It puts me to sleep<br />
<br />
He says, "it's sul G,<br /> All the way. It's not that high..."<br /> Glad I don't play first.<span class=" UFICommentActorAndBody"></span><br />
<span class=" UFICommentActorAndBody"><span class="">A friend's response:<i> </i></span><i> </i><span><span><i></i><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="UFICommentBody"><span><i>I pictured myself at the symphony, and all of the violinists were in g strings. Quite a sight!</i></span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<br />
<i>Post-rehearsal....</i><br />
A mild suggestion<br /> To the strings: "Play together.<br /> It'll be more fun."<br />
<div class="text_exposed_show">
<br />
I am quite puzzled<br /> When I read "aargh" for "arco."<br /> I need new glasses.<br />
<br />
<i>Notes from rehearsal...</i><br /> <i>1. Re: Dvorak</i><br /> The maestro thinks its<br /> Much more interesting when<br /> We play together.<br />
<div class="text_exposed_show">
<i>2. Re: Adams</i><br /> He places each note<br /> Precisely where he wants it.<br />It's an adventure.<br />
3. Los peregrinos<br /> Sing loudly nearby as we<br /> Try to rehearse Grieg.<br /> <a class="_58cn" data-ft="{"tn":"*N","type":104}" href="https://www.facebook.com/hashtag/interesting?source=feed_text"><span class="_5afx"><span class="_58cl _5afz">#</span><span class="_58cm">interesting</span></span></a>.blends </div>
</div>
<div class="_5pbx userContent _22jv _3576" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id="js_sdb">
<i>On the Brahms violin concerto in D...</i><br />
This start is gorgeous. <br /> By the time the soloist<br /> Comes in.....who will care?<br />
<br />
<i>On playing Ives.....</i><br />
1. He says, "You can strive<br /> For rhythmic accuracy,<br /> But..." and we all laugh.<br />
<div class="text_exposed_show">
2. Shadow notes can be<br /> Left out. When he puts it in,<br /> It's not optional. <br />
3. When it's chaotic,<br /> It is intentional, so<br /> Don't try to listen.<br />
4. You look so gloomy!<br /> You're taking this melody<br /> Seriously? Hmmmm.</div>
<br />
<i>Breathe, breathe, BREATHE,</i> he said.<br /> <i>Breathe every two measures.</i><br /> I breathe all the time.<br />
<br />
You're rushing the eighths,<span class="text_exposed_show"><br /> He said: no coffee for six<br /> Hours before we play.</span><br />
</div>
</div>
<i>"It should be between 147 and 152. Yes, shoot for 152 in practice. It's easier. Except for the triplets."</i><br />
A violinist<br /> Conductor is NORMALLY<br /> A very good thing.<br />
<div class="text_exposed_show">
<br />
<i><span class=" UFICommentActorAndBody"><span><span><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="UFICommentBody"><span>To produce a continuous tone:</span></span></span></span></span></span></i><br />
<span class=" UFICommentActorAndBody"><span><span><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="UFICommentBody"><span>Try with half bowing</span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span class=" UFICommentActorAndBody"><span><span><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="UFICommentBody"><span>The opposite direction.</span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span class=" UFICommentActorAndBody"><span><span><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="UFICommentBody"><span>(It's disconcerting.)</span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<br />
<span class=" UFICommentActorAndBody"><span><span><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="UFICommentBody"><span>He gives up nuance...<br /> "Okay, I have to say it:<br /> Just make it shorter."</span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span class=" UFICommentActorAndBody"><span><span><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="UFICommentBody"><span> </span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span class=" UFICommentActorAndBody"><span><span><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="UFICommentBody"><span> </span></span></span></span></span></span>It looks so hard, yet<br /> "It's not as important as<br /> You might think," he says.<br />
<br />
"Play it like clockwork:<br /> There'll be time enough later<br /> To get all Stretchy."<br /> <a class="_58cn" data-ft="{"tn":"*N","type":104}" href="https://www.facebook.com/hashtag/ravel?source=feed_text"><span class="_5afx"><span class="_58cl _5afz">#</span><span class="_58cm">ravel</span></span></a> <a class="_58cn" data-ft="{"tn":"*N","type":104}" href="https://www.facebook.com/hashtag/maingauche?source=feed_text"><span class="_5afx"><span class="_58cl _5afz">#</span><span class="_58cm">maingauche</span></span></a><br />
<div class="text_exposed_show">
<br />
"Oh I remember:<br /> You just flew in from England....<br /> That shouldn't matter."<br /> <a class="_58cn" data-ft="{"tn":"*N","type":104}" href="https://www.facebook.com/hashtag/torturingthesoloist?source=feed_text"><span class="_5afx"><span class="_58cl _5afz">#</span><span class="_58cm">torturingthesoloist</span></span></a></div>
<br />
<span class=" UFICommentActorAndBody"><span><span><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="UFICommentBody"><span>"Is it 2 or 4?<br /> Does anyone really care?"<br /> Not I: it's one note.</span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span class=" UFICommentActorAndBody"><span><span><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="UFICommentBody"><span> </span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span class=" UFICommentActorAndBody"><span><span><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="UFICommentBody"><span>He says it's best when<br /> We're controlling the bow. "Don't<br /> Let it control you."<br /> <a class="_58cn" data-ft="{"tn":"*N","type":104}" href="https://www.facebook.com/hashtag/yesitsobvious?source=feed_text"><span class="_5afx"><span class="_58cl _5afz">#</span><span class="_58cm">yesitsobvious</span></span></a> </span></span></span></span></span></span> </div>
</div>
refgoddesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04828650322400274190noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2927240094959814194.post-73992940111719718492017-11-07T02:07:00.001-08:002017-11-07T04:30:13.547-08:00politics on the roadI wrote a<a href="http://refgoddessnomad.blogspot.co.uk/"> post on Herding Cats</a> about the trauma I am experiencing from a distance, but I only touched loosely on the political scene. I don't know if that is a Nomad post or a Therapy post. Maybe it's a little of both. Being on the road, I find myself talking about American politics with a lot of people, and I usually revert to their own politics. That would be a Nomad post. Libraries are shutting down in England and Ireland, Brexit is a mess from both sides, Spain has put Catalonia in a military lockdown, etc. <br />
<br />
But American politics...gawd it's awful. I receive daily emails from the Democratic party and from environmental groups. They talk about elections, about the gutting of the EPA, about the other daily and hourly attacks on all I hold dear. Sometimes I go through and remove myself from the mailing lists, but I am sending monthly contributions, so it's a temporary fix. Despite the contributions, I still get messages: WE NEED YOUR HELP, WHERE ARE YOU?! I push the trashcan icon without reading, but meanwhile it's another assault. Trump and his minions are at war with me, and I'm doing nothing to fight back.<br />
<br />
This traumatic situation is not a function of being on the road: since I moved to NM, I've been doing most of my activism from long distance, so this is just a continuation.. In fact being on the road is little different from being in Taos. My social and personal life has mainly been online, where I share bits and pieces of my mostly-solitary daily routine. I also got get my news online, and that's where the trauma comes in, and the need for a Therapy post.<br />
<br />
But, as I said in my other blog, what can I do, how can I respond? Only through words, it seems. So, words were my response when Puerto Rico and Santa Rosa were both devastated by natural disasters, and Trump not only did nothing, he displayed his total unfitness. He ignored the fires, and didn't know that Puerto Rico was an U.S. territory, filled with U.S. citizens deserving of aid. And, he cared more about the personal criticism than the huge amount of suffering. Don't even get me started on the climate change issue.<br />
<br />
In tragedy's wake,<br />
Why expect empathy from<br />
A sociopath?refgoddesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04828650322400274190noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2927240094959814194.post-18651113139223565782017-09-20T07:16:00.000-07:002017-09-29T22:45:14.041-07:00FascinationsI was talking with R about a possible writing project. She asked me what I feel passionate about, and I realized that I don't feel passionate. I am fascinated by many things, but passions are beyond me. That's actually an ongoing angst/regret. It's part of my Jack of all Trades personality to be interested in many things, but unable to produce an excellent product. Still, as I age and I begin to become a little expert in various areas of fascination, I find that there is a product of sorts. I have songs and origami patterns and fudge recipes at my immediate disposal, for example. And I know a bit about wines, enough to buy or order something that I'll like. To my surprise, I realize it no longer bothers me that I remain a dilettante in all areas. I think I like it that way. In fact, I know I do. It's so much less work.<br />
<br />
M thinks we fuss too much about things like passion and purpose. In her opinion, the activity of the moment is the passion. Looking at today, my passions have been eating toast and coffee, throwing a ball for Pekoe, cuddling the dogs, knitting, tutoring, listening to music, doing laundry, watching bad TV, and writing. Hmmm.<br />
<br />
Facetiousness aside. I do get what she means. It's like the old adage: if you want to be a writer, write. Or, to be more psychological, your choices indicate who you are, what is important to you. The energy you put into a person or project is what gives it the meaning. "It is the time you waste on your rose..." in fact. I could take that silly list of activity/passions and say that my purposes are living a comfortable life, learning, creating, teaching, sharing and caring. It's a more generic list than the list of passions, but it's more encompassing. And the purposes can remain steady, while the passions change. <br />
<br />
So, I make lists of my passions, or rather fascinations. I can choose to waste time on them, or I can be chosen by them. I deliberately don't say that I can be obsessed by them, because, again, obsessing is not what I do. Repetition, maybe. Many show up in blogs or Facebook posts: they have not been researched or developed, because that would be work. But if one can write about sheer observations and sound bites, here's the current list, which I shared with R. <br />
<ul>
<li>Details in art: feet, patterns, fashions</li>
<li>Clouds and the desert SW Sky</li>
<li>Pterodactyls and other fossils</li>
<li>Ra Paulette: Cave digger</li>
<li>Waterfalls.</li>
<li>Columbia River Gorge.</li>
<li>Wild fires. Climate change.</li>
<li>Zozobra festival and burning Man and other traditions of burning</li>
<li>Dia de Los Muertos, marigold parade, etc in New Mexico</li>
<li>The tradition of the luminarias /farolitos: making them, setting them out, walking the paths.</li>
<li>Chimayo and other pilgrimage destinations</li>
<li>Stone circles</li>
<li>Andy Goldsworthy</li>
<li>Beauty and the beast, variations</li>
<li>Jane Austen</li>
<li>Dorothy Sayers</li>
<li>Georgette Heyer</li>
<li>Diana Wynne Jones</li>
<li>Strong girls in science fiction</li>
</ul>
It reminds me a little of Tim's 20-something to-do list: esoteric and eccentric. His included math problems and learning to speak with dolphins, so he had a creative product in mind. He was ambitious. I am not. There is so much to observe and experience, and I think that I am at the place where I'm interested in learning for learning's sake. And, it's difficult to focus on one thing. That's why I say I have no passions: what I really mean is that I have no obsessions. <br />
<br />
That being the said, it's clear that I am, in fact, passionate about writing. In some way, shape, or form, I write every day. The question is, can I take that passion and actually create something coherent for R's imprint? I'm excited and confused by the prospect. Excited because it's new to me and has the possibility of actually being a remunerative activitiy. Confused, because I don't really know what's involved. <br />
<br />
I'm thinking, though, that instead of writing about famous people or that earlier list of fascinations, I'd like to write about extraordinary ordinary people, people in my family, for example. Laura Ingalls Wilder is the closest model: she strung her family stories into a series of books which, while not completely factual, caught the spirit and experience of that pioneer lifestyle. All families are a product of their culture, and they all have stories that fit into the civilization's big picture. For example: women's roles changed with the advent of new careers and innovations. One result was my aunt, who, as The Flying Secretary, raced an airplane across the U.S. in the Powderpuff Derby in 1965. Women's roles were circumscribed after the War, but many had to work to supplement family incomes as the children grew older and needed more support in starting their own careers. And many wanted something meaningful to do. My Mom went back to school after we kids grew up and later took her teaching experience and love of music to start a community orchestra in a small town in IL. <br />
<br />
There were other historical events that informed family trajectories. The Great Depression and World War II left their marks on everyone, of course. Esther, whose first husband worked at Los Alamos, left him for a woman and then temporarily left her to have a child. She lived to be over a 100; in that time frame she worked as a censor during WWII and did a similar job for 3 years in Germany after the war. Her mother supported the family during the Depression as a seamstress and a Christian Science healer. In my family, the Depression was responsible for much roaming. My grandpa played in a jazz band in Chicago during the Capone years and remembered being present for a gangster confrontation. "Keep playing," one of the gangsters growled. Dad, who as a radioman listened to Tokyo Rose, was at Guadalcanal after the Sullivan brothers got killed, and was on a troop transport that took wounded from Okinawa back to the West Coast. Mom lived through the Vanport flood. Dad went to college on the GI bill. <br />
<br />
Then, there is the entire immigrant experience. So many stories, so many people. I remember hearing of a woman in Colorado who went crazy with the loneliness and hard work, holed up in the homestead, and held off her entire family with a shotgun. While insanity may not have been the only response, my great aunt told us that Grandma married at a very late age, mid-thirties, just to escape all the hard work of the eldest daughter on a farm. <br />
<br />
I think I'd like to research family stories, for my family at the very least. It would be an interesting way to combine my interest in history and my attempts to find meaning in the lives that are lived around me. People have endless ways of being and creating and just living: how do we grow as a people and as individuals? How do we tell our stories, to ourselves and to others? My aunt's story is particularly tragic, of course, but it's also inspiring in its way. Her tragedy is one of mental illness within (or created by?) a stultifying society. What leads one to paranoia? What series of frustrations and attacks and sorrows brought her from the bright adventurous pilot to the ranting schizophrenic? And yet, she managed to break the mold that had been set for her, at least for awhile. She was a fighter, and it was unknown women like her who set the stage for later battles, who provided the background for the Amelia Earhearts. Not everyone can succeed, but everyone can fight.<br />
<br />
No, I wouldn't write this for R's kids' nonfiction list. And, it's probably not possible to find all the facts of these half-heard stories. But it is possible to set that scene, that history. It's possible to find the arc of the family story. Maybe someone will want to hear it. Maybe it has meaning, in the big picture.refgoddesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04828650322400274190noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2927240094959814194.post-1837201878692465992017-09-19T02:49:00.000-07:002017-09-29T22:44:26.479-07:00A Relationship with MyselfI just re-read one of my private blogs, the blogs where I talk
critically of people whom I love, where I question relationships, where I
whine even more unbearably than I do in the public blogs. I call my
public posts my therapy blog, but these private posts are my uber
therapy blogs. And who wants to visit another person's therapy?<br />
<br />
But,
there is a point to making my musings public. People want to know how
I'm doing, and what I'm thinking, and it's a quick way to keep people
posted on the more intimate thoughts, without the immediacy of the
letter. If they take the time to find the blog and read it, that's
their choice. They can ignore this blog altogether: another choice.
It's harder to ignore a letter, so the choice there is less free.<br />
<br />
All
of this is a preface to saying that I want to revisit some of the ideas
in those earlier, private posts. They are about relationships. I
summarized the relationships of the last 5 years and questioned the validity of my current romantic pursuit. Mainly, I was noting that I am not the primary relationship for anyone, or, more pertinently, no one is a primary relationship for me. There is always something that doesn't quite work. In D's case, I was too sensitive. In T's case, I wasn't kinky. In S's case, I was too needy. In G's case....I just am not the one. But that puts the onus on me, saying that my personality is at fault. It goes both ways. In D's case, he was too angry. In T's case, he was secretive and confrontation averse. In S's case, he was afraid to let me into his introvert bubble. In G's case, he can't talk deeply with me and doesn't seem to enjoy my stories. I realize I'm leaving out M, because that relationship seems to work as a secondary relationship. It's always been long-distance, and he's truly poly, so the secondary relationships get a lot of commitment from him. He doesn't use the lack of primacy as a tactic to keep me at arm's length.<br />
<br />
Now that I am embarked on a 2-year journey away from everyone, I wonder about the urge that has led me into these failed and flawed relationships. I was happily single for many years, and I still am very happy with my own company. Post D, I probably needed to prove that I was desirable to someone other than him. T thought I was looking for another husband, which is completely a function of his own worldview. I wanted to feel loved, but I didn't want to be in love or work on the difficult marital bond. I would not be averse to finding a soulmate, but I don't see it happening, and I don't want to be without male companionship and intimacy while I wait for the long shot.<br />
<br />
Still, that doesn't explain the wistfulness I feel at finding that G is in love. It's confusing, actually. It's what I want and wanted for him. We do not have that sort of relationship, so jealousy shouldn't come into play. We were both glad the other "chose to be in my life," but it was clear that I, while an important friend, was not The One for G. And it was equally clear that he, although a loyal, helpful and beloved friend, was not a soulmate for me. I guess I mainly am sad to not be of real importance to him. And even that isn't quite right. I would have been uncomplicatedly happy if he and P had resumed their intimacy, and I had no jealousy of his commitment to her. I felt that he would still care for me. Why don't I feel that way now? Is it because it's a new relationship that has displaced me? Or because I'm not sure that she is a better option than me? They are adorable together, and he is adorable in his obsession with her, so what is the problem?<br />
<br />
I'm not worried about his commitment to being my backup on my adventure: he has said that he has no problem with keeping my stuff and being my pied a terre in Albuquerque, and I believe him. Besides, I do have other options if that changes. And he is not like S and T, who were hurtful in their rejection of me. He never pretended that our relationship was anything but a friendship with benefits, and I never wanted it to be anything more. While I'm comfortable with his companionship and I enjoy his quirky and inquiring mind, I don't feel completely connected to him, and I don't like his home. I don't want to move in on him, and it would be the ultimate in selfishness to resent that he doesn't want me either.<br />
<br />
Also, part of the reason for this nomadic existence is to reclaim my relationship with myself. I want to be happy with who I am and what I do, in that order. I need to be lovable to myself. All of this obsession with traditional relationships is waste emotion. While I remain concerned about G's new choice, the wistfulness is an emotion I need to move past. As Octavia Butler would say, "So be it. See to it!"refgoddesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04828650322400274190noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2927240094959814194.post-74936832794850002342017-08-17T21:35:00.000-07:002017-08-17T21:35:07.678-07:00Where's the confusion?Five days ago, hundred of white nationalists, neo-Nazis and their ilk descended upon Charlottesville, VA, population 49K, to protest the removal of a civic statue of Confederate General Robert E. Lee. Another group came in to protest the protest. A neo-Nazi drove into the crowd of anti-protesters, killing one, injuring 19. A helicopter holding 2 policemen crashed. These are the facts as I read them, and I'm at a loss to understand why there is any controversy over it. Violence was perpetrated by a person who belongs to a group that espouses racism. Violence was perpetrated in the name of that hatred. That's what happened.<br />
<br />
And yet, there is controversy. <br />
<br />
People talk about free speech: okay I get it, the neo-Nazis have the right to protest. But why do they have the right to protest in someone else's back yard? Is the statue federal property? Is it art? Does it belong to anyone but the people of Charlottesville, VA? Did the protestors actually attend City Council discussions and raise protests then? Did they even have the right to do so? I don't know, and the people defending these haters don't say. Because, the reality is, the reason for the rally was not to protest the proposed removal the the statue. The reason was hatred, hatred that the Confederacy does not exist, that there are people who do not want to glorify that ugliness, that people of color have rights, however those rights are abused and denied in this culture. The rally was not about free speech, it was about muscle flexing. <br />
<br />
Still, let's say it was about free speech. Next, we have the free speech of the counter-protestors. Did they attack the neo-Nazis? Did they run a car into them? Did they kill anyone? Not that I've heard. Did they have a right to come in and protest? As much right as the white supremacists had to hold their rally, I'd guess. <br />
<br />
It seems to me that the basic tragedy is that people are taking their battles into innocent people's homes. Charlottesville, VA, did not ask for this confrontation. The other tragedy is that people are not listening to each other, but instead are actively ripping into each other. That being said, I not-so-respectively disagree with Not-My-President, who says the violence came from Many Sides. Who started it? The white supremacists who held their rally in a space where they were not needed, wanted, or invited, from what I can tell. Who killed and injured people? A white supremacist. Who defended that action? White supremacists. <br />
<br />
And....old friends, neighbors, and people I care about. And that is the reason for this post. I'm trying to wrap my head around the fact that people I care about could hold views so diametrically opposed to mine, and that they could argue so speciously for those views. One person actually claimed that neo-Nazis and liberals hold the same core values. (I'm still waiting for an explanation of that statement. Bigotry and racism were never core values of any liberal I met.) Others go back into history and say the United States was founded on racism and has a long and not-so-proud history of that. Granted. But, the United States has also a very proud history of fighting for people's rights (not to mention the climate, but that's a rant for another post). And, while one can claim that all wars are economically based, I will always believe that one reason WWII was fought was that Nazism as espoused by Hitler and his thugs is evil. Lord knows, victims of the Holocaust paid that price, and the United States would never had said, as Not-My-President says, that there were faults on both sides. To find that evil resurfacing in my country is...I don't have the words. Unconscionable, frightening, heartbreaking. Wrong.<br />
<br />
But okay, let's say that those apologists are right. Hell, they ARE right. Our history is tainted. People have a right to free speech. People have a right to defend themselves. I get it. BUT...Where does that make it okay for someone to drive into a crowd of people who hold different ideas? When planes were diverted into the Twin Towers, we called it terrorism. And it was. When a neo-Nazi drives into people protesting against white supremacists, what do we call it? I'm not sure. The apologists for that action are not sure. Domestic terrorism, I'd say, in a normal place. But my country is not normal. <br />
<br />
There, I said it. Our lives under Not-My-President and his white supremacist supporters and his climate-denying cabinet and his Republican Congress are NOT NORMAL. We are spending our energy fighting battles that are precipitated by insanity, On Many Sides, as 45 would say. The many sides of the insanity include the science deniers, the bigots, the greedy haters. Their insane Many Sides are driving the national debate, are turning us away from factual issues like Russia's involvement in the election hacks, like 45's conflicts of interest, like his treasonable use of social media to share confidential information. And in this climate, we have the resurgence of anti-Semitism, the violence and fear caused by anti-Black and anti-immigrant sentiment. It's too complicated to say that this has happened because of this president or that president. But, it's clear that 45 is not the man to unify this country: he built his platform on hate and disunity, and there is no reason to believe that he does not hold with those opinions still. <br />
<br />
I should be angry. I should be fighting the good fight. But I'm not. As I was in November, I am heartsick. I'm heartsick when people I used to like say "gee, if you're gonna criticize me, I don't want you to be my friend." I'm heartsick when people whom I respected for researching their opinions are now using that research to obfuscate and attack and divide....and hate. I'm heartsick when I visit the national parks and realize that heritage is under siege, that the property owned by the people will likely belong to the 1%, and the resources the lands hold will be squandered while their uniqueness is destroyed, the rest of the world following.<br />
<br />
And all I can do right now is to stand, as much as possible, with those who, in their flawed and beautiful ways, are fighting the good fight. If ever there was a good fight, the fight against bigotry is that.refgoddesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04828650322400274190noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2927240094959814194.post-34264269448119964192017-07-15T13:26:00.001-07:002017-07-15T13:26:48.303-07:00WalkingYears ago I read <a href="https://www.kirkusreviews.com/book-reviews/rebecca-solnit/wanderlust/">a book </a>by Rebecca Solnit about walking. There is a lot in that book to delight, inform, and enlighten, but the main take away for me came in the first chapter. According to Solnit, the brain works best at 4 miles an hour, which is the average walking pace. Since I read that book, I often find myself coming back to that thought as I hike and walk and ponder. <br />
<br />
For years, my walking was utilitarian: growing up in small town Illinois, I walked to school and to friends' homes, when I didn't bicycle or bring my violin to before-school rehearsal. It wasn't until my brother came home from Reed College in Portland, OR, that I walked for pleasure. He took my sisters and me on a hike through Starved Rock State Park. It was a revelation in more ways than one. I still recall his boiling potatoes in their skins and packing the cooled potatoes for our snack on the trail. I was appalled at the idea of eating a cold potato; potatoes were supposed to be eaten hot with lots of butter and sour cream. He said, "You'll be very glad of these when the time comes," and he was right. It was one of the most delicious snacks I'd ever had. But the real revelation was what it was like, being in the woods and walking the trails. I still remember inching down a dry water-carved stream bed and looking over the edge of an ancient falls site. The rock was smooth and sculpted, and I'd never seen anything like it. Since then I've hiked through splendid mountain scenery in Oregon, through Welsh fields to Offa's Dike, up the waterfalls of the Columbia River Gorge, through the amazing Bryce, Kodachrome, and Zion park canyons in Utah, around Ayers Rock, and on and on, But I still can see that dry fall in tree-dappled sunlight, close by the Mississippi, still taste that firm cool potato liberally sprinkled with salt.<br />
<br />
Despite that experience, though, I did not yet become a hiker. During college, my walking was limited to going between campus buildings and to the local bars. On my 19th summer, I was working on Macinnac Island, MI, and I used to walk the 4 miles to the opposite side of the island to watch the sun set. In Portland, I walked to the store and to the bus stop and to work. I didn't have a car for a few years, and even when I did, I preferred to walk and use public transportation. I remember being appalled when I came back to IL and witnessed my sister driving the mere half mile between her house and Mom's and the even shorter distance to the local coffee shop. What had happened to her? Didn't she remember the mile-plus we used to walk to school? In Portland I walked that far just to get from my parking place to my destination! (And, how did she stay so skinny?)<br />
<br />
Those were the years when I learned to hike. My first mountain hike, Saddle Mountain, near the coast, was incredibly arduous. I had slippery shoes, with light brown leather uppers and spongy soles, not real walking shoes or hiking boots. There was a washout early on and it took 3 people to get me across: one standing below the skinny slippery trail, one standing on the other side of the washout, and the third standing behind me. They passed me from person to person. Later, as we crossed the saddle, with the sheer drops on either side, I stopped regularly to get my breath and my nerve. The last bit of trail was a switchback up a steep cliff. At each switch an iron rod was hammered into the rock, and chains hung from the rods, showing the path. I pulled myself up by the chains and then I was at the top, a level, loosely rectangular scree-covered space the size of my studio apartment. I was looking west down the Columbia River towards Astoria and east and south towards the Cascades. It was such a clear day I could see all the way to Mt. Jefferson to the southeast, and Mt Rainier to the northeast. The peaks were like stepping stones between those points. <br />
<br />
The exhilaration of that moment is what got me back down the mountain. A lung bursting ascent was followed by a toe-bashing descent, blisters, and a pulled groin muscle. But it didn't matter. I was hooked. I never became a backpacker, nor did I climb to the snow-capped peaks, but from that moment on I was a hiker. Even asthma and vertigo didn't keep me away from it. But other life events did. As I write this, I start to wonder if the lack of regular hikes did not lead to my depression in the years since I connected with D. He had bad knees, and he didn't like me to go with other people on my days off: he wanted me to himself. So, although I still did go hiking, it was not nearly as regularly. When I switched jobs to Portland State, I started walking to work in the morning and busing home at night. Eventually Carbon came into my life, and I started walking with her twice a day. Moving to Albuquerque, I discovered the Sandias and the open spaces there and in the Rio Grande. But that wasn't until I left D and acquired G and others as hiking partners.And, I rarely hiked alone.<br />
<br />
Before that, D and I walked through the nearby Arroyo del Oso, often fighting. I had learned in counseling sessions that the worst place to fight was at a table: you were faced off against each other, in a confrontational position. Walking, you were moving towards the same goal, together. Well, the theory is good, and it's true that it helped keep me on an even keel to put my energy into moving my feet instead of into the adrenaline rush of rage or the heart-hurting sorrow. But, it didn't solve the problems. Eventually, it was in the course of a walk with a friend that I realized my life with D was in serious trouble. And, it was through a walk that I told D that I was leaving. At that point, we were no longer moving together towards the same goal.<br />
<br />
So, through the years I've hiked and walked, and it usually is an excellent way to communicate with another person or travel short distances. It's my default for both activities. However, what walking does for me alone is another matter altogether. Back in Portland, I had begun taking walks on my work breaks. It started out as a practical measure: if I was walking in the neighborhood, no one could interrupt my break with a work issue. But it also had the side benefit of helping me think through barriers and emotions. That's when I remembered Rebecca Solnit and the brain's ability to work better at 4 miles an hour. There is indeed something about walking that helps one think. The scenery changes, but slowly, and while noticing things like the raccoon family walking across the street in the hot summer sun, or the cherry blossoms whirling down in the spring wind, my mind also is working away at the latest issue, without my being aware of it. It's like a waking dream, a <i>walking</i> dream, in fact. I write haiku in my head, I photograph scenes with my eyes, I breathe in the scent of daphne, I listen to the sounds of wind chimes and bird calls. And, while I'm absorbing the world through my senses, my body is stretching and the oxygen is filling my lungs, and that too is benefiting my brain. <br />
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It's so obvious that walking nurtures the soul as well as the brain. For years, I used labyrinths for a walking meditation. For years, I would go out for a walk to calm the fidgets out of my muscles. I would think a mantra of numbers (1 and 2 and 3 and 4...), in rhythm with my steps. And then, I would start thinking coherent thoughts: things to write, things to say, things to do. Or I would take pictures of an amazing tree or some fabulous clouds. Walking jump-started most of my creativity, in fact.<br />
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But it also was necessary from a physical perspective. While I was taking care of E, I would go out for a half hour walk up the
mountain, never going too far, just getting a break and some exercise.
She and I would go for another walk before dinner, about 10 minutes up
or down Vista del Oro. Later, when I moved to Taos, I would take walks on the trail by campus during my lunch break, or I would walk around the neighborhood and watch the sunset. Then, for no good reason, I stopped walking. I was sick for months on end, I was exhausted, I needed to do school work on my breaks, the Sandias were closed due to fire danger, it was too hot, it was too windy. Those were just of few of the bad reasons I had for not walking. When I saw the psychic in February, one of the things she told me was that I needed to get outside, to walk. It was one of the many things she said that resonated with me and one of the reasons I thought of pet-sitting as a way to spend my time. It would force me to walk every day. I would no longer be able to plead exhaustion or being too busy with other things. Walking would be part of my job. <br />
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So, today, as I walked the two dogs that are my current charge, I found myself thinking, yet again, about Solnit's words. I thought, even though she wrote a whole book about walking, in her luminous prose, I'm going to write a blog about it. And maybe I'll find that book and read it again.refgoddesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04828650322400274190noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2927240094959814194.post-8867433904214208562017-04-08T12:31:00.000-07:002017-04-08T12:31:25.216-07:00Preparing to be a nomadWe put 5 more boxes in his storage unit in the basement of the building, and he fingered the chicken wire that separates his space from his neighbor's: it has come loose from the staples that moor it to the flimsy wooden framework. Well, he had warned me that I shouldn't keep anything I really care about in there. And I won't be. He's put my art on his walls, the art that is not replaceable, and he'll be using my TV and air purifier once I finally move for good. I figure I have about 10 boxes left to pack up and deliver: 1 of shoes, 3 of books, 2 of dishes, and the rest of clothes and odds and ends. Belongings that I care about are going with B to her IL basement, along with Grandpa's old slant-topped blonde wood desk. Those belongings are basically paper: legal docs, photos, travel journals. The violin and some music will be with me, and that's the only thing I own of value, other than the electronics: ipad, PC, iphone, and J's camera, which technically I don't own, and which I'm still debating about bringing with me. The idea is to travel light, after all.<br />
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As I packed up the current batch of boxes, I wondered at myself. Why am I storing this stuff? Most of it has been in cupboards, unpacked boxes, and closets, unused since I moved to Ranchos de Taos a year ago. If I haven't missed it in the last year, what's the point of keeping it? I'm guessing it's a mix of reasons. In the last 5 years I've already weeded out things that I am missing now, and I can't bear to pare down 58 years of a life any further. It appears that I'm nesting now that I no longer have a nest, now that my life as a nomad is 5 weeks minus one day away. My last day of paid work is May 11, and I'll leave Taos that night, to leave my car in ABQ with G while I go north for the sister trip. Then back to pick up the car and drive west for my summer in CA and the start of my....adventure? escape? self-indulgence? Depending on the day and hour, it can be any or all of these for me. <br />
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Today I glanced through a blog by a young German man who spent three years traveling: his was a true adventure, funded by many years in a high-power job. I wonder what he's doing now. There doesn't seem to be much since he finished the blog in 2011 and wrote a book based on the blog in 2013. I wonder what I'll do with my nomadic time, and where I'll end up, and what I'll do then? It's too early to retire, really, except that it's too late to start a new career. I can't muster enthusiasm for much of anything but what I'm doing now: eating, reading, knitting, and packing, and, the odd job interview aside, no one seems to muster much enthusiasm for me. Am I both too old and too young?<br />
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No, I'm just too tired.<br />
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In some ways, drawing out the packing process is a good thing. It's emotionally exhausting to find homes for this collection of objects, some useful, some sentimental, most neither. It's best to do it in stages. But, what I really should be doing is exploring my current home, fitting in the last visits to favorite places, checking out the places I never got around to visiting: the murals at the Plaza, Fossil Hill, Millicent Rogers Museum, DH Lawrence Ranch, trails on Taos Mountain, Pot Creek, and, of course, Ra Paulette's Caves over by Ojo. Not to mention a last visit to Ojo Caliente itself. I doubt I'll do any of it ,though. In addition to the incremental boxing up of my life, I still have a job, and I'm still taking classes. Finishing those commitments is a self-respect-worthy thing. Not only should I do it, I want to do it.<br />
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Still, I get tired just thinking about what I haven't done. The weight of opportunities missed and days wasted is crushing at times. But of course, there's more than that, and, looking over at G, I realize that my time has not been misspent. I've had his growing friendship for 4 years, as well as the friendship of many other people, and I am now picking myself up and exploring options for my third act. Five years ago at this time I was preparing for the move to ABQ, and the move happened on my birthday weekend. I spent the ensuing five years recovering from the various losses, losses that were physical, emotional, and fiscal. This year, on my 58th birthday, I'll be playing with dogs, and enjoying Sonoma County. <br />
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There's not much to complain about.refgoddesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04828650322400274190noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2927240094959814194.post-71797158143703811442017-01-07T13:39:00.000-08:002017-01-07T13:39:38.005-08:00Snippets1. Snippet # 1: Reunion<div>
I spent my Christmas break in Petaluma, CA, visiting E. She was 101 in July, 2016, and it had been close to 2 years since I had seen her. Although there are signs of deterioration, she is still able to go on road trips and enjoy them. So, in the course of my 5-day visit, we went to the top of Mt. Tam, into the Muir Redwoods, over to the Sonoma Coast, through the Sonoma Valley, into cheese factories and wineries. The weather was perfect: blue skies, crisp air, clear light. <div>
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She fell the first night, splitting open the thin skin on her left forearm. Her daughter took care of the ER visit, and I wasn't aware of the incident until the next morning, but the rest of the visit I started each day changing the bandages and examining the arm for radiating red or pus. She was disoriented, convinced that she was at her aunt's house in Bakersfield, instead of her sister's house in Petaluma. But otherwise, she was her own wonderful self, delighted to see me and to be with her family. "Oh I'm so glad you are here, did anyone tell me you were coming? It almost makes up for that great disappointment." She was referring to the visit I had planned in October, that was canceled the morning of the flight because of the violent attack of vertigo. So, her memory is intact for some things.</div>
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It was a special time, a renewal of a special bond. It was possibly the last time I would see her, probably the last time I would see her able to go out and about. I ached as she said "when will you come back, why don't you move to California," as I replied, "I'd like to." Her niece drove us to the airport on that last day, and the conversation consisted of telling E that she was going to her home in El Cerrito, and I was going to my home in Taos. That we were separating again. That I was not staying with her. A final hug, and I walked into the airport. I had a cold, but that's not why I was sniffing.</div>
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2. Snippet 2: Politics</div>
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I delivered my rent check and he said, "So, it's 2017 and the world hasn't come to an end." I nodded, "Not yet." "Give him a chance," he said. I mentioned the new Cabinet appointees, and the denial rocked me. "He's not a racist....I don't believe in Climate Change either." I walked away. This is the other side of it. I'd like to believe that Trump supporters are thoughtful, that they voted him in because they don't like the status quo and they don't believe he is a sociopath (or that it matters in terms of what he can do). But, some of his supporters, maybe most of them, are like my landlord. I am frightened. I read my Daily Action text and call the number to protest the first action of the new Congress: a breathtakingly cynical attempt to do away with ethical oversight. And then the Sociopath tweets "no, no, no" and the media says, "ain't he great." I feel played.</div>
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How can we be proactive instead of reactive? How can we stop playing the Sociopath's game? A friend says, it's just the pendulum swinging. It's what we do, why do you get so upset about it? But I find it impossible to be philosophical about it, and I cannot be comforted by the thought of the pendulum swinging back. So much evil will be done on this side of the swing.</div>
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3. Snippet 3: Friendship</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">In the laser music room at Meow Wolf</td></tr>
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She spent her 70th birthday with me in Santa Fe. We walked the Rio Grande Nature Center, we went to Meow Wolf, we checked out the Indian Fair, we froze in the Glow at the Santa Fe Botannic Garden. We had a lovely meal at the Compound, and the busser who shared the birthday brought us free desserts. </div>
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She is the only friend from Portland to visit me here, and has done so faithfully every year. We have explored Chimayo, Taos, the Agnes Martin room at the Harwood, Abiquiu and Ghost Ranch, Jemez Springs, Bosque del Apache, the VLA, and Albuquerque Luminaria tours. We have talked, she has analyzed. In the 30+ years we have been friends, we have traveled together, eaten memorable meals, drunk memorable wines, listened to wonderful music, and....talked. She is argumentative in the best sense of the word: she observes, questions, and thinks. No offhand comments allowed: you have to defend your position.</div>
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She claims to be organic in her approach to travel, to life. "You'll retire when you want to stop working, when it's time" she says, dismissing my agonizing over budgets, health care, and What Will I Do? She says live in the moment, be content with what you have. Or words to that effect. </div>
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G says similar things. "You're a dreamer," he said today. I'm not so sure about that. I know I'm tired, tired of being sick, of having no energy, of having no focus, no reason for existing. Today, as I stood in his shower, enjoying the feeling of the hot water on my back, I thought about living in the moment. Yes, this moment is good, but is it enough? Am I enough?</div>
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When I was visiting with E, I overheard her talking about me with her niece. "She's so kind, so genuine," they agreed. I smiled at the time, almost saying "You know I can hear you, right?" but instead letting the eulogy run its course. Now I wonder....is a life of friendships enough? Lord knows I am a careless friend. "You never call, you never write...." </div>
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And it's true enough. I think about C, my freshman year Resident Advisor who passed 3 days before Christmas, leaving behind a teenaged son and a coterie of heartbroken friends and family. I learned about it through a text, the texter having learned about it through Facebook. What a world we live in, where friendships are created or maintained through social media, where you learn the most heart-rending news browsing through your iPhone. And where your grief is shared and assuaged through the pixellated pictures and memories and anguish posted through the special Friends Of group on Facebook. </div>
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Through the shock, I process. Why am I so upset? She was important to my life 40 years ago, but I haven't talked to her since. Some of my fellow advisees have seen her, talked to her, written to her, but not I. I friended her on Facebook after the 2nd Spider reunion, and I've followed her posts, and she has responded to mine, but that does not a friendship make. Or does it? What comes through, shiningly, as I read the posts of fellow mourners, is what a friend she was. She was kind, she was genuine, she was thoughtful, she was present, she was incisive, she was supportive, she was creative. She was beloved. And she is gone, leaving behind her beautiful poems, her unfinished book, her teenaged son, her husband, her friends, her family, the pictures and gifts and memories and love. Is it enough?</div>
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Will it be enough for me? I do not have her gift of friendship or creativity, I have not changed the world one iota for the better. Is it enough that I have, outside of my carbon footprint, not changed it for the worse? Is it enough that, occasionally, I give back to those who so unstintingly give to me? </div>
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4. Snippet #4: Rituals</div>
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My friend sent me a picture of my Portland house, as it now appears. My aching heart is soothed: the outside shell looks good, and I have hopes that the garden will have roses in the future. They didn't cut down the walnut or destroy the shed. </div>
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I think about the years I spent there, and the rituals that I no longer follow. I no longer throw parties to mark the annual holidays: Halloween pumpkin carving, Thanksgiving turkey from Otto's, Christmas cookie baking, New Years Day jigsaws and mulled wine, Bastille Day wines on the deck. I used to make lefse and julecaga every Christmas and decorate the house. I'd harvest pussy willows every spring. I'd make winter wreaths from the red dogwood clippings and the Oregon grape, summer wreaths from the my friend's lavender and my old-fashioned hydrangea. I'd make paper from the junk mail and send out holiday greeting cards made from the homemade paper and origami. Every month I would respond to the changing environment: certain hikes fit certain seasons, and every August I'd take the basil harvest and make ice-cube trays filled with pesto. Every birthday was celebrated by a trip or a hike or a special dinner: the common denominator being the celebration with a beloved friend.</div>
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Now my rituals are sharply curtailed. I go out at sunset and take a picture of the sky, of the light on the mountain. It gets posted to facebook, along with a haiku. I make popcorn with garlic and brewers' yeast instead of cooking a dinner. There is no pesto in the freezer, no yeast for baking bread, no oven in which to bake the bread. I made no lefse, and the julecaga I made in Petaluma was dry. My friends don't drink, and the wine deliveries from my wine club get turned back by UPS because there's no one to sign for them. While I do harvest sage from my landlord's garden for sauteed buttered sage, the garden yields no other food or craft material. I spent my 57th birthday alone. Now I sit in the evening, knitting and listening to audio books. And time passes, unmarked. I am not comforted by the quiet assurance of ritual. The future does not beckon, it leers. </div>
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Snippet #5. What now?</div>
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I've spent the last year working a reduced work schedule: 30 hours a week, 10 hours unpaid FMLA. The idea was that, instead of quitting my job, I'd keep the health insurance and figure out what's wrong with my health. I've been tested and drugged and overhauled, and the net result is....nothing is wrong? But, I still get migraines and nausea, and now I've started my annual winter cold with attendant cough. Is it just the way my body ages? The areas of weakness just get weaker? What do I do? </div>
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I have so much I'd like to do, so much I'd like to write about: Meow Wolf, the changing seasons, the sculpture at UNM Taos, the future. But all I seem to be able to manage are these snippets, and now it's time to make a salad for a late lunch. I guess that's a reasonable outlet for my creativity. It's at least a moment worth living in, if not enough for a life.</div>
refgoddesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04828650322400274190noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2927240094959814194.post-36546249468229922192016-11-24T10:36:00.001-08:002017-01-07T11:43:31.797-08:00Wild SpiritsWe got turned back at the gate of the new (to us) prison, where SC is now living. Actually, we were beckoned into the gate so we could break the posted rule which barely registered as we looked at the bar blocking our path. <i>No firearms, etc or ALCOHOL permitted beyond this point, </i>said the sign to the left of the gateway. The bar in front of us lifted after several moments, and we rolled through, coming to a stop as the guard stepped out of the warmth of her little office. She was short and round, hatted, gloved, and coated against the below-freezing temps. Standing by the passenger side, she asked who we were visiting, and then said, "Level 4s aren't allowed visitors." She started talking on the walkie talkie, and then asked us for SC's offender number. I had the number in my online address book, so I got out to fish my phone out of the trunk. We'd already prepped ourselves for the usual: no phones, no jewelry, nothing but a roll of quarters for the vending machines and your license and keys, to be surrendered at the checkin metal detector. We were old hands at this, and even though this was the state run facility instead of the overcrowded private facility (CCA), we assumed it would be the same.<br />
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It wasn't.<br />
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As I looked through my phone for SC's offender number, the guard looked in the trunk and pulled out the bottle of wine I'd brought along as a gift for that evening's hostess in Santa Fe. The guard said, "you can't bring that in," and I said, "even though it's staying in the car?" and she said nope, and I said, then what do I do with it?, and she said, she was calling her lieutenant. We were still trying to convince her that SC was NOT Level 4 and that she was eligible for visitors, we were not worrying about the wine, when two men came up and gestured us to drive further in, and park off to the side. It was like a traffic stop: Stay.In.The.Car, Wait.Here. They talked to the guard and then came back and gestured at me to roll down my window. "You're on a 24-hour suspension, because you tried to bring alcohol in." No arguments, no letting us bring the wine back to the hotel for them to hold, no leaving it by the side of the road ("kids will find it"), no recourse. They wouldn't even call SC to let her know we couldn't come in. Jerks. "This isn't the old place. We put one of our guards on suspension for bringing in an empty can of beer." Oh KAY.<br />
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Tails between our legs, metaphorically speaking, we turned around, drove past the very clear sign (I'll give them that), re-booked our room for the night, called our Santa Fe hostess to cancel the evening plans, and drove southward. I'd wanted MS to see El Morro for some time, and it looked like this was the best option for our day.<br />
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It was.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuLt6E8V0MKOtwGiVNzuPKg0lhl1trb3wFr61C7MdghQP6ORYdiQBeKWdQMcF6yqgZabJo20h1m0rmBFDEIfLQFwZP6QHM-nT_MtA-3Nx6VtHjTzX1WoqpfEhEyDnquk_JONFcneeDiPE5/s1600/atsinna.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuLt6E8V0MKOtwGiVNzuPKg0lhl1trb3wFr61C7MdghQP6ORYdiQBeKWdQMcF6yqgZabJo20h1m0rmBFDEIfLQFwZP6QHM-nT_MtA-3Nx6VtHjTzX1WoqpfEhEyDnquk_JONFcneeDiPE5/s320/atsinna.jpg" width="240" /></a>The weather was crisp, the skies were clear, and although the switchback trail was closed, we could still hike up to Atsinna for the splendid view. The striped walls of the mesa were lined with ice. Through the winter light, we sought the inscriptions from Ancestral Puebloans, conquistadores, army units, and pioneers. We looked at the blown cattails in the perpetual pool, the "reason we are here." <br />
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SC called a few times, but the signal kept getting lost. Finally she got through as we stood in the freezing wind, looking into the canyon and across the sea of sage and badlands towards other headlands. It was after noon, and she'd been frantic about our non-appearance. Not for the first time, I cursed the system.<br />
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After a few hours of walking and looking at the sites, we went further south to see the Wild Spirit <a href="https://wildspiritwolfsanctuary.org/index.php">Wolf Sanctuary.</a> Because the snow and freezing temperatures were followed by some melt, the gravel road to the sanctuary was pea soup slush. Despite the new tires, the car was slewing, not dangerously, but disconcertingly. And at one point I hit a puddle of slush and mud that went up over the windscreen and along the sides of the car. At the end of the road I told M that he got to drive back. <br />
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The sanctuary is a compound of fenced enclosures and yurts. You walk in the gate and turn left, duck under the short lintel, and enter a dark round room, filled with wolf-themed tchotchkes and apparel. I almost bought stuffed wolf cubs for my grandnieces, just to be helpful to the sanctuary. They were so darned cute. But I resisted. The long-haired granola type girl sold us tickets to the tour, which was due to start in half an hour. We walked over to the Candy Kitchen general store across the road for some hot coffee. It appears that the store is a combination meeting place, laundromat, and deli, as well. (I found out later it was a place to buy moonshine, and they sold pinon candy as a front. The name stuck.) A long porch with wooden benches and chairs and rickety tables ran the length of the building, facing into the muddy parking area. We were greeted by an aged Rottweiler mix, and his bearded owner remained seated at the far end of the porch, not paying much attention to us. A dreadlocked couple in their 20's sat at one of the formica tables by the deli case/kitchen area. It appeared they were doing their laundry and watching the TV. There was no one behind the counter or by the cash register, and no one in the store. We wandered about a bit, looking at the display of old VHS and DVDs for sale, checking out the shelves of snacks and canned foods and cleaning supplies. There was no coffee that we could see, and no one to sell it it us in any case. We got ready to leave, when one of the couple went to the door and told the Rottweiler's owner that he had customers. Hmmm.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhElePsmNTV-xFEnEUJNOV4hIwYR04aMw4CF9SVEfqxaVX8qcbDmBJxw5thI5hZBcT-CQssSaJrg1TtvGZ01iO6c-P8dqDWtWKW1qYrsDQzCRZpDksMZuny5sIsKZAmtkr-dbDNaRpUjsnz/s1600/wolf+sanctuary+guide.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="311" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhElePsmNTV-xFEnEUJNOV4hIwYR04aMw4CF9SVEfqxaVX8qcbDmBJxw5thI5hZBcT-CQssSaJrg1TtvGZ01iO6c-P8dqDWtWKW1qYrsDQzCRZpDksMZuny5sIsKZAmtkr-dbDNaRpUjsnz/s320/wolf+sanctuary+guide.jpg" width="320" /></a>So, he made us some coffee, and we sat outside to drink it. Then, back to the Sanctuary for our tour. The 20-something guide was a New Zealander with an accent that came and went: she'd moved to New Zealand when she was 8 and had recently been getting her degree in biology in the States. She was bundled up, with her long dark braid hanging down her front, and carrying a baggie of jerky treats for the wolf dogs. She was very engaging, and we tipped her generously at the end of the tour. It was her last week of the 3-month stint, and while she clearly loved the work, she also clearly was happy to get out of the yurt home and back to New Zealand.<br />
<br />
We met wolf-dogs from all across the United States: some came from hoarders who had been busted. The shelters don't know how to handle or interpret wolf-dogs and are afraid of them, so the animals had been housed in poor conditions after their "release." In one case, the dogs had been born at the sanctuary, and were living out their lives there. The shy ones actually came to the fence, and our guide told us how lucky we were. She sounded sincere, but I think we may have been played. That's okay, though. <br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCrrlFb29dqNdKg1vuQFTx3D0oiiTiTTdEWao7v0X0dIB45gp_7EsZhlicO9zXNvp4wV_CuwAE5liD8mP2736I8QlMz-5wFoKaO9aYS_MROcffX7nDMiPHwRr5BPwx4xO-Gc2HWG569n8q/s1600/wolf+dogs.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCrrlFb29dqNdKg1vuQFTx3D0oiiTiTTdEWao7v0X0dIB45gp_7EsZhlicO9zXNvp4wV_CuwAE5liD8mP2736I8QlMz-5wFoKaO9aYS_MROcffX7nDMiPHwRr5BPwx4xO-Gc2HWG569n8q/s320/wolf+dogs.jpg" width="240" /></a>I learned that wolves do not have blue eyes: that's a myth from the fact that true wolves cannot be trained to "act," so all the wolves depicted in films are actually malamutes or huskies. I also learned that wolf behavior is the opposite of dog behavior: a tail held high in dogs is happy, while in wolves it's aggressive. Wolf-dogs are a man-made construct of the exotic pet industry: unlike coyotes, wolves won't willingly breed with dogs in the wild.<br />
<br />
The shelter has ambassador wolf-dogs, who visit schools and libraries and other institutions to share the word: wolves should not be bred with dogs, wolves cannot be pets. The wolf-dogs who live at the shelter are there for life: they cannot be safely returned to the wild because they do not have the skills to survive there. <br />
<br />
My favorite myth-buster was the concept of the alpha: it turns out the alpha of the pack is female. So there!<br />
<br />
We wandered up the hill past the fenced enclosures, meeting various animals and hearing their stories. We stood behind a low wooden barrier log, a few feet from the fence, while our guide stood next to the fence with the treats. There was a different ritual at each enclosure: some of the inmates came to the fence, some just watched us from a rock or straw-filled hut at the far end of the enclosure. Some were white arctic wolves, some grey timber wolves. We saw and heard Himalayan singing dogs and we saw a dingo pack that had been bred in Florida and advertised for sale via Facebook. (The breeder was betrayed and retreated back to Australia, leaving the dingoes behind.) We even saw a fox: beautiful. For the most part, the sanctuary focuses on wolf-dogs, but there are a few other escapees from the exotic pet industry. The sanctuary receives several hundred calls a week, but most of the dogs in question are huskies or shepherds whose owners cannot handle them. The sanctuary uses behavioral and visual cues to determine the breeding of the dog as DNA testing would be expensive and not conclusive. Apparently the wolf DNA is not that different from dog.<br />
<br />
There was a lot of information to absorb and we also talked with our guide about her background and plans. So, the tour was fun and too short. As the sun westered, we hoped to hear some wolf music, but it was not to be. We walked back through the lengthening shadows, said our goodbyes, and drove back down the slushy road.<br />
<br />
My car needed a bath.<br />
<br />
I thought about the various images of the day. SC, fenced in behind barbed wire. Wolf-dogs, ditto. Snow, ice. Signs and inscriptions. Mud. Tumbling walls at Atsinna, strong walls at the prison. But mainly I thought about the golden light, about wildness penned up, about the ways people hurt the world and each other, leave their marks and disappear. About sanctuary.<br />
<br />
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refgoddesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04828650322400274190noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2927240094959814194.post-26551583124876157402016-11-24T10:36:00.000-08:002016-11-24T10:38:28.409-08:00Appreciation"I appreciate you," she said, as she left the library. <br />
It's a common phrase, here in Northern New Mexico, and I've often smiled in...yes, appreciation...at its use, but this time it seemed like I really heard it. Appreciation. Not the same thing as thanks, although it's often included with the thank you. Not love, which is often said almost by rote, too, to indicate a deeper feeling than like. Not like, either. Nor affection. Appreciation. Acknowledging something at the core of the person.<br />
<br />
Appreciation. n.<br />
C1600 (with an isolated use from c1400) from Ango-French <i>appreciation</i>, noun of action from Old French <i>apprecier</i> from Late Latin <i>appretiare</i> "estimate the quality of." (Etymonline.com)<br />
<br />
Yes, it's a recognition of a person's quality. And I find myself thinking we need to do more of that, estimate the quality of the people who are running our country, appreciate the people we live amongst. It might even transform the public dialog (if only it were a dialog.) But, the real reason I am thinking about appreciation is that it seems possible, even in the hopeless mood I currently inhabit. I cannot give thanks: thanksgiving is an active thing that also implies there is a being who has done something specific and good. Gratitude is an offering of an emotion, and my emotions are deadened by the Trump effect.<br />
<br />
I wrote recently to a friend, "I'd feel better if I felt less helpless. I'm not able to fight, that's never been my way, but trying to live a life that lifts people up doesn't seem to be working, at least not on the scale that is needed.....I'm still in gray mode, exhausted, confused, and a little numb to the glory and terror that is life."<br />
<br />
So, on this Thanksgiving Day, I cannot give thanks (to whom?) for my family, friends, relatively good health and income, worthwhile job, and more than adequately functioning body and brain. I cannot raise a paean of joy for the clouds and skies of New Mexico, the crisp cold scent of sage in the evenings, the warmth of the crackling fire in my wood burning stove, the feel of clay under my fingers, the sound of an excellent audio book in my ears, the savor of a fresh-baked cranberry-peach pie in my mouth. Seeing, feeling, touching, smelling, tasting, hearing....all those wonderful senses working so well and so beautifully to bring the joys of this world to me....and I cannot give thanks in return? <br />
<br />
No, not yet. But I can appreciate it, and that's a start. It's a noun of action, even if the action is not energetic. It's a recognition. And it's possible. "I appreciate you," she said, and I can second that emotion. refgoddesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04828650322400274190noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2927240094959814194.post-75781494144336654532016-11-10T17:03:00.000-08:002016-11-10T17:03:07.276-08:00Making SenseElection night, I worked until 8 pm, when the polls closed in New Mexico, and half the electoral votes were in. Clinton was behind by 33, but there were 294 left up for grabs. The mood could have been cautiously hopeful, but I felt dread deadening my emotions. I texted a bit with PT and G, but they were watching polls and TV and online election maps, and my stomach couldn't take the play by play. I bowed out, and listened to James Marsters read <i>The Summer Knight</i>, with that perfect amount of Sam Spade in his voice. I took diazepam for my queasy stomach and spinning brain, and fell asleep.<br />
<br />
I woke up to the news that my country, my neighbors, my friends, my family, had elected a man whose entire campaign denigrated and marginalized women, minorities, and The Other, people who were also my neighbors, my friends, my family. We elected a bully, a man whose "Art of the Deal" consists of screwing over the people with whom he deals, a man who is proud of working the tax system while the rest of us pay, whose response to criticism is a blisteringly vulgar tweet, who is all about what he can win for himself. I can't even talk about the rape accusations and his treatment of the soldier's surviving family.<br />
<br />
I was heartsick.<br />
<br />
I walked through my day, feeling tears in my throat, dread in my heart. I was nauseous, my head hurt as well as my heart and stomach. I saw but could not feel the sun shining on the snow-sprinkled mountain. There was a haze over everything. I wasn't sleepwalking, but I was not present.<br />
<br />
Eventually I started reading other people's words. In most there was some version of shock and dismay. One particularly poignant post in Facebook said "We have elected a CHILD RAPIST!" I looked up the details in Snopes.com.....well, legally he has only been accused, and the suit has been withdrawn. As with so much that is horrible about this man, one can't help but wonder: is he really a sociopath, or is that just his shtick? And, in the long run, does it really matter? We have elected him as he presented himself to be. That in itself is enough to shame us all. But does it?<br />
<br />
I started listening to people's words. And, as I listened, a glimmer of...something....came into me. It was not hope....not light....it was a spark, a tiny ember, melting away the hard lump that I was curled around. I started paying attention again to my body's reaction: nausea, pain, tears. I was feeling grief, and it was a very familiar feeling. But, I have some tools to deal with that. Meditate, let the grief and other emotions flow through and out, envision myself as a clear vessel holding light and love....I think about that, and it seems too personal, too small in the face of this global catastrophe. Can lifting up really be the answer?<br />
<br />
And yet, there's that tiny spark. I listen some more. And I realize that my country, my friends, my family, my neighbors did NOT elect this evil person (and I truly do believe his works and his effects are evil). At least 50% of us do believe in the value of women and marginalized people. We want to safeguard our natural resources. We want affordable health care, social services, freedoms. In fact, many of the people who voted for him seem just as horror-struck as those who did not. I read screeds of blame and shame, saying it's our own darn fault for choosing Clinton as our candidate.<br />
<br />
What it seems to come down to is that everyone feels discouraged and disenfranchised. So, some of us tried to take down the old power structure which Clinton stands for. While I think it is irresponsible to elect an unknown just because he isn't part of the old guard, I do understand. And I cannot descend into blaming and shaming. My only hope while I work through this grief is that the government, corrupt, lumbering entity that it is, will use its will to live and swallow him up. Just as liberals become part of the machine they want to fix, so will this sociopath.<br />
<br />
And, in the meantime, it's time to get to work on that revolution. If I don't run away first.<br />
<br />
I've been threatening<br />
To leave if the worst happened.<br />
But where can I go?refgoddesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04828650322400274190noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2927240094959814194.post-49899738334039476512016-10-22T08:30:00.000-07:002016-10-22T08:30:48.831-07:00GuttedI learn they gutted<br />
My 1893 house.<br />I feel gutted too.<br />
<br />
It was 101 years old when I bought it. The style was "Rural Vernacular," which I gather means a farmhouse that's been added to and surrounded by a neighborhood. That, at least, was its history. I once looked it up in the old City Directories. In the 1890s, houses were not indexed by address, but by owner. My old home's address was "2 blocks n. of Section Line Rd," and the residents were a family with a Dutch-sounding name (Vanderhoven?). One was a seamstress, which used to be code for prostitute, but in this case was the real deal. Her brothers seemed to swap ownership, and most of the family worked at the same place, a plumber outfitter, a few miles away near the river, I believe. <br />
<br />
All this research is in a folder in a Portland basement, and my memory is clearly at fault, but I remember when my elderly next-door neighbor came inside and told me what it used to be. My downstairs office was her aunt's sewing room. The central room/dining area/entry was the living room: they sat on a bench to the side of the fireplace. The fireplace was now bricked up, and one of my antique wardrobes filled the space that used to hold the warm bench. The large opening to the living room used to hold a door, and the living room was the special sitting room for guests. The downstairs bath was the back porch, off the kitchen pantry. The back deck off the kitchen covered the sidewalk from her house next door: she came up that walk every day to visit her aunt and uncles. Upstairs, the large open skylighted room was the main bedroom, and the alcove with the washing machine used to hold a dresser. There was a hallway to the front room, which used to be divided into her uncle's bedroom and a storage room. The stairway was just as steep, but it was enclosed, with a curtain of beads at the bottom that they used to swing on.<br />
<br />
100 years later, the house was pictured in a book of historic houses. Because of various remodels, it was not on any historic register: the value was that it added to the historic character of the neighborhood. Now that neighborhood is barely recognizable. When I visited 2 summers ago, 3 years after I moved to Albuquerque, funky old Division Street was lined with steel and glass high rises, and one of the new storefronts housed a specialty ice cream store with trendsters lined up for half a block to get weird ice cream. (It actually was pretty good, but no ice cream is worth a 30 minute wait.) I was comforted by the fact that the street was also full of nude bike riders: at least some of Portland's weirdness was still going strong. <br />
<br />
I acquired the house from friends: it used to be C's party house, but he rented it out to some younger friends when he moved in with AB. It became a Reed house, and I spent many happy Sundays enjoying brunch and crosswords and companionship. It became <i>my </i>house through a series of friendship-based events. AB was driving me and my seriously ill cat home from a homeopathic vet. The vet had done a psychic hair test and informed me that Yo-cat had leukemia and I was sobbing while I stroked my cat. As her stress-loosened fur swirled around my hand, AB searched for a conversational distraction...."I don't know what C is going to do with that house, now that R is moving out (she was the principal renter)." I gulped through my tears, "He should sell it to me." I wasn't serious: I was happy in my converted milk barn, and I didn't want the responsibility of home-ownership.<br />
<br />
One hour later, I received a call from R: "C says you could have the house for $100K." Huh? "Oh, and he says there's no way Yo-cat has leukemia." That call was followed by another, this time from C: "I called my vet friend in St. Louis, and YO-CAT DOES NOT HAVE LEUKEMIA! And I'd love to sell my house to you."<br />
<br />
My loan was $74K, and I pulled another $6K from savings, for the deal of the century. C put down vapor barrier in the area under the house, AB painted the trim, and I received dispensation regarding the cedar shake siding: they didn't make me paint it. One fine April day, a caravan of friends with cars and trucks descended upon my milk barn home and transported my possessions to my urban farmhouse home. I paid my workers with scones, coffee, and raspberries scavenged from my new yard as they carried my things up the walk. E stayed to put away my kitchen things, V took charge of the library, M set up stereo and music. By the end of the day, I was moved in and soaking in M and Ws hot tub: they now only lived a mile away. <br />
<br />
In the course of the next 17 years, I hosted annual pumpkin carving parties, Christmas cookie baking parties (all the best parties happen in the kitchen), Superbowl parties. When Grandma turned 80, I took over the Thanksgiving dinners. One weekend much later, I kicked D out and invited woman friends to a detox weekend, complete with massage and cleansing foods. Housemates came and went. So did pets: Bunji and Yo-Cat were both buried in the yard. In summer and fall I harvested raspberries and walnuts from my jungle yard. In winter I made wreaths from the red-brown dogwood cuttings. In spring I cut pussy willows and filled vases around the house. I gathered greens and lemony-tasting sorrel from the yard for an Easter omelet. For every holiday and season, the house provided space and inspiration for celebration and love.<br />
<br />
And, I made my own changes to the house, refinishing floors, moving doors, adding attic space and closets, releasing a hidden skylight, and opening up the tiny upstairs room, changing it into a library. The big remodel was the new addition, which took out the hawthorne that the cats used to climb to get onto the porch roof and into my bedroom window. It also took out the daphne and the hydrangea, but it added a wonderful family/guest room, with a wood-burning fireplace, wall bed, reclaimed-wood kitchen bar, and tiled shower. The stained-glass window from the old Woodstock Library was imbedded above the fireplace, with a light behind it. The room was comfortable, filled with music, art, and light. When I lost my PSU job, it paid for itself as an Airbnb room. <br />
<br />
Friends were also incorporated. B's mother took my grandmother's quilt scraps and crafted quilts that graced the guest room. AB's water colors and oils, and AC's prints and my own photographs filled the walls. L's roses brightened the jungle garden. When I thought I'd have to lose my house, MC wrote a check for $4K to keep me afloat. I found a house-mate and finally realized my dream to change the shed into a guest room. It had previously morphed from carpenter's shop to printshop to artist's studio, to garden shed, but in my last few months I slept under the skylights, watched the sun rise and illuminate the flower-filled garden, and listened to the rain on the roof. I was happy in that new space, despite the financial uncertainty, nightmare house-mate, and eroding marriage.<br />
<br />
As the house changed, so did the neighborhood. Indigine closed, but other restaurants opened. Nature's had a place just a few blocks away. The neighborhood remained a tad bit funky, with middle-aged hippies, original residents, and gentrifying yuppies making fairly gentle incursions. New businesses were careful to use the shells of old buildings and homes, and the thrift stores did a thriving business. The nearby park was leash free, and I walked and biked around, visiting friends and heritage trees and local coffee shops.<br />
<br />
In other words, I had a home. And now it's gone. But....<br />
<br />
At least the friends<br />
And memories have remained.<br />
For the time being.refgoddesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04828650322400274190noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2927240094959814194.post-41215010460548681872016-09-14T21:37:00.000-07:002016-12-08T15:50:45.018-08:00A rainbow<br />
<br />
"There's a beautiful rainbow," she said from the office door.<br />
<br />
It took a moment to process it. I'd been sitting with my back to the window, typing away at the notes for the Staff Council meeting I had attended a few hours before. I was dimly aware of a brisk damp breeze blowing through the window. I had weighted down my notes with stapler and tape dispenser, but I hadn't turned around to see what was happening. Now I did turn, and saw a golden light through the slats of the window shades. <br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioE2HSXq0K_kjjo7QQWn04nestKoRga3ZVzhLW0sS3w1aC52x9pvK0SaspQIoEGAPLlQBELtgXwdfGRwWf8fuQsX69Meyw5fOTBDxn-09HUs1MZRUQOj6XoRJCq2YyacHSVOVfe7AHokbT/s1600/14362503_10208194124344059_6229708356606693171_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="159" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioE2HSXq0K_kjjo7QQWn04nestKoRga3ZVzhLW0sS3w1aC52x9pvK0SaspQIoEGAPLlQBELtgXwdfGRwWf8fuQsX69Meyw5fOTBDxn-09HUs1MZRUQOj6XoRJCq2YyacHSVOVfe7AHokbT/s320/14362503_10208194124344059_6229708356606693171_o.jpg" width="320" /></a>I grabbed my cell phone from my pack and walked quickly to the east door of the building, the Library's unofficial entrance. Facing east, I saw the right leg of brilliant rainbow. I came further out, and there it was, a complete bow, arching from the middle of the Taos mountain range to the north and ending at the southernmost campus building. It was immense and perfect, and I couldn't hope to capture it with my little cell phone. But I tried. I walked through the spattering of raindrops to the north and west, trying to get a clear view of the mountain with this incredible prism dropping to its peak. When I got to the point where I could see the peaks clearly, I was also able to see the setting sun. It was a bright orb at the rim of the earth, with a golden haze above and a few glittering clouds to the side. Over there, the sky was almost clear. North, east, and west, the sky was filled with clouds, some dropping rain, some clumping up around a few specks of a cerulean blue. <br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicO6gzdvG2p1M5daHb1wPanlSXEbpvN82thetlEhB42-hO2_RLcQNNcg2egStHyzSf4KZTz6u0lFlcVZ9jEFcvF0TrB_SHB3dkAo6KZXGYIY8ComOXAH7zZThiLvNPbgoG9geG6AdU-2YW/s1600/14370325_10208194122384010_6674412607527362258_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicO6gzdvG2p1M5daHb1wPanlSXEbpvN82thetlEhB42-hO2_RLcQNNcg2egStHyzSf4KZTz6u0lFlcVZ9jEFcvF0TrB_SHB3dkAo6KZXGYIY8ComOXAH7zZThiLvNPbgoG9geG6AdU-2YW/s200/14370325_10208194122384010_6674412607527362258_n.jpg" width="200" /></a><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZ6iWEE37QFXQM5Yto_vu3XG2iSHoXf51lQMluIdw4ldlICtdTUCzP2RfP_4I2jdVQkVYgYwb1QupD6qBzIg0FLhLxmSk_9RwMTC8YoNxObnB4ZyKA5crTrMptRgBpmnqirPOiTTJlX-cz/s1600/14290046_10208194124744069_264184347883440860_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="155" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZ6iWEE37QFXQM5Yto_vu3XG2iSHoXf51lQMluIdw4ldlICtdTUCzP2RfP_4I2jdVQkVYgYwb1QupD6qBzIg0FLhLxmSk_9RwMTC8YoNxObnB4ZyKA5crTrMptRgBpmnqirPOiTTJlX-cz/s320/14290046_10208194124744069_264184347883440860_o.jpg" width="320" /></a> But the rainbow filling the eastern sky took control, and I could only look away for a short time. It absorbed the mind and the emotions in a way that could not be analyzed, only felt. It was so big, so perfect, so semicircular. In this land of big skies, the rainbow seemed to carve out its territory and make the sky even bigger in the process. The wind whipped my hair around my face, and the rain spatters became a little stronger. I was chilled, and I had to go back to work. But I couldn't focus, so I pulled up my pictures and tried to edit them to show the glory . It was futile. All I had was a dim indication of the glorious awe I had experienced.<br />
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Later, when I left work, the sun had set, leaving a pale blue streak along the horizon. A huge bank of clouds covered the southern sky. It was edged in white, surrounded by the dark blue sky, still clear of stars. I could tell a full moon sailed behind that cloud bank. To the east, the clouds lit up with lighting flashes, and as I drove home, I watched similar flashes to the north. If there was thunder, it was too far away to be heard. The wind had died down, and all was still. <br />
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Still later, I walked out into a silvered landscape: the moon was clear of the clouds, or the clouds had drifted away, while I was eating dinner and washing dishes. I strolled down the road, listening to the not-so-distant barking of coyotes and dogs, watching the lightning, which was still outlining the northern and eastern edges of the sky. I drew a deep breath and wondered again why I ever want to leave this enchanted landscape.<br />
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<br />refgoddesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04828650322400274190noreply@blogger.com0