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Thinking

• 04.19.08
  Lovelocks
  Chas, Daily, Damon, Thinking (2)

  

  When Chas was a day old, asleep in my arms, I ran my fingers through his strawberry hair and furrowed my brow, wondering where the hell his red hair came from. Neither Damon nor I have red hair. Luckily, Chas has the Sicore nose (read: funky nose that only Sicores have, both in appearance and ability, capable of detecting fabric softener within a one mile radius), so I rested knowing I wouldn’t have to prove paternity. But the red hair had me completely perplexed, and a little worried, too; Damon has always made fun of redheads and freckles, and it appeared we’d managed to spawn little orphan Annie.

  But months passed, and Chas’ hair changed. Some babies lose their hair, but Chas only grew more of it. The red paled to a towhead blonde, like Damon’s childhood hair. And while the front half of his crown grew straight, the back half grew wavy and wild. With each day, whether brushed or not, it began to tease itself into little blonde dreadlocks, and to this day it would appear that Chas, even ten minutes after having his hair combed, looks like he just got out of bed, or maybe scrubbed the bathtub with his head.

  Everybody seems to love this head of hair as much as he does; in fact, Chas will grin and tousle his hair after I brush it, just to prove I’m ineffective. He loves his hair like a loose tooth, eager to reward compliments with Bruce Lee-inspired side kicks and leaps off of chairs, which make the gold dreads bounce and fly. “I wish I had hair like that!” is an acceptable compliment, less creepy than “I want your HAIR!” Perhaps the one person who would never tire of seeing Chas’ proud display in light of these gestures, besides Chas himself, is Damon; Damon, in all honesty, would actually love to have Chas’ hair. Which, every time I hear him say it, kind of makes me cringe. I always wonder how Chas perceives this strange compliment, being a three year-old and not entirely versed in the full play of our language.

  So it happened last night, at dinner, while the four of us were in a booth waiting for our food and talking about the day, that Chas’ hair was catching the falling beams of sunset in a glorious flaxen halo. While he could have asked Chas to pass the chopsticks, or the soy sauce, Damon was stunned by the vision before him, and instead he asked,
  “Chas, can I have your hair?”

  Chas bashfully tucked his chin into his chest and grinned at Damon, telling him “Nooooooo, daddy, you can’t have my hair!” and I sat there before my empty place setting, looking for my chopsticks and wondering why it always feels to me like Damon’s asking him, “Chas, can I have your spleen?”

  But I smiled instead, and before I had the chance to ask Chas to pass the chopsticks, I looked up to find Chas reaching across the table to Damon, stretched beyond the limits of love, grinning and holding in his stout little hand a rather large lock of fine golden hair.
  “Here you go, daddy.”

  
  
• 04.06.08
  infinity, to the power of 6
  Daily, Ford, Thinking (4)

  

  to the power of 6, originally uploaded by young@art.

  I’ve been facing inward somewhat, lately, so it hurts a bit at the end of the day to look at some of the photos I took of the kids this weekend. I see the boys, living loud as they usually do, resilient to being ignored from time to time and obviously overlooking my inconsistencies as a parent.

  They stretch so far! Infinity is a new favorite word with Ford. On a 6×6 yellow card, I write a note to him, late at night: a just-love card, with a footnote of grief. I could always respond better, be more consistent, listen every time. That I don’t, I think he forgives. I stare at this picture, listening to the sleepy sounds of the house at night, hoping that he always understands the infinity of my love or him.

  
  
• 03.30.08
  silhouettes
  Chas, Daily, Thinking (5)

  

  , originally uploaded by young@art.

  Silhouettes are on my brain. I have no idea why, or what will become of it, but I’m obsessing over the silhouette. I’m going to run with it, this week.

  
  
• 02.12.08
  RISdee dee dee
  Daily, Painting, Please Bear with Me, Thinking, Young @ Art (2)

  

  I can’t do it. But I could.

  I could say it at breakfast and he’d start helping to make it happen: we would both be on our computers, on the phone, in between meetings, ignoring less important matters. Mealtimes would come, we may or may not follow. At the end of the day, tomorrow even, we would have in our hands a game plan on recycled paper and napkins, bits of whatever we could find, printouts with cost analysis, a hotly written list of pros and cons, monkeys and butterflies romping in our stomaches.

  I sit in bed typing this and look over at Chas, who is still sleeping in bed beside me with his arms outstretched, as he owns this bed now, as well as me. In fifteen years he will be in college, one can expect; in just twelve short years, so will his brother. College money. Though we are preparing, I am staggered by the costs of college, these days. Over ten thousand dollars more per year than when I was in school. That’s what I discovered when I browsed that graduate degree program in painting, tonight.

  Grad school. I’m batting my eyelashes at grad school. Am I insane? I’m completely out of my head insane. I don’t need to give someone $70k just to prove it, AGAIN. Give it up already.

  Doodle and paint, repeat. And don’t forget to feed the kids their meals tomorrow. Jeez.

  
  
• 11.02.07
  what to do?
  Daily, SillyValley, Thinking (5)

  You know you live in California are a slacker when you have to decide,

  Should I spend tomorrow morning with the kids, stockpiling water and other necessities, reviewing emergency procedure, in the face of a 30% big aftershock possibility (which, incidentally, lasts until Tuesday?) or…

  Should we skip school and drive to the beach for the 7 foot swells at Manresa?

  I mean, after all, Ford has a cold. And what kind of parent am I to send a sick child to school? Oh, the stress! A tent, a sleeping bag, thermos of tea and a tote full of books–Tsunami risk aside, the cool, salty mist sounds very therapeutic.

  
  
• 08.20.07
  A Small Plate of Afternoon
  Daily, Gardening, Thinking (64)

  

  The kids pick their own tomatoes and basil off the vines and bushes that have, in three short months, overtaken their once-huge terracotta pots. I am sloppy; I quickly slice the larger tomatoes and the buffalo mozzarella, throw it onto a plate and shake olive oil and salt atop the pile. We walk barefoot back out into the garden, around the back of the house, and sit in the shade on the upside-down red canoe. There are no forks. Why should we need forks? We eat with our fingers and talk about next Saturday, when we’ll be inside this canoe paddling up the big river from Russian Gulch.
  But the heady tomato-basil-olive oil fruitiness anchors us firmly to the present; and before long, we’re nothing but giggles and dirty, greasy fingers leaving shiny happy prints atop the dusty canoe. Maybe the slick fingerprints will make the boat glide faster, we postulate.

  
  
• 08.11.07
  Fall florals in the sketchbook
  Daily, Sketchbook, Thinking (0)

  

  Bless her strong 93 year-old heart, Mamaw is in the hospital. In Beaumont, Texas, where she has lived her entire life, a strong fabric of friends and family binds her. She’s asking me how the garden is growing while she receives a blood transfusion, her voice thick under medication. I can’t really post much right now, but I’m thinking a lot about her. In fact, by strange coincidence the other day, I was thinking about her 50’s dining room drapes. I was thinking, I really like those drapes. I was thinking I’d do a few paintings about those funky retro drapes. I did a little painting on friday, while the boys watercolored in our kitchen. I’ll leave it here to remind myself of where I was going with my thoughts, later, when I get back to the computer. Do you ever feel so distracted? You have an idea, but need to attend to other things, and leave yourself a little note on your desk: “Paintings. Kitchen drapes. Autumn florals. watercolor? encaustic?”
  I hope your weekend is more focused than mine!

  
  
• 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?
  

  
  
• 06.28.07
  we’re thinking of buying tickets to hell
  Chas, Daily, Exploring, Thinking (3)

  

  We’re a little culture starved around here, snug within the benign mycelium of silicon valley. Granted, if I’d just know where to look around here, I’d find something interesting on exhibit. But the truth is that I’m just acheing to go to a fussy art museum where I can feel the music of terrazzo under my feet and experience air conditioning without a trace of retail and ride that fabulous chase from security guard to security guard, close behind Chas, always on the fringe of expulsion as he tries to weave fast arcs around freestanding sculptures. Art is, after all, mostly about the personal experience one has with the piece, and with Chas there is no exception. He loves sculpture, it FASCINATES him to discover giant colorful pillars shooting from the ground or brushed-steel geometry shining in the sun. OH! The joy! Must scream and run circles around them all!

  There’s one exhibit in particular that I’m planning on taking them to see sometime soon, the Matisse exhibit at the SFMOMA. Ford is a collage guru and I figure it might provide a springboard for translating some of his 2D work into a new dimension; specifically, creating something 3-dimensional that his younger brother might be tempted to play with (especially if it’s made of paper or papier-mache). But again, really, I’m just sad that we haven’t been able to go for so long, for fear that we might die during the struggle to patiently corral our children politely through a quiet space for art.

  I think it’s more important that they experience art from a very young age for several reasons. First, I think it’s fun for them to see how some people have translated emotions or themes into art. Secondly, I like for them to understand the value and purpose behind the art process. Thirdly, I want them to grow to respect the work of others as well as their own art, because the enduring value of art is that it has the power to change the future in many ways: it can alter a person’s perspective, create controversy, quiet a restless mind, you get the idea. Lastly, I want them to evolve quickly within the rigid confines of the art museum institution so that they naturally respect that paticular environment as they would a shrine, an that is mostly because I’d LIKE TO ENJOY THE MUSEUM, TOO.

  So, this weekend I’ve requested we pay the MOMA a visit, take our chances, hope for the best. There’s a book I heard about that recommends certain tips for taking 5 year-olds and older children to the museum, How to talk to children about art: is the title. As an art teacher, I feel qualified enough to come up with my own suggestions (which, in all it’s conceit, is actually true) but I’m still curious about what it has to say and am ordering it anyway.

  Wish us luck! Double that for the MOMA.

  
  
• 03.04.07
  Squinting in the sunshine
  Daily, Running, Seeing, Thinking (1)

  I am traversing the eastern slope of Fremont Open space, and I’m walking along a terrace once trafficked perhaps by laborers on this former orchard as they roamed from tree to tree during harvest. What kinds of trees? I don’t know. Today their gnarled, leafless, stunted silhouettes stand arabesque upon the hill above me, black and static amid the flowing grasses, beneath the hovering falcon. Birdsong travels like a current over the terrain, bees are busy buzzing in the clover mats, hummingbirds fighting in the treelimbs. I stop along the trail while Seti sniffs the newspaper; it’s Sunday and the weeds hang with dog pee here and there along the worn trail. The entire hillside is tense with new life. You can almost feel the warm ground quake beneath you, a mycelium overtaking winter’s rot, aerating the bedrock, paving the way for shooting rhizomes and weeds. Little yellow wildflowers sway with glossy grass. If I were to try drawing three square inches of this space I might scream; beneath the mat of green urgency lies an even tinier world, a lilliputian army of plants and fungi working together to hold the soil firmly against the hillside. A linear delight, it reminds me of Dutch painting and discovering the architecture of dandelions and drawing for hours on end, without interruption. But today I’m plodding onwards, at times tugging the dog to urge him faster, so I might get back to unpack yet more boxes, and break down more boxes, making space in the mudroom for this naked and young morning light to pour into our house and penetrate the walls with its warm yawn.

  
  

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