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.

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.

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Shadows and Reflections

These have always fascinated me, because they are a door, a passageway to a more secret life, the other side--the stuff of dreams and the imagination.

Salad

Salads are great. The variations are probably as infinite as melodies. I derive all kinds of pleasures from creating and eating them—from the delight of seeing the wonderful mélange of colors of the ingredients to the actual dicing, chopping, slicing and what have you that go into their creation.

And let’s not forget the health factor. Fresh, organic ingredients—rich in vitamins and nutrients. Extra virgin olive oil--green liquid gold. Vinegars and mustards with taste variations as distinctive as fine wines. Each bite of salad is different from the one before, because it contains a different mix of ingredients, or in different proportions. So that in one bite—the tomato dominates. In another—it’s the tantalizing flavor of the mustard-rich dressing that coats a piece of cucumber.

And then there is the way salad looks and feels—with its variety of textures, shapes, and sizes. The way the flavors combine to create new ones, especially as you get near the bottom of the bowl with all those ingredients basking in the goodness of your salad dressing.

I particularly like salad bowls made of wood, because the swirls of the grain can be so beautiful. At the local Farmer’s Market I saw one once that had a turquoise inlaid in the wood. What joy to eat from a salad bowl like that. A work of art within one.

This salad is made from Romaine lettuce, green cabbage, Navy beans, tomatoes, cucumbers, beets, garlic, and onion. For the dressing I used extra virgin olive oil, red wine vinegar, and apple cider vinegar, along with freshly ground black pepper, cayenne pepper, turmeric, cumin, and Dijon mustard. No salt. The bite from the peppers and the garlic and the vinegars give it all it needs. All this topped with a can of sardines and a generous squeeze of fresh lemon. Very Mediterranean. Very good for the heart. And let me tell you--deelicious!

Feline

I watched a TV show about domestic cats some time ago and remember being struck by something the narrator said--that part of our (human) fascination with 'domestic' cats is the idea of having something wild within our midst. . . The cat is unattainable in that way. Which makes her all the more fascinating.

This Is Not A Dress Rehearsal

A few weeks ago, I was shopping at Ross and came across a purple bag. Italian leather, silver chain. Chic as all get out. Not surprisingly, the price tag declared a rather alarming $149. Now when you consider that the original price was upwards of $250, this new price was quite a deal. But when you also consider that although I'm picking up some contract work these days, I am still without "the job"--this price made me start thinking all those things we think about when the price tag is daunting. "I don't really need it," being the most common and probably strongest of them all.

An elderly woman saw me looking at my reflection in the mirror, bag slung sexily over my shoulder. "That's a great bag for you. Definitely your color." I brightened. Here was a complete stranger who recognized the affinity I had with the bag.

"But it's so expensive," I replied, feeling somewhere around 16 years of age.

"If you like it, get it. This is not a dress rehearsal."

I nodded and smiled. I held the bag a little closer.

"Do you know what I mean by that?" I nodded again.

"I'm 81," she declared, and it's all downhill."

We both continued wading through the bags. She was toting a colorful striped bag, which she displayed proudly. "It's fun, don't you think?" I told her I did. She nodded and started heading off towards the next aisle.

"Remember what I told you," she said.

"I will," I promised.

"What is it? Say it."

"This is not a dress rehearsal."

She nodded approvingly and disappeared among the shoppers.

I've thought about that statement. It was especially meaningful for me, I think, because of my experience as an actress. Dress rehearsal was important, but never as important as the "actual performance" with an audience in attendance.

Yet how many times in my life had I lived through events, encounters with other people, or even my own soul-searching as if it weren't quite the "real thing," as if that were coming later.

The most difficult of all these was the terrible ordeal of my ex-husband's death. One of the haunts that continues to torment me is that on some level I didn't take his death as actually taking place. Perhaps it was my mechanism to cope with the whole thing, but somehow it seemed he was kidding--that he wasn't really wasting away to a fraction of himself, that he wasn't really disappearing each minute of the day.

The reality finally struck, of course, when I received the news that he had died. But even now, sometimes, it's difficult for me to believe that he isn't going to turn up somewhere--with one of his comic lines, telling me it was just a rehearsal, that for now he's still here. I wish that would be. But I know it's not the case. Another reason for grabbing every minute, every encounter, every opportunity that seems right. You never know about tomorrow. You barely know about today.

Acres of Lavender

A golden bush amidst a field of lavender at Matanzas Creek Winery outside of Santa Rosa, CA. God's country.

Sweater Girl

One way to keep her from shedding all over the furniture is to put her in a sweater!

Computer Literate

 

am i as beautiful as i think i am?

Have you ever wondered if animals have any awareness of the way they appear to others? Small dogs are sometimes described as having the "Napoleon Complex" as an explanation for their occasional outrage when encountering larger dogs. Cats, known for their independence and apparent disregard for the rules and regulations of their households, seem to bask in their loveliness and aloofness. They call the shots after all. You get to pet them on their terms, not yours. When they've had enough, they let you know--sometimes with a bite, if you don't get the message soon enough. So, considering how self-absorbed these feline creatures that we so adore are, I doubt that the question, "Am I as beautiful as I think I am?" really enters their minds. It would be more likely, "I get more beautiful by the minute."

I Was Dancing

[selected as an Editor's Choice, Bewildering Stories First Quarterly Review, 2008]

When my hand was in his, there was nothing in the world that wasn’t ok. His hands were usually cold, just like mine. Something that amused us both and made me happy, because I was “just like dad.” When I felt sad or afraid, all he had to do was tell me that everything would be all right, and I knew it would be. That big delighted smile of his whenever I entered a room was the same smile I would see all those years later. That smile that seemed to leap right out of his handsome face like a rabbit from the brush. I’ll never know for sure if he knew exactly who I was when I went to visit him that last time. I have every logical reason to believe that he didn’t. But somehow I know that he did. He recognized something that he had known and loved for more than fifty years—and no doubt the idea of me even before that.

The shock of seeing him the way he looked then—so thin and fragile, is something that haunts me still. It was difficult to even touch him. I was afraid I would bruise him, hurt him somehow. It was as if he were made of thin, delicate rice paper, and that he was hollow inside--like a paper lantern that floats effortlessly in the afternoon breeze. I feared crushing him.

He spoke to me conspiratorially about how they were rounding up all the Jews and he wanted to know how in the world I had gotten in. I told him it wasn’t like that anymore, that the world had changed and that Jews were safe in America. I even joked there were plenty of other problems here, but that wasn’t one of them. He asked me how I knew. I told him that what he was thinking about was another time, another place—when he had been a soldier during the second world war. He stared at me for awhile without speaking. His eyes, which used to be a beguiling shade of sea green, were dull and distant. I wondered if he had gone away, then suddenly he mumbled, “Well, look around you. Do you see any here?” There were no other people in the room except us.

We called my mother using my cell phone. If he had ever used one before, he made no appearance of it. After I had said a few words to her, I held the phone to his ear. He was delighted, just knowing she was on the phone. “Josette, your sister is here.” he said, smiling. My mother doesn’t have a sister.

When my mother entered the room about a half hour later, his eyes lit up—at least as much as they had when he saw me. “The belle of the ball,” he said. “Look at her.” She later told me that in the late afternoons when she would say goodbye before heading home, he would often blame her for leaving so soon. “You’re off to go dancing with your boyfriend.” he would say. But sometimes he simply said, “Please take me with you. I don’t want to stay here.” That was difficult. Because she wanted to.

He asked me what my father did for a living. I smiled and told him he knew perfectly well what my father did. He reminisced about an aunt I was supposed to remember, but didn’t. He was wearing a fleece vest I had purchased for him, a vest that he had pulled out of the closet that morning—on his own. I doubted that he realized it was me who had purchased it for him. I wanted him to know. My mother, as if sensing that, reminded him.

Eating was a struggle. And with him being as thin and weak as he was, it was important for him to eat. Both my mother and the nurse were urging him to eat. And now me. The food looked terrible. He didn’t want it, and what made it worse is that nearly every bite or swallow led to hideous coughing and choking. He asked for water, which the nurse explained would make him choke even more. I’m sure this scene had gone on before all too frequently. Finally someone brought him a small paper cup of water to which she added a powder that acted as a thickener so that he could swallow it more easily, without choking. He drank what amounted to a teaspoon or two. And then he looked at me like his very old friend and confided, “All I want is a drink of cool water.” He drew out the vowels in the word “cool” as if savoring the thought of it. I couldn’t hold it in any longer. The tears that had been there from the moment I first saw him were beyond my ability to hold back.

“Oh God, I’m choking on something,” I explained feebly, smiling through my tears. I got up and headed towards his bathroom, coughing several times as if trying to dislodge something. In his bathroom, still coughing, I ran some water in the sink. I looked at myself in the bathroom mirror. My eyeliner was a bit smeared so I rubbed some of it off with my fingers. I saw the reflection of his bed in the mirror. The room was a dull wash of beige and white, accented by a streak of white sunshine that highlighted the particles of dust dancing above his bed. He would die here.

His face, which had been so handsome and strong, was now gaunt and feeble. A mean trick of time. If only I could reverse it. I thought of when his coming home meant hugs and laughter and sometimes even presents. I smiled, remembering. He taught me about honesty, about not taking things for granted, about not making assumptions. He taught me about driving defensively and thinking about the poor. He taught me about saving for a rainy day. He taught me about conscience.

But our ideas diverged. I was liberally minded and a free spirit. He was a child of immigrants. I was a child of a regional district manager for a highly successful retail chain. I had my own ideas, and he held on to his.

But on this day—when I watched his pained existence, I knew full well that all he wanted, even more than the cool drink of water, was a ticket out. And I wanted to give it to him.

When I hugged him goodbye, careful so as not to crumple him, I’m sure he knew it would be the last time. He looked at me as if he were seeing all the me’s that had been since the day I was born. It only took a few seconds, but I’m sure that he saw all that. And I saw the face of the man I had loved all my life, even though I’d forgotten about it for awhile.

“Goodbye, dad,” I said. He held me very tight and didn’t say anything at all. He didn’t have to.

A few weeks after he died, I had a wonderful dream. My dad, looking exactly as he had when I was sixteen and he was in his mid fifties, was standing in a room smiling at me. He wore a white suit and stood very tall and proud. His silver grey hair was slickly combed back. He was strikingly handsome and looked so happy. The room was something between a theater set depiction of the outdoor entrance to a club, or simply a big auditorium decorated for a festive event. Sparkly lights, moving spots. It felt nice there. He emerged from behind a door. Or maybe he just appeared. I don’t remember exactly. Dreams have a way of dissolving, even when you swear you’ll remember every last detail.

“I’ve been dancing. I’m happy now,” he announced—his sea green eyes flashing and that smile that swept my mom off her feet the first time she laid eyes on him in Paris. When she was interviewing for a secretarial job and he was the army colonel hiring.

I smiled back. There was nothing that needed to be said. I knew he was all right and he’d come back to tell me. Must be because he wanted to let me know—like he always had, that everything was all right.

Riding with Sadie

[published in Cycle California, June 2008]

Here's a canine who typifies the positive attitude we generally associate with dogs. Everything is her favorite thing if she is (or at least believes she is) the focus of attention. Therefore it stands to reason that if we pile the bikes, helmuts, ourselves, and HER in the car, something fun--something that is for and all about her and thereby her favorite thing, is about to happen.

Many of the great mountain bike trails in the San Francisco Bay Area are not dog-friendly. For the most part, this is for good reason. Singletrack is challenging enough sometimes, not to mention the uphill/downhill etiquette rule. So imagine someone's Fido running about, zigzagging up, down, and across your path while you're trying to keep yourself from plunging into a nasty patch of poison oak, or worse yet, headlong over the edge into a rocky drop. It's a safety issue not only for you, but for the friendly four-legged creatures themselves.

About a year and a half ago the guy I was dating and I thought it would be fun to take my dog Sadie along with us on a ride. Sadie is a little fireball--a mostly black and white terrier mix, with possibly some Border Collie thrown in for good measure. (The reason for the later is her rather obsessive interest and focus on "the ball.") She's a veritable tomboy at heart. To the point where anyone who meets her refers to her as "the little guy." It's not a guess; it's an assumption. Although a more feminine side can be perceived when she daintily prances through the grass, as if to avoid mussing her paws or her tail, all the while her vibrant orange vinyl collar gleaming against the wiry black fur. The sojourn was a magnificent success. It was an amazing ride through the rolling hills above Pleasanton (Oracle and wind power country). And the best part was watching Sadie having the time of her life--running like the wind, nearly always ahead of us, even racing downhill.

So on this sunny Sunday, I wanted to do it again. But somewhere different.(The guy from a year and a half ago is history, incidentally, but that's another story. . . ) So my partner and I, a guy who used to road bike 75 miles in one day, headed out for the Morgan Territory Regional Preserve, near Livermore, but high, high above.

It's a place of mostly wide track open dirt trail on rolling green hills, with occasional forays into more forested areas. A wondrous place to be on a sunny spring day. Expect spectacular views as far as 100 miles away to the snow-capped peaks of the Sierra Nevada. Closer in are views of Antioch/Stockton, Los Vaqueros Reservoir, and the San Joaquin Valley to the East; Dublin/Pleasanton and the San Ramon Valley to the West. Getting to the parking lot at the begining of the trail takes you through ten miles on a one lane road that winds through an area of estates and stables. This is beautiful country and the perfect time to be here for a bike ride is a spring or fall day. Because in the full summer it can get dreadfully hot. And if it's a windy day in the winter--look out. The wind is fierce. So high up and so open. Nothing to brace it.

But Sadie didn't care. As we put on another layer or two before heading for the beginning of the trail, Sadie already knew that we had planned a wonderful afternoon for her. She picked up the nearest stick, tail wagging ferociously, and placed it at my feet. But we had better things to do. "Come on, Sadie. Let's go."



The entire three hours we rode, we ran into one other mountain biker and maybe as many as five or six hikers. That's all. Oh yes, there was one other dog. That's one of the many reasons this trail is so well suited to riding with your dog. As I've menioned, it's a wide trail. (Note: in dry weather the road is very, very rutted, partly because of the rains that came before and left their mark and partly because many of the grazing cattle that roam all along these trails have left their mark as well. So expect a lot of bouncing on your seat. Wear the best-padded bicycle shorts you have and remember to lift off your seat whenever it makes sense, which will be a lot.)

So even though we sailed through a few areas laced with poison oak, the trail itself is free of it. As long as your dog is under voice command (which is one of the rules posted), you're absolutely fine. The other rule is to have with you a leash that is no shorter than 6ft. You don't have to use it; but you need to have it with you just in case.

Be sure to bring water (of course for you, but I'm talking about your dog). A dog treat or two wouldn't hurt either. Our Fido ran like the wind and when we stopped in the middle of the ride and then at the end, she drank ravenously from one of those portable canvas bowls.

One thing about Sadie--not only does she like to run with the bikes, she insists on being in the lead. And if she isn't, she barks in protest. She also likes "the pack" to stay together. Once or twice, when i was off-bike and way behind my bike buddy, Sadie whimpered sadly, as if to say, "Wait, she's back there. Something is horribly wrong."

Bike riding with your canine pal is a wonderful workout for your pal (and you as well). But be careful. Just like people, every dog is different. So be sure to monitor if your Fido is happily running along or if he is panting, dehydrated, and keeping up with you only out of love, not enjoyment. It so happens that my Fido seems to have a self-rewind. She'll run to what seems like exhaustion, but then a rest of a few minutes seems quite enough for her to recharge, and then she's ready for more. But you be the judge. And you don't have to ride the whole trail. There are plenty of options, with an assortment of paths that wind around and rejoin. When you get to the parking lot, you'll see plenty of brochures available that map it all out for you.


Happy trails to you (and Fido).

From San Francisco, take the Bay Bridge to Interstate 580, continue to Livermore and exit North Livermore Avenue. Head north to the junction of Morgan Territory Road. Turn right, drive 10.7 miles (this is where it gets very narrow and winding)to the staging area, where parking is free.

sadie in the V

tree in sedona

shadow cat