Reflections

I continue to be fascinated by reflections. Because there are secrets contained within the image that reveal themselves and seem to change with the passing of time.

When I first looked at the photos, I thought I had taken the shots from outside, looking into the room through the glass and catching the reflection. Then I thought it must have been the other way around. In a way, it's like a puzzle. Certain clues, certain impossibilities.

And this one--a reflection of a fabric wall hanging superimposed upon my face so that it appears like a tribal mask and stripes (the slats from the balcony) painted on my body in silhouette.

Kauai

It seems we are getting closer and closer to the reality depicted in Brave New World, where connection with nature is more and more fleeting. Where "soma" takes you to the last vestiges of our natural environment. And our lives are filled with pointless scurrying.

If we were to step back, way back, and view ourselves from miles away, we would indeed see the scurrying of ants amidst our fragile blue planet. But sometimes--if even for a moment, we remember who we are and what the world is really about. We must hold on to this, always. If we lose synchronicity with it, we've lost everything. Paradise Lost. No, paradise regained. . .

And here the moon is nearly full. No need for photoshop or other editing tools. The world is more beautiful than that.

Imagine ancient worlds when human eyes first saw such things as this. . . Did they feel joy or amazement? Or did they view it as we view a freeway--mindlessly almost, a way to get where we are going. I'd like to pretend they smiled and felt something wonderful in their hearts. I'd like to imagine that a man and woman held each other tight, their cheeks touching, as they watched the moon change shape each night. Filled with wonder, in paradise, our ancient ancestors.



(from Brave New World: "..there is always soma, delicious soma, half a gramme for a half-holiday, a gramme for a week-end, two grammes for a trip to the gorgeous East, three for a dark eternity on the moon...")

Reflections

I'm always taken by reflections. Maybe I'm drawn by the re-assemblage of elements as they exist in reality that create a reality of their own. A condition that is not unlike what we often see in our dreams--a re-assemblage of thoughts we've had, things we've perceived, etc. I shot these photos at SF MOMA. Because of the reflective quality of the glass, the light, and the angle--images that are not actually part of the framed photograph seem to be part of the composition. I need to return to MOMA, because I'm curious to see where the photographs that are reflected are in relationship to the ones that I focused on and shot.

Stop Before You Sip

Before you take that sip of wine, you may want to check if it's made from organic grapes. Non-organic grapes, along with strawberries, blueberries, and celery (the worst), are among the most pesticide-saturated foods from the garden (or vineyard). When you consider the amount of grapes present in every glass of wine, you start to get an idea of the concentration of pesticides in each sip. Why does it matter?

Headaches are linked to pesticide consumption, along with a slew of other negative symptoms, including poor memory, lack of energy, and diarrhea. Obviously we can't nail these on pesticides alone, because like so many other ailments, they are not caused by only one thing. But it all comes back to this--pesticides are damaging to our ecosystems. And the incidence of cancer and other ailments among farm workers who live and work in pesticide-laden areas is an obvious and major indictment of pesticides. So bring in the ladybugs!

Wines made from organically grown grapes have been growing in popularity throughout the world. I’m lucky to live in Northern California, where there is a delightful host of wineries that produce their wine from organic grapes--Frey (America’s first organic winery, meaning not only do they produce their wine from organic grapes, but they do not add sulfites), Peju Province (where the wine tasting room looks like a medieval castle and the grounds are host to sculptures of some of the goddesses of Greek myth), and Frog’s Leap (vast organic garden, big house for wine-tasting, big old red barn where the wine barrels are stored), to name only a few.

If you’re in California and enjoy wine tasting, you may want to include some of these wineries on your list of things to do. You’ll learn more about sustainable farming, biodynamics, and why this makes sense for grapes, just like any other ‘food’ you put into your body. And you’ll have the opportunity to discover the often amazing architecture and grounds of these enchanting wineries. Look for wines made from organic grapes at stores like Whole Foods, Trader Joe’s, Safeway, or your local market. Often you need to check the back of the label to see the information you need.

Remember that for a wine to be considered organic, no sulfites can be added in the processing. So even if it was made from 100% certified organic grapes, but sulfites were added--it is not an organic wine. Sulfites are used to inhibit or kill unwanted yeasts and bacteria, and to protect wine from oxidation. In fact, sulfites are formed naturally during the fermentation process, but most winemakers add sulfites during the crushing, fermentation, and the bottling stages as well.

Check out the wine list at your favorite restaurant. If you don’t see any mention of "organic," suggest adding some. And meanwhile, raise your glass and be sure you can really say, "A votre sante."

Silence

Amidst the red rocks of Sedona i found myself immersed in the power and beauty of silence. The rocks hold secrets within them--of the people and animals who lived there before, of the spirits that roamed and still roam the land. And other than the wind or the scurrying sound of a lizard, or shuffling sound of an occasional coyote, there is silence. And what happens then is an amazing thing. You hear the thoughts of your own mind. They talk to you in simple words and phrases. Or they just appear in the form of a bird or cloud and you have a new understanding.

Between the Hours

Between the hours
I think of you
You touch me
through a memory
A whisper in the darkness
And I feel your hand
Just as it was
When first we met.
Our hands did all the talking then.

It's the beginning
I think about most
The way you looked on the street corner
When I suggested
We meet
To talk about
Old times.
I had no idea what I was saying.

You knew I was crazy
But then so were you
I smile as I remember this
It's like an old song
Always playing
Somewhere in the corner
Of my mind.

Alone in my room,
Sometimes I wonder if you hear me
I talk to you so often.
And then I feel your hand on my shoulder
Or I dream of you
And all the things I didn't say,
Are pouring out of me.
Like water.

And I'm so grateful.
Because if I had another chance
Or a million chances,
I would tell you what you already knew.
That I never stopped loving you
Either.

Silver Satin

Did you love me then
When all the world was blue
And I danced in silver satin
Whispering ancient stories
Of things I didn’t know.

Or did you see me as what I was
A figment of your imagination
Treading lightly on your feelings
Afraid to make you cry.

I’m so much older now.
A version of what I used to be.
Remembering so vividly what it was like
To be so young and wise.

And where did you go
Mad lover of forever
Did you catch the rainbows
You vowed to find?

I still see you
Sitting quietly beside me
Or running breathlessly along the roads of time.
Your smile is so worn now
And speaks of countless journeys
In the desert and the forest
Of our dreams of yesterday.

Among the weathered furrows
That speak of things you've never spoken
Like all our conversations
Even now.

The Planet is Bleeding

The planet is bleeding. The Gulf of Mexico, where oil is gushing out as if from a severed vein, is the site of a hideous wound. We wonder if the Gulf and even the planet itself can fully recover. The images of birds weighted down with brown syrupy oil, the aerial shots of the discolored, thickened water along Louisiana, Florida, and the rest--visions of a summer sci-fi movie, a blockbuster disaster flick. If only that's all it was. . . There is only one good that can come out of this. And that is an awareness so strong, a concerted effort so indelible that we finally focus our attention, our resources, and everything we've got on finding an alternative for our addiction to oil. Because it is an addiction--and it's something that with patience, resourcefulness, and resolution, we can overcome. But it must happen before it's too late, before the Gulf spill is our final epitaph. The plight of the animals is perhaps the most heartbreaking, because they are innocents trapped in it all. We have plundered their world, selfishly attacked their homeland as if we were at war. Perhaps we have been. The animals rely on us for a clean and safe habitat. They are not aware of this, although perhaps some of them are. Our planet is in jeopardy. We are bleeding. BP is trying to find the way to apply the tourniquet so that it will stop the bleeding--a condition the company caused through negligence and greed. But even now--a 'limb' is sacrificed. How many limbs before the entire body dies?

Harvey Milk

I wrote this piece in one sitting (in about 10 minutes) in response to a posting on craigslist from thequeertimes.com. The request was for personal stories about Harvey Milk. The piece was featured on the homepage of the 5/22/10 issue. Here's the story:

I lived in the Castro when Harvey Milk had his camera shop there. I wasn't gay, but just about all my friends were. I loved basking in the adoration of all those gorgeous men. We had fun and fabulous conversations. In many ways, I derived way more satisfaction from those relationships than with any of my straight friends. The Castro was a mecca for self-expression of all kinds. No one was too weird. It felt good living in an environment of total acceptance.

Street life was prevalent in those days. A sunny day meant spending time hanging out on the street--coffee and a sweet at the Bakery Cafe or maybe a mid-day cocktail at the Elephant Walk, followed by walking around, looking around, maybe heading over to Buena Vista Park and back. But outside was the place to be. There was always a lot of activity in front of and inside Harvey's camera store. Political meetings or just people talking. And whenever you got a glimpse of Harvey, chances were good he was smiling. It's how he viewed the world and the people in it--with a big Harvey Milk smile. You can't fake that kind of smile. It comes from the inside. You either have it or you don't.

It was a street fair of some sort. Maybe Gay Pride Day, not sure. But in any case, I remember Castro Street swarming with people--from Market to about 19th or 20th. Street vendors, musicians, people talking, dancing, checking one another out. One of the activities was some sort of game where dunking Harvey Milk was the prize. I don't remember if it was a fundraising activity or just some random amusement park kind of thing, the purpose being just silly fun. In any case, I happened to walk by just at the moment Harvey was being dunked. He emerged with that big smile, laughing, wiping the water from his face, and then immediately got dunked again. Always in on the fun, Harvey just lapped it up--enjoying himself like everyone else.

The night of the candlelight vigil, I was there with my best friend, a guy I had lived with for three years. Both of us were so sad, we could hardly speak, which was the general mood of the night. Silence. Earlier, when we had received the news, we were stunned like the rest of the city. Of all the people. . . and by the hand of an insane, homophobic man, a man Harvey had tried so desperately to befriend. Who could believe it? Why?

The Castro or San Francisco, for that matter, will never be the same. It was one big party in those days. Before AIDS, before the murder of Harvey Milk, who was not only the King of Castro Street; he was the sunshine.

oahu sunset

I drew this using pastels. The inspiration was a photo I took in Oahu. I began the drawing with a print of the photo taped to the easel. But eventually I put the photo away and began playing with colors and shapes--sometimes adding colors without thinking why. I found myself visualizing the piece when I was doing other things--riding my bike, writing, cooking, whatever else. I would think of something I wanted to do--change a color, a shape. So I was essentially drawing the way I write--adding, deleting, and changing things over a period of time.

And this is the photo that was the inspiration, although the real inspiration was what I saw--that evening in Oahu, from the balcony of my hotel room.

Instigating Art

Jim Woessner lives and works on a houseboat called Casa de Amor on Issaquah Dock in Sausalito, Californa. The entire top floor of the houseboat (where you would expect to see a living room/dining room) is devoted to his art studio, save the small kitchen area that faces the dock. He lives there with no evidence of the fact that once he worked as a nuclear engineer and showed up everyday 9-5 and then some for PG&E on Market St. in San Francisco. That was before one sunny afternoon when in frustration Woessner suddenly threw his briefcase across Beale Street and proceeded to watch in amazement as the briefcase hit a fountain, broke open and all his papers were swept up and carried aloft by a sudden gust of wind. Witnessing this surreal display, Woessner realized he had just ‘let go’ literally and figuratively. Very liberating, as he tells it.

read more

A Fair Maiden and a King

I just finished reading A Fair Maiden by Joyce Carol Oates, who continues to be one of my favorite authors. I'm convinced she is not of this earth. Her ghostly photograph haunts the book jacket with eyes that stare out from another century. And I wonder if she is a creature who sleeps. I don't know if there has ever existed an author so prolific or one so adept at being able to write from the inside of her characters--be it a girl of sixteen or a man in his late sixties who is obsessed by her.

This is not a book review. Although like most of her stories, A Fair Maiden captivated me by the middle of the first page. It's Joyce's magic--her ability to hypnotize us into surrendering to her stories. And it's a willing surrender. Her characters leap off the page. They smile and breathe and moan. We feel their sweat, their chills, their sexuality. We come to know them. They are real, so real in fact because we recognize their thoughts, their perceptions. They are our thoughts, our mothers' thoughts, the boys we were attracted to in high school's thoughts. It's as if each of Joyce's books is personalized to speak to something specific in each one of us. And yet it is the same book we hold in our hands that is read by millions of others. How does she do that?

All these people that speak through Joyce. As if she is a medium, a transmitter of lives that make themselves known through her stories. As if she is the purveyor of souls--from now and before.

In A Fair Maiden, what could so easily be construed as 'sick, perverted, unlawful' is instead something incredibly beautiful. It is a love story, in the mode of a fairytale, a story of old. Where a fair maiden and a beloved king interact in a storybook house to the backdrop of the sea and ocean birds. Where soul mates, art, and love intertwine in the rich fabric of something resembling a dream. And it all happens in New Jersey.

Buoyant Life

Much more on: Buoyant Life. Articles about living afloat around the world. Good for the soul. Check out the article on Cosmic Muffin, a floating home that was once flown by Howard Hughes: Just Another Plane Boat Muffin.

Such a tactile thing

Knitting is such a tactile thing--the feel of the yarn between your fingers, moving, gliding as the project evolves from a spool of yarn to a pattern that grows before your eyes into a dimensional shape. Weight, warmth, colors that please you, the feel of the knitting needles, the soft patter and clinking of them moving slowly or rapidly--it really doesn't matter. This is one of those many examples in life of something that is as enjoyable in the process as the completion. Perhaps even more enjoyable. Maybe it's the continuity, the comfort of this piece of craftsmanship that sits in your lap as it grows--like a soft, warm cat curled up in total contentment.

Buoyant Life

Working on a new website called Buoyant Life--all about living afloat. Very exciting. Most recent article is about wine-tasting barge cruises through France. What's not to like?