I go out walking / After midnight

One morning in May, I took Bella for a walk in our neighborhood (it feels strange using the word 'neighborhood' to describe the place in which I now live, because it does not at all resemble the traditional 'Neighborhood' in which I grew up).  As we left the driveway she was distracted by something in the bushes near the neighbor's shack.  I stopped, and she sat down in the dirt next to me, and three coyotes emerged.  First a tiny one, then two larger ones.  They stopped and regarded us warily, backing away in a different direction than they'd intended to follow.  When a soft *pop* was heard from a distance, they all flinched simultaneously: clearly they have learned to fear gunshots.

Our neighbor rounded the corner and the trio fled into the brush.

On our walks, we encounter so many forms of life:  lizards, rabbits, mice, coyotes, bobcats, and recently, a snake.  I heard it slither off into a bush as we passed and peered into the bush to no avail.  No sign of it except for the stringy track it had left in the dirt.

I still have yet to encounter a rattlsnake.  And, yes, I want to.

******

Today I fly back to Sacramento.  I have a meeting tomorrow, but tonight I get to spend some time with one of my very dearest friends, Deborah Rhea.  My plane leaves in a few hours at an airport that is located two hours away, and I haven't packed yet; in fact, I'm still sitting around in my pajamas.  Crap.

Returning to Sacramento is always, always gut-wrenching.  I absolutely despise having to go back to Sacramento - not because it's a horrible place, but because of what I went through, personally, when I lived there (a divorce, a horribly complicated post-divorce relationship, and more...).

I survived residing in Sacramento for six years largely because I met Deborah.  A mutual friend introduced us, because I was about to embark on a solo trip to Spain and spend several weeks traveling through Basque country, and Deborah had resided in the Basque region for many years. 

The night before I left for Spain, I called Deborah.  "Come over, mi amiga guapa," she said.  I've got wine and cheese and I'll draw you a map.

I walked several blocks north to the home where Deborah lived and we drank copious amounts of red wine, talked about life, love, travel, and yes, Spain.  Deborah swept everything off the dining room table with a flourish and laid down a giant piece of butcher paper and began to draw.  "Here is the train station.  Here is the bridge.  Here is how you get to the hostale in San Sebastian where I stayed.  Here is the town where I lived.  If you drive this way, stop in at the only bar in town and tell them that Deborah, from Los Estados Unidos, says hello...."

That night, when I returned to my humble little apartment to two very empty suitcases and with a head full of wine, I threw a bunch of clothes in at random and slept like a baby.  That first night in London, when I openend mthe first suitcase, I had to laugh.  '15 black shirts and one pair of jeans.  Brilliant, self, brilliant.  Let's hope the second suitcase was packed a bit more thoughtfully.'  Alas, due to the quantity of pre-packing wine, it was not.  I did, however, remember Deborah's map.

After I returned from Spain, I spent many, many, many nights with Deborah, drinking wine, telling stories, taking photographs, picking up favorite books from her bookshelves and reading aloud to one another, listening to music, and dancing.  I've never met anyone quite like her, and she will forever be one of my favorite people on the planet, and one my dearest friends. 

Happy birthday, Deborah, mi amiga guapa!  Besos y abrazos. 

Deborah Rhea + me:  2007

Astronomical/logical Reckonings

Monday Martinis and Meteors?

New Moon Sets Stage for Brilliant Leonids Meteor Shower

Source: Robotic Optical Transient Search Experiment (ROTSE) team

This year's Leonids meteor shower peaks [the morning of] Tuesday, Nov. 17.  If forecasters are correct, the shower should produce a mild but pretty sprinkling of meteors over North America followed by a more intense outburst over Asia. The phase of the moon will be new -- setting the stage for what could be one of the best Leonid showers in years.

"We're predicting 20 to 30 meteors per hour over the Americas, and as many as 200 to 300 per hour over Asia," says Bill Cooke of the Meteoroid Environment Office at NASA's Marshall Space Flight Center. "Our forecast is in good accord with independent theoretical work by other astronomers."

Leonids are bits of debris from Comet Tempel-Tuttle. Every 33 years the comet visits the inner solar system and leaves a stream of dusty debris in its wake. Many of these streams have drifted across the November portion of Earth's orbit. Whenever our planet hits one, meteors appear to be flying out of the constellation Leo.

source:  http://www.nasa.gov/connect/chat/09-094.html

******

It's no secret that I hold Mr. Rob Brezny and his weekly dose of Free Astrology in very high regard.  Like the Tarot, Brezny's weekly messages are sometimes obscure, often challenging, and usually only understood in retrospect.  But they always hit uncannily close to home, at least for me.

Aries Horoscope for week of November 12, 2009

A whitewash happens when you use deceit to cover up the messy facts about a situation. A blackwash is just the opposite: It's when you invoke candor as you reveal complications that have previously been veiled. According to my analysis of the astrological omens, the coming weeks will be prime time to enjoy a jubilee of blackwashing. But I suggest that you proceed gently. Remember that not all hidden information is a sign of malfeasance or evil intentions. Sometimes the truth is so paradoxical and nuanced, it's hard to get it completely out in the open all at once. And sometimes people are motivated to keep things secret mostly because they're afraid to cause pain.

While you and I are together here:

• Your favorite phrase is flux gusto
• The colors of your soul are sable, vermilion, ivory, and jade
• Your magic talisman is a thousand-year-old Joshua tree whose flowers blossom just one night each year and can only be pollinated by the yucca moth
• Your holiest pain comes from your yearning to change yourself in the exact way you'd like the world around you to change
• Your soil of destiny is peat moss
• Your mythic symbol is a treasure chest dislodged from its hiding place in the earth by a flood
• Your lucky number is 13 to the 13th power
• Your sweet spot is in between the true believers and the scoffing skeptics
• A clutch of frog eggs from an unpolluted river is your auspicious hair-care product
• The anonymous celebrity with whom you have most in common is the jester who followed Buddha around and kept him loose
• The question that perks you up when your routine becomes too rote is this: What possesses the bar-tailed godwit to migrate annually from Alaska to New Zealand by hitching rides on gale-force winds?

******
Blackwash. 
black·wash (blkwsh, -wôsh)

To bring from concealment; disclose.

Newspaper legend Joseph Pulitzer once summed up the essence of good and powerful writing in this famous quote:  "Put it to them briefly, so they will read it; clearly, so they will appreciate it; picturesquely, so they will remember it; and, above all, accurately, so they will be guided by its light."

This, however, is easier said than done.

broken / older / stubborn / graceful

I visited Chantale in the hospital yesterday to deliver some trashy magazines, magic markers, index cards, and black velvet coloring sheets with an alien motif. While Chantale was crossing the parking lot at Trader Joe's on Monday afternoon, a woman in her 70s hit her with her car, and ran over her leg.

I'm sorry, I have to say that again. SHE RAN OVER HER LEG. Chantale says she could see her lifeless foot dangling there afterwards, and that she was lucid the whole time. This is the kind of lady who lives in the desert, people: creative, entreprenurial, ballsy chicks who can get run over by a car and still string words together into sentences. (Had it been me, I would have either been sobbing, screaming gibberish at the top of my lungs, passed out, or all of the above.)

She's doing okay, for the moment, thanks to a dilaudid drip, and will be home today or tomorrow.

******


Joshua Tree Saloon, November 2009

Since I get up at 6 am and am officially brain-dead by 9 pm, I'm not usually up for mid-week social engagements. However, I made an exception last night, which was the 1st anniversary of Ruby Tuesday, the weekly open mike night at Joshua Tree Saloon, and an early celebration of local music guru Ted Quinn's birthday, which is Thursday.

As time passes, I am between 50% and 100% freaked out that we live in such a small town. My weird personality makes me gregarious and courageous half the time, and terribly, terribly shy the rest of the time, and, socially, I feel more comfortable living in the cloud of city anonymity. A place where I can go grocery shopping and run errands and never, ever cross paths with someone I know, or grab a martini at a local watering hole and not have to talk to anybody.

Ok, so I'm a wee bit anti-social. (Is there anyone out here who isn't?)

My point is that out here it is just not acceptable for me to clam up retardedly when I see people I know. My natural inclination, then, is to hole up in my bat cave. Ugh, the bat cave. I could literally spend months here without the need to interact with people. Does that make me crazy?

Don't answer that.

When I do battle with myself on the social front and force myself out of the house, once in public I try to smile and reach out to the people I recognize, regardless of how insecure, or anti-social, or awkward, or uncool I feel. *Without Alcohol* That last point is important, and it's why I feel seventeen years old most of the time. I used alcohol as a social lubricant for fifteen years and am only now learning how to truly, truly be myself in public without it.

So, regardless of whether or not people are friendly, engaging, aloof, or downright ignore the fact that they know me / live less than half a mile from me (which happens, a lot: you know who you are...), I always feel good about getting out of the house and I always walk away having learned something new.

In a lot of ways it's like writing: doing nothing is so much easier than doing something.

Last night's mini-celebration made me want to wrap my arms around the community of Joshua Tree and give it a big hug. Ted Quinn, whom I know only peripherally, is an absolute doll and much adored 'round these parts. Last night, someone made him a homemade birthday cake and brought it out into the saloon with candles blazing, and we all sang Happy Birthday.

Saloon Cake: Only in Joshua Tree

Older: (With a Camera Flash, Your Age Revealed)

There really aren't words for how adorable, loving, and supportive this community can be.

Tonight is Chef Rosa's birthday, by the way, and there will be wine tasting and hugs more adoration for a talented and graceful local gal. Perhaps I'll see you there. I promise to say hello.

******

NaNoWriMo: What the Hell Happened?

I intended to write part, or perhaps most, of my novel on a 1950s Smith-Corona Silent Super that I bought for $35 at a thrift store down the road. It's in good shape, but it needs a new ribbon.

I've tried to order the appropriate typewriter ribbon through the local office supply store three times. The first time, I went into the store and stood in a very long line. When I reached the counter the boy helping me consulted his catalogue, found the ribbon I wanted (red/black), and told me to come back on Monday; their computer system was down and he couldn't determine whether or not they could order the ribbon.

I returned the following week, on a Wednesday, and met with the same boy. This time, the boy took the catalogue into the secret 'staff only' room and was gone for a very long time. I wasn't sure if I should wait for him or not, so I loitered near the cash register for about twenty minutes. Finally the boy returned to tell me that they couldn't order the black/red ribbon from their supplier. I left, saddened that I would have to order online, rather than support a local business.

Today I decided that - depsite the fact that I think the red/black ribbon is super cool - perhaps I really don't need the red ink side. So I called the store again. 'Perhaps they could order the black/black ribbon,' I thought, 'and then I could buy my ribbon locally and they would also remember me for next time, making this entire process that much simpler.'

But the person who answered the phone didn't see Smith Corona Silent Super in the catalogue. After five minutes on the phone he was about to give up, when another staff person walked by. "Hey, you were alive in the 1950s," he said. "Maybe you can help this lady." His compadre informed him that he was looking in the wrong catalogue, so he took my name and number. And never called me back.

Red/black ribbons in various online stores are about $16, and the plain old black/black model is less than $10. Am I being ridiculous in my attempts to buy locally? Should I give up and give my dollars to some random typewriter afficionado selling supplies out of his home in New Jersey, or even worse - to Amazon or Staples or Office Max?

I'm torn.

******

Once I lived on a Mojave Desert mesa. There was an old Joshua Tree behind the cabin. My first act upon moving to the mesa was to free the Joshua trunk from rusted barbed wire and brads. Most of my actions in the year that I lived in that place involved extending a similar grace to my heart. I knew I would not live there forever.

~Mary Sojourner

Desert Sessions

My friend Scott, who is responsible for many of my life's finest musical moments, just alerted me that Them Crooked Vultures' album releases on November 17 (in the US).

Stream it live here:



Is there a term for the thing that Josh Homme's "stoner rock" bands do in the middle of songs? You know, the point at which they totally abandon the kickin' beats and do the musicial equivalent of the twirling hippie?

A perfect example occurs in the song Subcutaneous Phat, from Desert Sessions Volume 9/10, the bass line of which makes me want to quit my day job.



******
In other music news, when I stopped at Stater Bros on the way home from work today and perused the booze, I discovered the KISS wine collection.

Is there really a market for this?