Here and . . . then
You can be walking down a street, in the here & now, and you see a bike, a car, or a bus and it's instant blow back - 40/50 years, itself mind-blowing, and you marvel at all those miles . . .
A Beautiful Day In The Neighborhood
Long live those who have the love of color - true representatives of light and air. – Cezanne
(with a little help from my friend Dennis)
Extraordinary
You ride into town, an easy pedal, a sunny, blue morning. Wave to a friend sipping coffee on his schooner. In the park, a man appears to walk on air. Extraordinary. Funny word. Extra ordinary. Extremely ordinary?? Ordinary x 2? You've never really thought about it much. Slack line they call what he’s doing. Doesn’t look slack. Looks taut. With give. Give Line?? Paula Fox said words are the net through which all truth escapes. Ah, but words are what we have to traverse from tree to tree. Our give line. Extraordinary suggests extra special. A lovely word with a smooth feel, fine pull. Way better than extra special. Imprecise as they can sometimes be, words carry feeling that starts in our hearts, revealing our inner-ness. Bits & pieces, tiny tools, serviceable as paperclips and slim coins when an awl or screwdriver is called for. Our imagination nurtures our creativity and so with words we make due. Make do. Make. It’s what we do. Extraordinary.
The Leap, The Flight, & The Plunge
We were inside unpacking, following our move to the houseboat next door , struggling with cardboard and where to put things when we heard laughter and delighted voices across the water street. We looked up, astonished - what fun - how beautiful it is outside, hot in fact, and we thought . . . what is wrong with this picture . . .
. . . and of course, we realized . . . absolutely, positively nothing!!
weeeeeee!
Nothing is Written in Stone
This photo was an accident. Taken, apparently, while putting my phone-camera back in my pocket after shooting some lovely Sunday morning scenes of sailboats on the bay. But I liked the lines & angle of this accident and realized of course the metaphor of art, how what we sit down to create often turns out very differently than what we originally had in mind. Same with this blog, began last September with the idea that I would do it for a year and then stop. I also had ideas for various features, some of which I've gotten to, some of which I haven't. But here we are a year later and according to my 'mission statement' it's time to stop. Come to an end. But I'm not done. Not done floating. Reflecting. Noticing. Expressing. Not done totally digging life afloat. So I think I'll amend my original idea and just keep going. It amazes me how much living on the water has to show and teach, how much the people who live in the community have to offer, how utterly under the influence I am with this way of life. And how much the reflections - of light, of color, of life itself continue to guide me and lead to new discoveries of myself, of people around me, of the currents and tides and the life that thrives unseen, but so close, just below the surface. Like a good story, it changes once you are into it. That's why the original title of a story often doesn't fit when you're done. In this case, my title still works, but the length, focus, and direction have changed. Like me. A work -often a play - in progress!
Seagull Art
Best Dock find Ever
Conch Lessons
Sometimes our friend Dancer and his wife Iran invite us to join around the fire in the evening on their pod. Dancer grew up anchor-out and I love to hear his stories about being raised in the bay off the grid. Sometimes he brings out the conch shell. This is how the anchor out moms called their kids home for dinner. Blowing a note on a conch is more difficult than it looks. Dancer of course is a master, the way he is with oars when he paddles us out to the middle of the bay in a skiff to visit his father's anchor out, a floating tiny cabin called the Tortuga. It's magical and mysterious out there under the stars late at night. Back around the fire, I take another shot at the conch and finally blow a single, satisfying, deep~bellow of a note. And I realize I am home.
Galilee Soaring
We went to Maritime days at Galilee, a sweet little harbor with some funky houseboats and lots of color and art. You have to be a maritime worker or artist to live there. It's co-op style, with a shared garden and small greenhouses that remind me of Sebastopol. We listened to music on their 'green' and perused the yard sale stuff. Festive and fun and fun of life Last year I saw an old spear gun and wished I'd bought it. Looked for it this year, but that treasure was already discovered! We went aboard one boat, a former ferry, very small but sweet, where a family with young kids lived. i imagine Galilee is probably like the way it used to be on all the docks before the big dough and the big dough people moved in ~ We drank beer, ate fish n chips, and had a slice of homemade pie. Who needs a spear gun anyway. Who am I, Lloyd Bridges?? More like Flipper, actually ~
Our Dandelion
photo by Dennis Bayer
As our friend Stuart would say, 'We've thrown the anchor down!'
Old Dudes' Excellent Adventure
On Wed. played hooky with friends. Took the '57 Schwinn on the 'Lito Ferry. Rode along embarcadero, out of the blue remembering days of Stingray freedom! Valet parked the rides. Walked to the 'Yard' over the Lefty O'Doul for IPA(s) and tacos. Then watched a free inning through the fence- Hunter pacing in right like a Lion. The Pads were poised to sweep (really?!). Pulled an L.A. trick and split early. Caught the 4:20 Ferry (what else) home. Old stumpy fan/stranger offered to burn one (seriously?). What a day. Final score beside the point. Old Dudes' Excellent Adventure.
Sailor's Shawl
Feline of South Forty
"Things I've Seen Looking In"
photo by Paro Ivo
Testing Gravity
Everyday you test gravity.
You charge the steep hill on your ’57 Schwinn.
You fly for awhile, Standing as you pedal, getting into it.
Cars pass you by
You pass by parked cars.
The grade slows you down. And then you can’t
go anymore. You could cut across the paved hill
Weave back and forth to climb higher,
but you’re not ready for that.
Everyday you take it straight on. Get a little further.
Yesterday, the green house with the white rock lawn.
Today, the periwinkle mailbox.
You stop, astride your ride, heaving, breathing heavy
Precious sweat dripping down your face, under your shirt,
On your chest, a faint recollection.
Strength a distance memory.
A smile.
A periwinkle mailbox.
What you need.
You wonder who paints their mailbox this fanciful color?
They wonder who rides an old bike up a steep hill?
Everyday we test gravity.
