• « Previous Entries

Category

Exploring

• 06.26.08
  date nite
  Daily, Damon, Exploring, Making, Self Portrait Tuesday (7)

  

  He’ll call me around 6 from Streetlight Records in San Jose, telling me he’s found the vinyl he was looking for. The night is young and it’s ours, only us, but I run through the house in a delightful frenzy kissing the boys in one room, only to meet them across the house seconds later to kiss them again there. I always worry they will fall asleep without brushing their teeth. Or fall into the bathtub. Or involuntarily kill each other…those last minutes are restless. But once I’m on the road, it’s all good.
  
  In fifteen minutes I’ve woven a peaceful thread around pedestrian traffic along the creek trail. My muscles are warm and loose and my soul is finally free. I sit at an outdoor table and order a pint of ale under palm trees and tall buildings. A crow flies directly across the peach evening sky. The smoke lingers, still without a smell; affecting no one, it exhumes the sun, a giant apricot, into its velvet folds and I sit there squinting in my chair with a foam moustache. Damon rides up alongside the table, golden with sweat and grinning. All eyes are upon him as he leans his bike next to mine against that palm tree. It’s hard not to swell with affection for this man.
  
  We stay for another round, then bolt through traffic on into San Jose, where we stay a while eating red beans and rice, cajun shrimp and Turbodog to the beat of a blues trio. And then another round.
  
  The trail, at night, is dark as pitch and it’s easy to spill over a catfight. So we slip out of the void and back onto the street, where we glide past rows of underlit palms and pawn shops and good folk waving us on. It’s a righteous pass through the soul of any city, un-tucked for the night but singing itself to sleep. There are no pretenses, just us laughing down the street half-drunk and whizzing off and on curbs because we can and because we should.

  
  
• 01.29.08
  more fronts & fungi
  Chas, Daily, Exploring, Ford, Home, SillyValley, Young @ Art (5)

  Sillyvalley was scoured clean again by another front and today, awestruck, we were witness to some kind of crazy glorious spectacle of snow-capped mountains atop the massive bowl of San Jose, all purple and crytallized behind the field outside the kitchen window, which is, for its part, cloaked in a riot of yellow mustard. I just didn’t know what to do with myself, standing there in the playground after school, staring at the immaculate horizon.

  Then, as with all cold fronts, the sky started weeping. Under a rainbow we walked home and decided to hunt for mushrooms in the backyard under the oak canopy, savoring the last bit of afternoon light, regardless of the rain.

  And what do you know? The rain stopped just long enough.
  

  We gathered a handful of mushrooms, no idea what kind yet, just for something to draw or paint while I started a pot roast. I set a pan of opaque watercolors out on the table and gave a quick basidio-lesson and painting tutorial. They did all the rest.
  

  Ford picked up a paintbrush:
  

  And Chas got sleepy.
  

  
  
• 01.13.08
  Chas-ing the Rain
  Chas, Daily, Damon, Exploring, Ford, Santa Cruz (0)

  

  With all the rain we have had in the past couple of weeks, the time is ripe for mushroom hunting. Coinciding with this annual fruiting season is the smattering of fungal swapmeets, and today was the second day of one such fair; this time in Santa Cruz. Jerry, who we have known since dotcom daze, drove down from Berkeley to escort us to the fair; were it not for him, we may have never left the house this weekend, as overcome as I am with molten wax bliss and the sound of Damon and his jazz guitar scales in the living room. Chas, for his part, would have never remembered how badly he wanted psychotropics.

  

  From the get go we recognized his discriminating faculties, glancing around the rooms for a little something beyond cuisine grade mushrooms

  

  

  Finally, he began anxiously inquiring of strangers, like a foreign traveller looking for his stolen wallet,  “Where are the poisonous mushrooms? Do you have any poisonous mushrooms?”

  

  

  To distract him, we ushered Chas to the kiddie room, where we were greeted by a happy pack of breeding hippies and their rosy-cheeked hobbit spawn, merrily dancing around the craft tables and painting colorful paper fruiting bodies.

  

  We were lured like flies back into the common area, where a group of chefs had inadvertently contaminated the breathing air with the most rank, malodorous brew of rotten mushroom stew or something of that nature (there’s no way my mind could positively translate the smell into words, my limbic system was so busy grappling with the extraordinary shock of it). On the surface, everything looked so gourmet, but inside, they were cooking Satan’s athelete’s foot.

  

  We had to split; Damon took the boys outside to the playground while Jerry taught me some basic taxonomy. The room was buzzing with woodsy nerds, all shuffling around the exhibits, crouching down, clicking their camerafones. I learned that I could probably eat one half of a cap from a Fly Agaric and still be okay.

  

  And how to differentiate between a tasty chanterelle and a toxic false chanterelle (the real one has ridges and folds–not gills).

  

  Jerry told me I passed up a perfectly good Bolete, after I described to him what I jogged by on Thursday. They are, apparently, quite tasty. Have you ever tried one? Have you ever eaten wild mushrooms? Would you try? Would you eat this man’s wild mushroom lasagna if he brought it to your potluck?

  

  
  
• 01.10.08
  Pet Cemetery
  Chas, Daily, Exploring, Photos (0)

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  
• 10.08.07
  Moffett Field
  Daily, Exploring, Ford, SillyValley, Uncategorized (45)

  

  Ford and his friend, Revan, study the model with anxious eyes, and eager fingers tap the glass and track the belts. Revan’s father is about to take us for a ride on the VFS, Vertical Flight Simulator, and five astronauts were in the sim only hours before.

  The building smells like a well-oiled metal shop and the hi-gloss waxed terrazzo recalls the set of 2001; the interior hasn’t changed in thirty years. But it feels oddly comfortable to me; like the industrial white and ochre interiors of Texas A&M, where I hung out afterschool with dad, about that many years ago.

  

  We’re in the shuttle cockpit. The boys land it at night onto an airstrip. During our visit, the mechanics work downstairs on one of the elevator motors, so we have to imagine the horrific vertigo; the boys crash five times before landing correctly. Still, I find myself covering Chas’ eyes as the tarmac lights swallow the shuttle, and all is then black.

  The kids laugh and touch every archaic steel switch on the console, poring over the data screen, trying to make sense of the complex code of numbers and letters, and I, scanning the code with them, get a sense of what they’ve been going through this year, as they have slowly begun to string letters together to form words, and understand the translation of larger numbers, how to scan linear strings of data. Folds upon growing folds of intelligence, carried by wild chariots of grubby abandon, tell us everything without words; wonder behind the flood of simian awe.

  
  
• 09.11.07
  tales of a duffel bag, part 1
  Daily, Exploring, Uncategorized (6)

  I’m sitting in the rocking chair in the corner of our bedroom, and the soft yellow lamplight bathes the tousled bed and the the daisies on the bedside table, both closets stand ajar, with light spilling out the doors. Ford’s drawings, tacked upon the wall here and there, rise gracefully off the wall under the occasioanl breeze. It’s quiet, nothing but the drone of the window unit, but I can still hear my ears ring. And that, my friends, is the peace my ears deserve at the end of an afternoon with my own children.

  I finished unpacking our bags from the past month’s travelling, all piled upon the floor and covered, by now, in a smattering of white dog hair. The clothes from one bag drained coarse sand in its wake as I walked to the laundry room; those were from our paddling trip up Mendocino. They smell of campfire and redwoods and ocean. I already want to drive back.

  Mendocino is like Provincetown, Mass, minus the saltwater taffy stands; everything about the town digs up vacuous memories of freshman orientation in Cape Cod: the ageing middle class, tie dyed tee shirts, burgeoning blocksful of B&Bs, cottage gardens, picket fences, and storesful of kitch.

  

  But we only spent an hour or so downtown; we camped at Russian Gulch state park.

  

  We practiced knot-tying and sm’ores-eating and echo-making

  

  boat-ramming and sea-dogging

  

  It’s the kind of place where, if you have a plank to paddle upon, you can skim your way mellow up Big River; listen to eagles and the drift of seawind weaving through swaying flats of saltmarsh; look down past your oar into cleargreen depths of bull kelp and eelgrass,and let your eyes guide you up beyond mammoth timber moorings (once used by Russian pelt hunters).
  

  And when the tide returns, you can drift seaward, out of the gentle, giant embrace of coastal redwoods and into the wild expanse of the Pacific. It is a place to feel very small and, among all ages, full of wonder.
  
  
  

  
  
• 08.28.07
  To Ford, After Your first Day of Big Boy School
  Daily, Exploring, Ford (15)

  Ford, little man, I’m so in your dust.

  Monday morning I overslept with just enough time to pack your lunch and shovel a bowl of food down your gullet, mostly against your will. It took me ten minutes just to find clean socks and another ten to find your shoes, tripping all the while over the mountains of camping laundry from the weekend, but in the nick of time we were out the door, and not looking back once at the red canoe still atop the car. I had a hard time focusing without the coffee I forgot to brew, wading through the muck of my anxieties, and keeping up with you. Down the sidewalk you skipped with your dad, as if already saying “seeyabye!” It just didn’t last long enough; I really wanted to hold onto the weekend, but Monday just slammed her big fat ass down in the drivers seat and I barely had time to grab the ‘oh shit!’ handles. And there we went.
  Down the street.
  

  We were a little early. You waited in the courtyard and watched little girls walk down the sidewalk, trailering Disney luggage on wheels. My eyes followed you as you measured every child that passed by. You asessed everything carefully, occasionally drawing attention but mostly appraising the morning as you bit your lip, squinted your eyes and surveyed the kinderscape.
  

  We waited in the cafeteria for our orientation. You took a picture of me freaking out behind a plastic smile and I wondered how thankful you were to finally be free of my hysterics for 7 hours each day:
  

  And, judging by your expression, I’d say you are pretty grateful!
  

  After a brief Q&A in your homeroom, you kinderfolk rendezvoused to your new desks, and you were the first to start grabbing crayons and drawing on a piece of busywork coloring paper. The other kids mostly watched you start working, but within five minutes every child was eagerly coloring in the lines. We listening to a sappy book on saying goodbies on the first day of school, gross overkill with the best intentions from your sweet teacher, and as she read we watched you embellish your work.
  Nice detail, Michaelangelo:
  

  And despite the “Parent To Do List” that was written on the chalkboard, I was overcome with an uncontrolled bewilderment, a vacancy before me that I couldn’t ignore, and I had to put on shades in order to disguise my feelings, though I’m sure it only attracted sympathy from Damon, who managed to capture my first steps alone without you by my side, placing all my hopes in a basket before the teacher: that your spirit remain unbroken; that you never consider coloring as anything but busywork and fine motor practice; that you never stop asking questions; that your confidence doesn’t diminish; that you never stop trying; that you keep having fun; that you know life is school and the classroom is just structure, a place to bouce off ideas, not simply adopt them.

  That’s it, roll those big brown eyes. Just don’t forget I’m crazy about you. CrAZY!!!
  Love,
  Mama

  

  
  
• 08.06.07
  Refresher at the DeYoung Museum
  Daily, Exploring (2)

  
  

  We drove into the dripping fogcloud, nestled ourselves in Golden Gate Park;
  ran across Strybing’s damp green lawns, held hands across Lincoln avenue;
  climbed sculptures, tripped security fences;
  touched artwork, careened down staircases;
  shotgunned white halls, leapt off sacred benches;
  sweated, grimaced, laughed, shrieked, held hands;
  faceplanted onto a mirrored glass exhibit case,
  you guessed who: Chas
  took pictures, toppled glass vases;
  stampeded back through the arboretum,
  held hands under the weepy eucalyptus;
  chased squirrels, held hands across Lincoln Avenue;
  squirmed in our seats, drank Thai beer;
  savored a steaming bowl of pumpkin green curry
  corn cakes, satay and pad thai
  held hands under the table
  another beer, a better reference point;
  Amoeba records for a Dr. Who series DVD,
  Goodwill, lucky me, offered
  a handmade, tailored vintage women’s western blouse
  Then a quiet moment off Haight, where I brainstormed in peace;
  Then snaked along the San Andreas faultline,
  watched the fogclouds creep over Skyline
  like a suspended avalanche,
  a stampede of white buffalo, frozen in time,
  pink-tinged crests from the hidden sunset;
  and sundown’s reflection off Loma Linda,
  A blushing blue bear on our horizon.
  And suddenly we were home.

  ++more photos are over on flickr++

  
  
• 08.03.07
  Routine Assessment
  Chas, Daily, Exploring, Ford, Thinking, Uncategorized (3)

  Once in a while, I have a day, maybe a few days, of dysfunctional funk. Sometimes I think it’s my mind’s clever way of alleviating boredom. The day is inevitably sunny, my children are particularly joyful, my husband–syrupy kind. It matters none that he’s remarked n how beautiful he thought I looked, nor that my dinner was delicious. It matters none that I sat on the floor and played Legos with my children, made a lego woman for chas with boobs, made a rocket with Ford; nor does it matter that I rocked and read and rocked and read and read in bed with happy pillows tossed at my head, midafternoon. It isn’t enough that I was able to watch them paint in the garden, watch them paint their toes, then their feet, their legs, their tummies: a robot here, a Dalek there, a rainblow of tempera-covered rocks beneath a wet easel. Smiles, laughter. Running, oh the running: unhinged and impulsive, a Thoroughbred on fresh green grass, and then the wind kicks up, and he bolts, breakneck, a half-eaten mouthful of grass falls at your feet. Or a string cheese wrapper.

  On days like this, I pore over yesterday’s photographs. I rediscover beauty to validate my perception. See? I noticed that! I’m not dead. I SAW that!

  I noticed a jumble of sea-jewels,
  

  a tangle of mermaid thread,
  

  grass, whispering along our walk
  

  I caught the salty smell of Chas, whirring past me on the trail
  

  and the soothing lull of a calm Pacific afternoon, heavy sand, horizontal bliss
  

  a little vertical tension.
  

  and the coastal summer smells of dried wildflowers, trampled ice plant, baby seal poo and low tide, trailing on the sweet sound of swaying grass and Ford, who had just told me this was his new favorite beach ever.

  

  So why the dull face, woman?

  Just throw the ball. I’m here all day! How about you?
  

  
  
• 08.01.07
  SPC :: Patterns :: week 1
  Daily, Exploring, Self Portrait Tuesday (21)

  

  In the spring, we took a boggy family hike through a riparian gulch along Skyline Ridge. Our feet were wet with dew as we plodded across a green meadow that lined the creek and opened to the morning sun. Spiders scampered underfoot. But the boys mostly chased each other, shouting southern anatomical parts and faceplanting into the foot-high grass occasionally. We stopped for lunch on an oak knoll, and passed around sandwiches and sunscreen. Out of my pocket I fished these intact turtle scutes that I’d found on our walk up there around an alpine pond. I figure they’re either from a painted turtle that got caught by (like I’d know, right?)…a coyote?

  Scutes are like the skin on a turtle shell. In fact, it’s derived from the epidermis. The word ’scute’ is derived from the Latin scutum, which means ’shield.’ The shell, or carapace, can withstand great injury in order to protect the turtle; even deep cracks or entire missing portions are then filled with bone and then able to heal. The carapaces grow outward like the rings in a tree trunk. Just look at the beautiful patterns they make over time! And that, my chelonian buddies, is proof that the God drops acid.

  More SPC patterns here.

  
  

• « Previous Entries

recent posts

• ladybugzes
• mapping my runs
• date nite
• It’s not just a marathon.
• indoor track & field
• Reliving fossils