Not to take it for granted

In Portland, I would have this experience on one morning each year.

I would get up early and go for my walk, bundled up against the cold and protected from the rain, and after perhaps four months of being greeted daily by stinging rain and bone-chilling wind, I would feel instead a balmy southern breeze, tumescent with the promise of warmth and growth and comfort and spring.

This morning here in Palm Springs I set out for my walk and was greeted by that very same comfortable caress. I sighed, and flashed back to those rare Portland mornings, made all the more piquant by their rarity. And it occurred to me that my duty, privilege and challenge, here in this land of perfect mornings, is to notice it with gratitude and awareness and appreciation, not to let the experience become commonplace, not to take it for granted.

sounds

Sounds of the neighborhood on a Saturday morning: as always, a mockingbird repeating prhrases and grabbing all of the attention; the peculiar whir-r-r-r of the house sparrows' wings as they return from the patio to their lofty nest in the fan palm with strands of dried Bermuda grass; the futility of our neighbor calling his dog, "Kismet! Come!"; the rising and falling background "shoosh" of breeze through the trailing edges of the of the palm fronds; the barely audible background hum of the moths and bees and flies; the startling sharp buzz of a hummingbird chasing away a territorial intruder; a fan rotating and gathering speed as a nearby a.c. condenser kicks on. So much to notice when I stop for a moment, am patient with myself and life, and simply listen.

impressions of the Holy Land

Rocky hills of craggy limestone and sandstone, with churches, walls, houses uniformly built of the same stone, and uniformly creamy off-white; terraces thousands of years old; hilltop villages and cities; an intense concentration of churches and holy sites: Jewish, Moslem, Christian, with every sect and sub-sect represented; dust -- remember, Oh Man, that dust thou art, and to dust thou shalt return. For thousands of years people have been building, leveling, building, destroying, building again. Everything here is in layers, the deeper you dig the farther back in time you go, way back, back to the beginning...

the scar

I have a tiny crescent scar just touching my upper lip. These days it's almost lost in the growing wrinkles and puckers of age but this morning while shaving I noticed it. And I think I know why. The mind is always at work, making connections between random events seemingly unrelated in content, and even in time.

Last night my youngest son called me. Out of the blue, and late for me as I'm traveling and on east coast time. I don't like to talk on the phone. I've had to do so much of it in my professional life. So, a phone ringing to me is an intrusion, and I usually end calls as quickly as possible. He knows this, but wanted to touch base with me anyway. Of course, for my children I'll always make that exception.

I tell people I have four children, when a more strictly accurate accounting would be that I have one child and three step-children. Perhaps because he's the youngest, perhaps because he is my only biological child, I have always felt a passionate attachment to Niles. For this reason, I have struggled with maintaining the proper amount of distance with him, trying to give full expression to this intense love I feel without smothering or overwhelming, disrespecting his space and differentiation. I am a teacher, after all. I have not always succeeded in finding that balance, and at times have felt him pull away to reestablish a comfortable equilibrium in which he could thrive.

So, it's a thrill when he calls and has no question or request but just wants to talk to the old man.

I have a scar on my lip. I earned it as a child when I lay down next to my dog. Bagel the beagle summed up all things admirable to me. He was fearless and adventurous, the terror of the neighborhood, and I loved him passionately. I especially loved the way he smelled, right around his ears, the utter doggyness of him. So, as I lay down next to him and put my arm over him, I pressed my face into his neck, my nose under his ear. And he, startled awake and smothered, reacted with a harsh growl and a snap, nipping my lip with his teeth.

My mind is always at work, making connections between random events seemingly unrelated in content, and even in time, sharing wisdom with me that I otherwise might have forgot, wisdom contained in a little crescent scar by my lip.

my moment of fame

As I posted on Facebook, I won a writing contest in my new home town. The Desert Sun Newspaper asked local resident and best-selling author, Joseph Wambaugh, to write the first three quarters of a murder mystery short story, then invited readers to finish it in 500 words or less. It turned out to be quite a challenge, especially the "500 words or less" part. As anyone who knows me can attest, I'm a decent writer and public speaker, but concise is not the first description of my prose that comes to mind. In fact, I have a friend with a personalized license plate "WORDY ONE" which I have often thought would have fit me even better.

But I accepted the challenge, pecking away at it in the morning on my patio, when not writing letters to old friends or musings for this blog. It was not an easy set-up to conclude -- too many characters and potential story lines to draw together in such a short amount of space. I decided to follow the great tradition of mystery writing. I chose the least likely character as my perpetrator. Since hard-working, reliable Pepe was in my opinion the most admirable of many characters with which Mr. Wambaugh had salted the field, I chose him. Then I needed to imagine a motive, and set up the conclusion by subtle suggestion. I'll let you be the judge of whether or not I succeeded by visiting www.mydesert.com. My apologies, as it's not an easy site to navigate!

coffee and Le Tour at St Honore'

I'm back from Portland, back to the reality of work and 114 degree heat, but one morning from my recent trip lingers in my memory.
My hotel didn't have Versus as a cable choice, so I only managed to watch the Tour de France once in five days. Sunday morning I made a date to meet two of my sons, Monty and Niles, at St. Honore' Bakery in northwest Portland, where I knew they showed the tour on a large screen TV.
It was THE place to be.
It seemed that every hardcore biker (in a very hardcore biker town) was there. They rode their treks and cervelos down to 25th and Thurman to gather in their spandex, campanello hats, and race jerseys to watch the most important alpine stage of this year's Tour in the company of their peeps.
So, there I was, a cup of french press (of course) and a pain au raisin, surrounded by bike people obsessing (like me) over every detail of the race, and with my boys. I don't know when I've been happier.

I can't shake this dream

I can't shake this dream.
Almost everyone I knew and cared about was already on the ferry - my sons, Portland friends, Montessori friends - and it was ready to leave. Somehow I had come to the dock without luggage. I had to make my way back to my hotel to check out, which became increasingly difficult.
Apparently I was on an island, but an urban one, a warren of alleys, canals and dense housing reminiscent of Amsterdam (a city I know well now, but in which I got seriously lost late at night on my very first visit). To make matters worse the city/island was filling up with partying young people and my cell phone kept ringing as people called me by mistake, confusing my number with that of some popular young reveler.
And then I awoke, with this sinking feeling of loss, as if many people I loved had left me behind.
Okay, self-styled Shrinks. Have a field day. I do feel isolated and alone at times in Palm Springs. These folks, nice as they are, are not my peeps, and no replacement for my Portland community. Of course I had 30 years to build my Portland community. It would be a sadder comment if I COULD replace them overnight, if at all.

the joys of home ownership

I keep my phone on "vibrate" much of the time so as not to disturb a classroom I'm visiting or interrupt a staff or parent meeting. And so I was awakened this morning at 5, not by my melodious ringtone but by the angry buzz of my cell phone trying to vibrate off the counter. Mary assumed it was simply her husband snoring louder than usual, turned over, covered her head with a pillow and went back to sleep, whereas I grabbed up the phone and stumbled out into the dark hallway, closing the door behind me.

It was my Florida realtor calling to inform me that our little condo in Florida was flooded. My sleep-shrouded brain had difficulty processing this statement. I pay attention to the "Tropical Update" on the Weather channel for just this reason, and had heard of no tropical storm threatening the "Treasure Coast" so the best response I could muster at this drowsy moment was, "Are you sure?"
"Of course I'm sure. Your tenant called me a minute ago upset because there's two inches of water on the floor. Apparently the water feed to the toilet burst. What do you want me to do about it?"
The words, "What do you want ME to do about it?" were forming in my mind, but fortunately I thought better. When you are a couple thousand miles away, have a flood and an unhappy tenant, you need allies, not enemies. I managed to squeak, "Uhhhhhhh, what do you recommend?"
So, now my realtor and her handyman are on their way, and I have an image in my mind of dollar bills floating away on the crest of a bathroom flood. Ah, the joys of home ownership.

Cabrillo

It's a week later and I'm still dreaming about it. After checking out of our hotel and before heading home from a weekend in San Diego, Mary and I took a side trip to Cabrillo National Monument. It sits atop point Loma, the bay serene and blue and far below on the one side, the Pacific serene and green and far below on the other. From that height we watched three long boarders who had anchored their sailboat off the point and paddled into the line-up at the rocky point. The swells rolled in endless lines, lifted at the point from beneath as if by a giant hand and breaking there, peeling down the line from south to north. It's this jade wall the surfers head for and, if they make it, drop down and left, staying just ahead of the collapse and working the wave gently down and up, until they must pull out or risk the deadly rocks. The whole ride only lasts a few seconds but for those few seconds he is poised right at the brink of unfolding time, a part of the elements as surely as the pelicans, or the sea, rock and sky themselves.

it's a dry heat

114 today in Palm Springs, but very dry, less than 10% humidity. So dry that when I went to the pool this evening, I was cold when I got out! Evaporative cooling. I'm trying to get the hang of this desert lifestyle. How to cope with the heat without merely staying indoors.
Mostly we coped this weekend by escaping -- yesterday taking the tram up to 8500 feet (and 85 degrees) for hiking and birdwatching, today by driving to the coast (4 foot waves and again 85 degrees).
It was strange at the beach. I paddled my body board out beyond the break, waiting for a decent set to come in, watching porpoises and pelicans, and realized that a large group of people had congregated on the shore and were clapping and hooting. I caught a wave, rolling down the jade green hillside of water, feeling it rise then break and crumble behind me, taking it all the way in as it re-formed to make a decent shore break. I weaved my way between bathers standing in the shallows and heard "Praise the Lord" and realized this was a church group conducting full-immersion baptisms in the Pacific. Of course, heathen that I am, I sing a song of praise every time I catch a wave, every time the sun rises or the moon sets. Next time I feel the ocean rising beneath me and i manage to kick and paddle hard enough that gravity takes me down that living translucent miracle, maybe I'll let out a "praise the Lord" or two, or at least, a big Thank you.

the queen of the tiki bar

Last night just for fun Mary skipped her usual west coast dance and asked if I would like to go to the Tiki Bar. The tile floor is a little hard on my knees, but the chance to dance to live music, even if it is only covers from the 60's to 90's, is hard to pass up.
The desert had warmed up to 101 in mid-afternoon, but by 7:00 it was already cooling pleasantly, especially in the breezy courtyard at Las Casuelas. We ordered Mexican beer and the band played Santana and Stevie Ray, and we danced and sweated.
Natalie is a regular at Las Cas. She's older, taught as a rope, dressed to kill in polka dots way off the shoulders. Every waitress and server drops by to say hello and she clasps each by the arm in turn, calls each by name. The band pays its respects during breaks, and plays one of her requests in each set. One of her favorite dance partners has come tonight, for the honor of taking her out on the floor, and they rumba, and swing, and cha cha, and even waltz.
And she's the queen of Las Casuelas, and life is sweet, if short.

Hallelujah (written on the return trip from PDX 5/11/09)

Half way back to SoCal and Leonard Cohen sings through my ear buds "a cold and a broken" (but nonetheless exultant) "Halleluja." Sometimes on these trips, with so many people expecting something from me and seeing me through the filter of those expectations, I start to lose touch with who I am. Maybe it's because I'm on my way home, maybe it's because I touched base with Lise today, or Aimee and Maegan last night, or my sons yesterday morning, or maybe it's Leonard's voice in my ear, but I feel the light within me rise and shine through my fingertips and I think maybe I can be who I am, at least for a little while, after all. And, maybe that's even enough.

Ironically, at this moment I see an angel. She's across the aisle and two rows in front of me, in pink pajamas with footies. She looks at me, her blue eyes to my green, her soft smooth tiny pink face to my my big old blotchy one, and she gives me a squinty smile -- no guile so she expects no guile, no judgment so she expects no judgment, no hidden recesses so she allows me none. Her mother looks around wondering to whom her infant daughter is suddenly paying such rapt attention, sees the 3-year-old in the seat in front of me and makes the natural assumption. But no, she's communing with the old grandpa another row back.

Years ago, one night in Eugene, Baba Ram Dass said that he can always see God looking out at him from any person -- the checker at the grocery store, the pedestrian he's passing on the street, even the the helmeted policeman. So, maybe it's not an angel I see, but God looking out at me. And she smiles that toothless flush-faced clear-eyed smile, clasps her hands together and pulls them in to her tiny chest in a gesture of utter wholeness and authenticity.

Halleluja.

A Royal Tanenbaum Moment

In Portland recently, I had a Royal Tanenbaum moment. You know, the Wes Anderson film?

Royal: "These past few weeks have been the best of my life."
Narrator: "Saying this, Royal realized it was the truth."

Or, words to that effect. Anyway, at the "Dinner with Peter" party, sold at the MSB auction, I was repeatedly asked how things were going in Palm Springs, how was Mary, etc., and found myself saying:

Peter: "These past few weeks Mary and I have been happier and more in love than we have since we first married."
And the narrator inside my own head: "Saying this, Peter realized it was the truth."

It's funny, isn't it? Some times you don't know what you are going to say until it comes out, and sometimes you don't realize the truth until you say it.

Good Night, Frankie

It's nine. Orion has already set behind the mountains. Soon the summer constellations will take over the sky. The crescent moon won't set for some time yet. The night is silent. Expectant.
Maura, the head of School is out of town this week, with students visiting D.C. I'm "holding down the fort" while the whole world freaks out about the swine flu, most especially parents of young children. I deal with their concerns, tighten policies and protocols, prepare for things that one really can't prepare for.
And yesterday Frankie Manning, beloved father of lindyhop, died. He was in his 90's, had danced at the Apollo in his youth (can you imagine?) had gone to Hollywood to dance in some forgettable movies (Hellsapoppin), had spent his adult life forgotten, had been rediscovered during the swing revival of the 90's, had been revered around the world by young white dancers. A true gentleman. Generous. Humble. A lady's man. A spark of life so pure. Now the dance community mourns him.
As do I. I lift a glass of sparkling pinot gris. Good night Frankie.

midnight at the jackalope ranch

Anyone who knows me knows I love to dance, especially to live music, especially to the blues. So, it should come as no surprise that, when I received an email from the great blues guitarist Kal David ( www.kaldavid.com ) that he was playing at the Jackalope Ranch, Mary and I reshaped our Friday night plans.
First, a word about Kal. He lives locally but travels the world with his music, and is a regular contributor to the "Blues Cruise" circuit with the likes of Delbert McClinton. We've seen Kal on a number of occasions playing solo, just Kal and his guitar and his MacBook laying down percussion. In my opinion, he's the king of the gracefully bent note, the seamless riff, the understated wail (I know, that's a contradiction in terms, but it's true!)
But Kal fronting a 3-piece band is a whole new experience: layered, explosive and riveting. He cuts loose a lot more and plays off the base line and Lauri's vocals. While Kal made his guitar sing effortlessly, the base player was all about effort -- eyes closed, sweat streaming, running up and down the neck, plucking and thumbing grooves or channeling Noel Redding arpeggios. The drummer, shoulder-length dreads, a gold cross around his neck, was a perfect compliment to Kal's cool, with minimal flash and splatter, just straight-ahead and solid. Lauri is a natural R&B singer, all warmth and smokiness. But the revelation was Kal, laying down a Stevie ray shuffle one moment or moaning a Muddy Waters standard the next. Hootchie Kootchie Man, indeed.
Now a word about the club. Jackelope Ranch is a new, huge, upscale barbeque restaurant, and the hip place of the moment. It was built by the founder of Babe's Barbeque, and the familiar soulful hog is depicted in bronze throughout the place, gazing philosophically at the ceiling or the sky. Perhaps he's contemplating his fate as a future pulled pork sandwich. For those of you who have never been west of the Mississipi (or the Atlantic Ocean) a jackalope is a fictitious creature created when someone thought to mount a jack rabbit head as a trophy on their wall and adorn it with antelope horns, a humorous exagerrated myth of the west like the fur-bearing trout.
Of course we danced, and of course it was a challenge, avoiding drunken wandering patrons (Where's the john, Man?), the scowling, overworked, busty cocktail waitresses laden with trays of beer, martinis and tequila shots, not to mention the other dancers. But we lindy-hopped without damaging anyone, hit some spot-on breaks, did some steamy blues dancing, zydecoed and cha-cha'd, and even busted out some nightclub two step on an R&B ballad. Listening to great blues is one thing, but feeling it and expressing it with a partner is different level of enjoyment altogether, to me.
The crowd around the tiny stage was mostly middle age and beyond, and really into it, clapping for the best solos, screaming their appreciation, nodding to the beat and writhing in ecstacy. But most of the bars patrons, starting a few tables from the stage and extending out onto the patio, were young, there to see and be seen, only into themselves and their ritualized pairing-off. It's such a privilege to experience world-class blues musicians up close, and they had no f___ing clue. Pearls before swine, and not of the big, brass, soon-to-be-pulled-pork-sandwich variety.

the Jewish Al Pacino

On Friday nights the Van Gogh Museum is open late, 'til 10:00. Gone are the busloads of tourists crowding in front of each painting. Instead, the visitor finds the area in front of the stairwell transformed. Blockish blue chairs are gathered around a drum kit, baby grand, stand-up bass and hollow-body Gibson, and serious jazz afficionados take in the quartet's variations on Shiny Stockings, A Train or Blue Rondo a' la Turk. A video cam captures the audience and projects their images onto the ceiling within the green field of a Van Gogh. I buy a whiskey and ask someone to dance. We cha-cha, west coast, even samba a bit and the Europeans grudgingly make a little room and tolerate us with disdainful looks, "Serious jazz. Not for dancing."
During a latin number I notice we are not alone. A tiny older couple has taken the opportunity to share the dance space we've created. She's hot in a tight black skirt and sweater. He's cool with jacket collar turned up, hair brushed back, Italian shades, polished loafers. Al Pacino on a small scale.
They mambo with minimum effort and the unspoken knowledge of each other's moves -- where her hand will be, when he will hit the break -- the anticipation and flow that comes with decades of partnership.
I slip over between numbers and introduce myself to Ira and Harriett, both in their 70's, he with a recent triple bypass, returned to the Amsterdam of their youth after successful lives in the New Amsterdam, of the New World. Once considered the mambo king of Manhattan, Ira still likes to dress up a couple times a week, and escort his Lady to a club for jazz or latin. The little Jewish Al Pacino slides a handshake and tells me, "It's cool, Man. It's cool."

spring on the keizersgracht

I decided not to bring me laptop with me to Holland, so I'll transcribe my handwritten postings now that I'm back home.
Wednesday April 15
I arrived Schiphol Airport at 10:30 am (having left Palm Springs the day before also in the a.m.), having little sleep on the flight across the pole from San Francisco. I read (The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao), watched a movie (Slumdog Millionaire) and drifted between waking and sleeping while listening to dreamy ballads on my ipod (Iron and Wine). Whenever I started to drift off to sleep I could count on one of three things happening: the enormous man in the seat behind me would shift ponderously and push against the back of my seat for leverage, the Dutch folks two rows up would finish a hand of cards with a slap and a chuckle (or a groan), or someone would bump me as they passed down the aisle to the bathroom.
I know the drill by now. Sail through customs, "I have nothing to declare," take the train to Central Station, buy a strippenkaart and board either the 16, 24 or 25 through The Dam, Spui, past the Mint Tower, and get off at the Keizersgracht (king's canal), drag my bags on the cobbled street being careful not to be run over by cars, scooters or bikes, to the little Hotel Keizershof, where cheerful, stooped Mary DeVries awaits her guest. "Goiemorgen (hhhoy-ah MOR-hhhen), Peter. And how vas your flight?" I stayed with Mary last spring and must have made an impression because she seems genuinely happy to see me, and not just because the tourist trade is down due to the economy. I like to stay in the Mae West -- up three steeply convoluted spiral stairs, barely room for a sink, bed, chest of drawers and my suitcase, and sharing a hallway bathroom with Marlene Dietrich and other luminaries -- but with a view of the canal and only 65e per night.
After a nap I pull the lone chair up to the open window, pull the drapes aside and take in canal life on a sunny spring break day. All of Amsterdam is out -- all of Amsterdam, that is, that owns a boat or knows someone with a boat -- and all are parading lazily down the keizersgracht leaning back against the low gunwales, a case of heineken amidships, chatting and waving and relaxing. Oh, yeah.

and the stars in your sky are the stars in mine

Lyrics from a Joan Baez song: "And the stars in your sky, are the stars in mine." Of course that's not strictly true as my Australian friends will point out. But, it's a comforting thought nonetheless. When I'm looking at the stars from my patio at night my Northern hemisphere friends are looking at the same stars, although my many Portland friends are probably seeing clouds...
So, I happened to catch a star report on public broadcasting the other night. The astronomer, looking rather like a mustached teletubby, was pointing out two very bright red stars in the evening sky right now -- Betelgeuse (sp?) and Andromeda. Betelgeuse, pronounced "beetlejuice" is that bright star at Orion's shoulder. To Orion's right, between him and the seven sister stars of the Pleides, is the constellation Taurus. The bull's bright red eye is Andromeda.
I like to know the names of things -- of birds, of wildflowers, of rocks, and apparently of stars as well. When I first started watching birds and learning to recognize and name them, it was if a whole new world opened up to me. Obviously, the birds had always been there, but I noticed them now, and greeted them by name, and started watching their antics and relating to certain frequent visitors to my yard as friends. It's the same with any knowledge I gain about the natural world. I suddenly notice more and my experience of life is richer.
And so it is with these two stars. I intend to google them and find out how far away they are, and what type of star they are, and how big in relation to our sun. And every night I'll greet them, and when they disappear from the evening sky to be replaced by the constellations of summer, I'll miss them until they return next winter.

howlin' down the cumberland

As always, I awoke with a song in my head, this time John Hiatt:

"Caught like a deer in my own headlights
frozen on this road tonight.
I had a fix on the brightest star,
now I don't know where you are.
North is South and East is West,
where's the love that I knew best?
Shifting in this icy wind,
howlin' down the Cumberland."

What does this mean? I awoke in the arms of my sweetie of 29 years, so the "I don't know where you are" hardly fits. However, it WAS unbelievably windy (albeit not icy) yesterday. Perhaps my subconscious was listening for the rattle of the sliding door, the hiss of the palm fronds, the telltale sounds that would tell me the winds had not abated.

But they had, and yet I still feel uneasy. Apparently, it's a common occurrence here in the spring especially, but it takes some getting used to. When winds get up to 50-60 mph, it shakes everything, and picks up anything that's not nailed down and sets it skittering along the street or sailing over the house. The power flickers on and off, and it stirs up so much dust and pollen that I hardly dare to go outside. It takes me back to the hurricanes of my childhood in Florida. It stirred up feelings of flight or fright, but I'd nowhere to go and nothing to do with the energy, so I spent yesterday pacing the cage, and today I still feel a leftover restlessness.

There was a brushfire a couple miles from our house and in that wind it could have easily gotten out of control, burned along the mountainside and found us in our little condo and taken away everything we take for granted. Perhaps that's why I feel restless. I was just reminded that what's here today can blow away tomorrow.

the time of the bat

It's Sunday evening and a crescent moon hangs above the mountains that are darkening but have not yet gone black. The mockingbirds are still agitated and have not yet gone silent.
Everything west of the mountains is covered by a marine layer, but my sky is a pure silver blue. As always, the low clouds try to get over Santa Rosa, but dissipate -- leaving the sky open for me to contemplate the moon.
As the sky and mountains darken the moon brightens and the breeze freshens. Suddenly, all of the birds go silent as if by some signal beyond the range of human perception. At the same moment, the landscape lights go on. Interesting, isn't it? The photosensor on the lighting system is set at the same sensitivity as the birds'.
I can just make out the dark side of the moon, a grayer ellipse against the blue-gray sky. One lone bat flits about high and higher, momentarily coming between me and the moon. It's the time of the bat, and the coyote, and the owl hunting on blunted silent wings. It's the time for poets and dreamers and layabout semi-retired school principals to rest their tired bones, drink a glass of wine, and wonder...

Although it's Sunday, and I've no earthly reason for it, I awoke early, filled with what I can only call existential dread. M starts a new job tomorrow, going door to door for the U.S. Census, and I'm worried about her safety in nutty California. I don't want to hold her back from making a contribution, from doing what she's decided to do. But, I'm worried. And it strikes me that it has been a while since I even allowed serious worry to intrude upon my consciousness.
For so many years worry was so central to my life -- worry about my children, their health and safety, worry about the 180 children at school for whom I felt responsible. My kids are long since grown and on their own. I consciously left the school worries behind when I moved here, and rightly so. But, in so doing it seems I've deliberately avoided serious worry of any kind. Oh, I've had the occasional concern about earthquakes or traffic safety. Like everyone else I've worried about the economy. But it's as if I believe I've been handed an exemption where life's immediate hazards to myself and my family are concerned.
My attention is diverted by a ruckus among the neighborhood birds (and I'm not making up either the occurrence or the timing). The mockingbird is once again dive-bombing a crow who has wandered too close to the mocker's territory. As the crow alights like a woodpecker on the side of a palm, grasping on to the broken remnant of a frond, the activity reaches a more fevered pitch and even the tiny hummingbird joins in. The crow maintains a studious unconcern as he plunges his beak into a crevice, then tips back his head to swallow, again and again. I realize he must have found a nest and is breaking each egg and eating the embryo. He's just makin' a livin', right? So, why do I feel such horror and revulsion? Why do I relate so intensely with a suddenly forlorn-looking hummingbird, now sitting idly and hopelessly watching?

rocket boy

I don't know if I'm unusually connected to music, or what. But, each day I awaken with a different song in my head. So, one of my first tasks of the day is to try to sort out the significance, if any, of my brain's daily song selection.
Sometimes I think it's a message from my subconscious. You know, a lingering dream reference or an insight into my deepest mental state on this day on my path to self-realization. Sometimes I take it as a portent to the particular way my day will unfold.
I'm partial to singer/songwriters, or to indie bands with soft voices and jangly guitars. So, It's not unusual for me to wake up to an echo of Bob Dylan, Warren Zevon, Dan Bern, Jackson Browne, Iron and Wine, Wilco, the Shins, or Death Cab.
So, today when I woke up with Liz Phair's Rocket Boy in my head, it was like, "What the hell?" Rocket boy. Grinding, fuzzy lead guitar, rocking riffs, wailing, silly chorus: "Rocket boy, rocket boy! When are you gonna land?"
Oh, I get it. There IS a PRETTY OBVIOUS metaphor. Oops. I'll sign off now.

It's a small honky tonk world after all

Sitting in Starbucks (I know, I feel like a traitor to all my favorite coffee shops visiting the "evil empire," but it's the only place within walking distance) with a grande soy latte sprinkled with cinnamon and chocolate, waiting for my car to be repaired at Pep Boys. I didn't want anyone to think my life is all lounging on my patio watching the play of light on the San Jacintos. I have a day off and how do I spend it? Waiting for my brakes to get fixed.
Starbucks does do some things very right, though. Take the music, for instance. At this moment it's Iron and Wine with Calexico. "There's a prison, on Route 41...." Outside sits a man in his 60's, beard fringing his chin like an Amish, set up to spend the entire day at his table. You buy a coffee at Starbucks and the table belongs to you for as long as you wish. He reads, he naps, he glares at the customers going in and out. People avoid sitting in that part of the patio though it's easily the shadiest, breeziest, most desirable part. He looks challenging, possibly unpleasant, non-pastel.
The closest customer is a young father, sitting on a bench with his coffee and his baby daughter. His soul patch, flat-brimmed backwards Raiders hat and sagging jeans look out of place with the delicate, button-eared baby in his lap. As Chuck Berry would say, "It goes to show you never can tell."
The latte is starting to revive me from the hangover haze of a very fun yesterday. I drove the hour to Redlands to work in the morning, knocked off early and continued west another hour to Oceanside for some afternoon boogie boarding, drove back to Palm Springs through rush hour traffic, and still had the energy to drive Mary up to Pioneertown in the high desert for blues at the famous honky-tonk, Pappy and Harriett's. What a day!
I-215 from Redlands to Oceanside was lined with colorful wildflowers: orange and yellow poppies, purple lupine, pink verbena. I tried to imagine what California must have looked like in the spring before it was covered by farms, houses, malls and parking lots. My best wave was five feet of creamy jade, precisely the color of a monarch butterfly chrysalis. The drive to Pioneertown was memorable too -- up into the joshua trees, a sky the color of mangoes behind jagged ridges of haphazardly-piled boulders.
But the surprise of the day was being greeted at this funky out-of-the-way honky tonk by a friend from Oregon. What are the odds that Stephanie, a Montessori teacher from Corvallis, would choose this place to celebrate her anniversary by dancing to acoustic blues?
The Starbucks house music has gone on to Neko Case, and now Sam Cooke croons "Darlin' you-oo-oo-oo send me..." The young father plays with his daughters toes. The old guy has claimed an additional table. I can see the mall behind him and above that the sun glinting off snow on San Gorgonio. I sip my latte and think about the unexpected connectedness of things -- of this temporary community of Starbucks customers, and of my permanent community of life friends, sneaking up on me at honky tonks at the edge of the Mojave Desert.

morning becomes jacinta

I was up before dawn, on my patio chair, a hot water bottle nestled behind my back, a serape across my lap, hot coffee in hand, facing west toward the San Jacintos. As the sun rises, it strikes the highest ridges first bathing them in pearly pink, dropping down the flanks in stages, each lower ridge back-lit by the one behind it. I'm not in my usual seat and it hasn't gone unnoticed. The tiny Beewick's Wren keeps one eye on me as he searches the adjacent shrub for his breakfast. He drops his shoulder and slides between leaves entering the bush's dark interior, keeping a running commentary going in my direction.
I've alrady scanned the front page of the paper, reporting a 4.8 quake centered under Bombay Beach on the Salton Sea. I heard it yesterday morning gently shaking the sliding door by my bed. Apparently there has been a recent swarm of small quakes on the San Andreas as it slides beneath the Salton Sea. The last really big quake in the Coachella Valley, estimated as 7.5-8.0 occurred in 1700, so we are long overdue. One more reminder -- savor the coffee, listen to the birdsong, enjoy the morning...
I write every day, usually in the morning, in black gel ink in a black journal, writing letters to friends. It has occurred to me that in my letters, recording as I do my daily thoughts and observations, that I have been a blogger for years, but on paper. So, I'll try a new medium. I wonder if the letters will continue or if this will suffice. Surely my friends will miss my little drawings, the weight of the paper, the ritual of opening an envelope, the evidence of rain or coffee or wine dried upon it. I wonder if I will be able to sense an audience as I do when I write to certain friend. I wonder if anyone will ever read this.
The sublime rosy light has transformed to yellowish-white and a fine blue sky, "bluer than robin's eggs" in the words of Joan Baez, stretches over all. Perhaps I'll find myself humming "Diamonds and Rust" as I go about my day.