Us

The Pond, 2012

He wakes like toast. Straight up without pause. I am far more meandering, more of a slow-cooked egg.

I imagine his daydreams are closer to home than mine, related in some way to his task at hand. But I have no evidence. He doesn't tell me about them.

Mine are odd floating daydreams, frequently simple objects drifting above and past me, just skimming my peripheral vision. Often food. Yesterday I saw the Good Humor strawberry shortcake ice cream bar of my childhood pass by, and later a plate of poached salmon, green beans, and new potatoes with dill.

I told him what I saw. I don't believe it changed his opinion of me.

tiny discoveries (episode 1)

March 13, 2012

It is amazing how hand squeezing a single grapefruit for juice can make one feel centered.

I'm home.

Souvenirs from Guido's, 2012

Our suitcases are still full. Empty Chinese take-out containers rest on our coffee table. Chris left for his office in the early morning dark. I'm transitioning. Chris is so much better with transitions than I am. Evidence? I dipped ak-mak crackers into cottage cheese for breakfast this morning. My kitchen table is set with a generous handful of Sicilian oregano and a box of camomile flower tea. Two Italian imports brought to me via Scottsdale (Thanks, Mom). I'm admiring both and contemplating what's next. My laptop is lined with tabs of articles and recipes and bird identification sites I want to return to. There are characters waiting to be read and written. Everything feels out of order this morning, but it doesn't bring distress. I'm sure a good cup of coffee and some writing will help things fall into place, or at least allow me the temporary illusion that they are so.

What are you up to today?

Monday Morning

Tomales Bay, 2012

Monday morning coffee beside Tomales Bay followed by a walk along the Estero Trail has left quite a spring in my step. A long weekend in West Marin. Oh, the joy.

Thank you, Chris. You sure know how to celebrate your birthday.

A pretty amazing two minutes.

Litany

Dreams and Actions

I remember when my father talked of building a lighthouse in the desert, and the glimmer in his eyes. The crazier the idea, the brighter the glimmer. It would be the only lighthouse for miles, and he'd live in it. Of course, I would have lived in it too, as would my sister. We were still young and living with Dad when he had the lighthouse idea. But it wasn't really about us, it was about him. We were simply along for the ride.

He didn't just tell us to follow our own paths in life, he exemplified the idea. He left a stable career he felt was no longer for him, packed up all we owned, and moved west. He's built many things over the years, even houses, but not a lighthouse, not yet.

I wonder if he remembers the dream of a desert lighthouse. I hope so. Perhaps he's laying the foundation right now, as I type. It is possible. The dream is beautiful, but the action makes all the difference.

Pearl brought back this memory. He has me thinking about dreams and actions. Have you seen A Man Named Pearl? If not, you should.

No Comment

The Neighborhood, 2011

Three tiny paintings sit in a first floor window on Vallejo Street. The canvases look to be about 3 x 3 inches. Each canvas rests on its own small easel. The paintings appear to be the work of a young child. I wonder who decided the paintings should face the street. The mother, the father, the artist? It was a good decision. The paintings made me smile.

I wanted to thank the artist, but this isn't how it typically works with painting, or poetry, or novels -- so many things. We visit museums and galleries, linger over chapbooks, and feel our perspectives shift while reading a well-written novel.

Most of these creators will never know how they have moved us. There is no comments section beneath their work. And perhaps this is for the best.

Too predictable?

Book Bay Find, 2012

My husband has been out of town and I've found myself with much quiet time to think and explore. Rather than embarking on an array of new adventures, I've comfortably slipped back into my former single-girl ways and have been treating myself to simple pleasures. I've also been keeping very strange hours. I've seen 2 AM more than once during this past week. Oh, well, all will be back to normal soon enough. Why not embrace the quiet and the strange.

I'm reading Eric Rohmer's Six Moral Tales. I had no idea he'd written these stories before he was certain he'd become a filmmaker. The book of short stories came with my Criterion Collection box set (Thank you, Christopher). Rohmer explains in the preface that his stories became films because he did not succeed in writing them. I wholeheartedly disagree. I'm in the middle of reading his third moral tale and feel smitten with all I've read thus far.

I've also added a book to my collection (see above). Yes, I admit without apology that I was drawn to this book by its fabulous 1961 cover, but I bought it due to Celia Dale's Broadsheet description. A little used bookstore browsing and buying is always fun, but especially so when the bookstore is just beside a beautiful bay view.

I'm slowly working my way through a new-to-me chocolate bar from Belgium, a departure for me because it is milk chocolate (with speculoos) and I am always partial to dark. It's nice, but very sweet. I'm pretty sure I'll be returning to dark the next time I'm in the mood for chocolate, but if you like sweet milk chocolate this could be for you.

Two new candles in little gold tins are scenting my apartment, one lavender and one vanilla.

And I've brought home a skein of Italian cashmere/silk/merino yarn, in the most beautiful red (#45). I'm knitting a simple cowl.

One last item... I made Pasta all'Amatriciana last night, River Cafe style. Yum.

Too predictable? Perhaps, but I don't mind.

How do you treat yourself? What are your simple pleasures?

Six Moral Tales
Book Bay
Lynne Reid Banks
Dolfin's Milk Chocolate with Speculoos Bar
Seda France's Travel Tin Candles
Filatura Di Crosa's Superior in #45 Lipstick Red
Superior Cowl
Pasta all'Amatriciana

Midnight Blue

Outside The Aldrich, 2005

Just as the grey sky turned dark, I looked up and saw it. Midnight Blue. I was always partial to the blues, Sky Blue, Cornflower, Periwinkle, but Midnight Blue overshadowed them all, and there it was, in the sky, the same sky that was there every night. Why hadn't I seen it before? And why did it take me back to running through the snow in the silence of night. I don't think I even looked up at the sky, and I know it was well past midnight. I only remember my footprints in the fresh snow. He'd called to tell me he was in town. My younger more naive self found venturing out into the snow cold night a reasonable request. He missed me and something about him made me weak. Time with him was both thrilling and depleting. A place I could not stay. Part of me wonders what was I thinking and another part misses the innocence.

Midnight Blue (1987) by Lou Gramm

Midnight Blue (1958) by Crayola

A Postcard

L'Eternelle Idole, 2012

A thoughtful friend sent me this postcard from Paris, in 2004. It rests in the lower left corner of a mirror near my entryway. I've been looking at it lately, and thinking about relationships. When asked to accompany someone I care about on an adventure, I find it nearly impossible to say no. I don't want to miss anything. I've been this way for as long as I can remember. It began with my father, moved on to boyfriends, and now involves a certain husband. For this reason I have had much fun. For this reason I have also sometimes put my own adventures on hold, often without even knowing I was doing so. When I can find the strength to pry myself away from what I know and love, just for a little while, I always return with so much more to share.

notes

why we have saucers, 2011

I sneeze in a quiet cafe and no one says bless you.

A woman with pink hair is so loud I decide to leave. As I walk out, her eyes catch mine, and I imagine we could be friends.

Later a small dog named Tamale stands beside my leg as I sit on a park bench. It was like he just wanted to be near me, for a moment, and then he was on his way.

When the sound of traffic slows I hear the birds in the trees. No crows or seagulls, just song.

A Life

Today I Saw Two Pink Flamingos, 2012

It was dark and silent when I realized I was awake. I was holding two socks in my right hand, beneath my pillow. Wearing socks to bed on a cold night always seems a good idea, until it isn't. I inevitably wake with my socks removed.

I wrote this down in the library, the branch that inspired Richard Brautigan's fictional library of unpublishable books.

There was an old Mason jar filled with paperwhites placed atop a shelf neatly stacked with various newspapers and Chinese magazines. I couldn't stop looking at the flowers, and the jar. I'd never seen fresh flowers in a library. They changed the space in the most positive of ways.

I was also surprised by the number of people without keyboards before them, and the library quiet of the past.

A hardcover titled Paris Trout seemed to scream from the shelf across from my table. The title font was enormous and slanted to the right, as if in action. Freedom sat on a shelf to my left. I guessed its days of having a queue were over.

Still holding my socks I thought of a sentence Annie Dillard had written. I'd found it the night before, in the form of a note in one of my old journals.

I hear the river outside the window, if I remember to listen.

My river was the moan of the distant foghorn. It was dependable, except on those days that decided to turn blue.

Teaching a Stone to Talk: Expeditions and Encounters by Annie Dillard

Satsuma, meet Kishu.

Kishu, 2012

I've tasted my first Kishu. Satsuma now has a rival. Kishu Mandarins are smaller than Satsuma Mandarins, they are even smaller than Page Mandarins. Almost bite-size. No seeds. They are rumored to be easy to peel, but it's all a matter of perspective. The Kishu is not as easy to peel as the Satsuma, but much easier than the Page. They are not as juicy as the Page, but juicier than the Satsumas I've eaten lately. If the two Kishus I've eaten today represent the typical, I prefer their overall taste to both the Satsuma and the Page. Luckily I have three more.

Kishu
Satsuma
Page

Twilight

Half Past Five, 2012

There is something about the sunsets in La Jolla. When I'm here, I cannot miss them. I enjoy sunsets at home, but they don't pull me toward them as these do. I bundle up each evening and walk along the water while the sun sinks and the sea roars. I watch the horizon as the light shifts and the colors change. It is hypnotic. I saw a fire truck filled with firemen pull to the curb and settle in to watch the display this evening. So many people do the same. I understand. The sea and what's left of the sun absorb all of my tension. Most of the onlookers disappear with the sun, leaving the brief stretch of time before dark to the congregation of cormorants, and me.

FO

Hat, 2012

I kept meaning to ask the ever-inspiring Rachel what an FO was, and then I figured it out. It's knitspeak for a finished object (knitted object).

So here's my most recent FO. A hat. I finished it this morning and I'm so pleased. I bought the yarn from Sophie at Bluebird Yarn in Sausalito. The yarn is a Merino Wool/Alpaca/Silk blend (Mirasol Sulka in Wine, Shade: 203). I found the Colour Sparks pattern on Ravelry. It is also available on Etsy. As you can see, I decided against the flower. I just wasn't feeling flowery.

It knit up quickly, well, there was a bit of drama last night, but it was silly, so I won't get into it. It fits perfectly. Completing it was a nice way to begin a day.

And that's not all. I recently finished some pretty sweet fingerless gloves. I used Madelinetosh yarn for the first time. Laurie from Greenwich Yarn (here in San Francisco) thought I would like it, and I did. Knitting with it was a treat.

Watch out, I'm moving, albeit slowly, beyond scarves...

There was a man...

from here, 2012

The man in the furthest window seat from the door, the only space with a cushioned seat, he wears a faded green train conductor type hat and a synthetic vest with metallic safety stripes. I wanted to look at him longer, because he had a nice way about him, but he stood up shortly after I sat down. He very purposefully gathered his cup, napkin, and paper bag which likely held his pastry or muffin, and dusted away every crumb from from his table. He left with a free newspaper cradled beneath his arm and a humble smile. I continued to look at the now empty space and wondered what had been in his paper cup and his bag, what his plans were for today.

Temptation

voting with my pocketbook, 2012

So many books in the queue, but with a first page that begins like this...seriously, how could I resist?

Within each horseradish leaf, where it unwinds from the stem, there’s a small bead of rainwater. He sees one there, shining brilliantly in the morning sun, as if it’s been placed, a jewel, pure and dazzling. It’s perfect. This will be lovely he thinks, leading his daughter toward the plant, her hand so small and cool in his own, both of them crouching over the leaves till their shadows merge.

-Excerpt from the novel Sea Change by Jeremy Page.

4:02 PM Inspiration

inspiration, 2012

This beautiful slice of banana oatmeal bread inspired me. I hope mine inspires you. I only made my usual changes to the recipe, nine ingredients or so. I can't help it. It's my nature. I say start with Pam's recipe and make it your own, but if you really want to know what I switched up, just let me know.

Now for a warm slice...

what her world might have felt like

just before the new year, 2011

Lecia has me thinking. I'm not surprised. She does this often. Her post took me back to the day I was born, the day my mother became a mother. Of course, I don't remember a thing, but this song gives me an idea of what her world might have felt like, back then.

To Sir With Love by Lulu

was it all a dream

from the upstairs window, 2011

I just woke up and I'm wondering ...wait, was it all a dream?

Beginning the day with a walk on a beautiful empty beach, the bobcat, the fox, the Dungeness crab on our brunch table, the midday nap.

Either way, I figure it is worth writing down and saving.

Shifting Gears

Winter, 2011

So, we've officially entered winter. I hope you are enjoying it. It feels good over here.

I just walked up the hill with this mound of my favorite citrus, Rio Star grapefruits and satsumas. Stella Pastry is baking the panettone I will pick up this afternoon. I've learned that I will have a small plot for gardening this summer and my beloved Kitazawa Seed Co. catalog has arrived. I feel a shift.

All I need is a novel, one that is light, perhaps funny, but is still good. Does it exist? I don't want trash, unless it happens to be good trash, then please tell me about it. All I seem to adore in the literary world is the beautiful writing that almost inevitably involves an underlying sadness. I still love this work. I'll always love this work, but I need a small break, to shift gears for a brief period of time. Can you help?

I know most of you are busy with the holiday season and all, but if you have a moment and can think of anything old or new that might suit my mood, please offer your suggestion. Just type it in the comments section quickly, don't worry about typos or links, I'll figure it out.

Thank you, kind readers.

Living

The bus to Rodeo Beach, 2011

Rodeo Beach, 2011

He meant doing things not because we were expected to do them or had always done them or should do them but because we wanted to do them. He meant wanting. He meant living.

- Joan Didion The Year of Magical Thinking

New Traditions

Christmas Whale, 2011

We've added a small tree, clearly inspired by Charlie Brown, complete with felted acorn and papier-mâché whale, to our holiday spirit collection. I also made some cookies. Chris mistakenly bought a mint chocolate bar versus simple dark chocolate, so we just went with it. These cookies are so good and super simple. And almost gone.

Oatmeal Chocolate Mint Cookies
makes about 24 cookies

Preheat oven to 350°F and gather your ingredients.

1/4 pound (1 stick) softened butter
1/2 cup brown sugar
1 egg
3/4 cup white whole wheat flour (I use King Arthur)
1/2 teaspoon baking soda
1/4 teaspoon fleurs de sel
1 1/2 cups whole grain oats
1 3/4 ounces (half 3.5 oz bar) dark mint chocolate bar rough cut into 1/2 inch pieces

In a medium bowl mix softened butter and sugar with a fork until creamy.

Add egg to butter and sugar and mix well.

Carefully pour flour, baking soda, and fleurs de sel on top of butter sugar egg mixture, without blending the dry ingredients into the wet.

Stir the flour mixture very gently as it sits atop the butter, sugar, egg mixture. The goal is to combine and evenly distribute the dry ingredients before mixing them into the wet ingredients (no need to wash a second bowl).

Combine flour mixture with butter, sugar, egg mixture, evenly distributing all ingredients.

Stir in oats.

Stir in chocolate pieces.

Place tablespoon size rounds of dough onto cookie sheet.

Bake for about 8 minutes and then keep a close eye on your cookies. You want them to just start to dry on top and be light brown on the bottom.

Cool on cookie sheet for a couple of minutes and move to wire rack.

They are really good warm.

Enjoy.

These cookies made me miss you, Marshall Field & Company. I miss your Christmas tree in your Walnut Room and your Frango Mint Chocolate Chip Cookies and your animated Christmas window displays on State Street. Those cold winter trips downtown I began adoring as a little girl just aren't the same without you. Thank you for the memories...

Marshall Field was famous for his slogan "Give the lady what she wants." A wise man.

It's like someone's pinched me.

Solo Trip, 2011

I cannot stop thinking about a sentence I read a few weeks ago.

"Women live longer than men because they really haven't been living."

It was something Diane Keaton's mother noted in one of her journals. She read it in a Tom Robbins novel.

I know it was fiction, so why am I so irked? All I keep thinking is what ridiculous crap.

when I truly pay attention

dust and cupcake, 2011

I thought I was a creator, but when I truly pay attention I realize I'm more of an archaeologist, simply digging to find what already exists, dusting it off, and looking at it in a new way.

One day I brought home a big fat red peony.

December, 2011

It's been good to me so far.

What's new with you?

Joan Didion Notes / 24:

Life, 2011

When I saw Joan Didion in conversation with Vendela Vida I was listening so intently I only made a few notes.

November 15, 2011

Joan Didion

24 - Her mother told her it was her favorite year.

24 - She reads a passage she has written about being a little girl and describing what her life will be like when she is 24. She is wearing a sable coat and dark sunglasses. She will be on the front steps of a South American public building. She will be getting a divorce.

24 - After her husband died she no longer felt 24 because he was the last person who'd known her when she was 24.

Some things just stay with you.

While getting dressed I thought of the conversation last night and how it exemplified the little pockets of beauty hidden throughout our lives, even beneath the heavy folds of sadness.

I made this photograph and wrote the accompanying words on November 16, 2011. Someone commented on it today, the first Monday in December 2011, and prompted me to return to it and study its contents. It has me thinking back to words that originally moved me in August 2003. Those words were first published in 1974, as part of a nonfiction narrative by Annie Dillard. You glimpse a few of those words in the photograph. I wrote briefly about the words in September 2009.

Some things just stay with you.

The world's spiritual geniuses seem to discover universally that the mind's muddy river, this ceaseless flow of trivia and trash, cannot be dammed, and that trying to dam it is a waste of effort that might lead to madness. Instead you must allow the muddy river to flow unheeded in the dim channels of consciousness; you raise your sights; you look along it, mildly, acknowledging its presence without interest and gazing beyond it into the realm of the real where subjects and objects act and rest purely, without utterance. "Launch into the deep," says Jacques Ellul, "and you shall see."

excerpt from Pilgrim at Tinker Creek by Annie Dillard

Ten days ago...

Armeria maritima var. californica, 2011

transcribed from my Moleskine, shown above:

November 20, 2011
close to 7 AM

I am 44 years old today, officially in about an hour.

Again, my dreams were filled with wild cats.

The sky is a white tending toward a very light grey tending toward the lightest of blues. There was a little rain, but it has stopped, for now. The tree branches on the east side of the house wave, the branches on the west side are still.

The heat is filling the glass house, the sun is rising, and I sit here upon the Jetsons-style sofa taking it all in through transparent walls, documenting with sleepy hands and thought patterns.

Chris is asleep.

I believe I saw our grey owl again, but he disappeared into the trees before I could confirm.

The large moth was searching for light in the kitchen this morning while I poured my first glass of sparkling water. We've been drinking sparkling water exclusively because the orange-tinted tap water, although promised to be perfectly fine, does not appeal to us.

Yesterday Chris suggested I give the large moth a name so he would seem less menacing. He thought Bernard might work. I agreed. Bernard has now followed me into the living area. Last night Bernard was in my shower. I think he likes me.

The heater pauses and the cold sets in quickly.

This beautiful home was not constructed for heating efficiency. Understood. This is California. But there is quite a chill up here.

The local paper leads me to believe the National Park Service will reclaim this land, along with this glass tree house, in April of next year. What will the park service do with a glass studio perched on stilts, accessible by small tram? A meditation space for rangers?

I think I'll crawl back into bed.

The Jetsons

Another Me

@76-A, 2008

I'm missing her today...

photograph: Christopher Parsons

Are you preparing for Thanksgiving?

March of the West Marin Wild Turkeys, 2011

What will be on your Thanksgiving table this year? I'd love to know what you're up to today. I'm about to begin shopping. Yes, It is probably way too late, but just think of all of the excitement that will be buzzing around the farmers market, grocery store, and wine shop. I am making my lists and listening to Bob Dylan's Desire album. The song Black Diamond Bay is playing and I'm in a very good mood.

Wish me luck out there.

Dinner:
turkey breast (bone-in - hope I can find one...)*
gravy (toasting my flour this year)
stuffing (inspired by Mom's cornbread stuffing)
cranberry chutney (inspired by Nicole's recipe)
brussels sprouts (roasted w/ pancetta)
carrots (roasted)
pie (sweet potato - inspired by Joy the Baker's recipe - I'm going to try her no-roll pie crust too)
ice cream (vanilla)
whipping cream (a 2nd pie topping option?)
wine (red)

Shopping:
turkey breast - bone-in*
chicken stock - at least 6 cups
celery
onions x 2
apples x 2
cranberries - 4 cups (1 lb.)
ginger - fresh
raisins (seedless) - 1 cup
carrots - nice bunch
brussels sprouts
pancetta - just one thick slice
sweet potatoes x 2
cream cheese
evaporated milk - two 5 oz cans (1 1/4 cups evaporated milk)
eggs - 6pk.
ice cream - vanilla
whipping cream (maybe?)
wine - red

Did I mention this is dinner for two? Plus leftovers, of course.

updates:

12:35pm
Back from Ferry Plaza Farmers Market (special holiday market hours today). *Turkey legs at Golden Gate Meat Co. looked better than breast. Bought two giant legs, and a thick slice of their pancetta.
Also, found a beautiful Weck Globe Jar at Heath Ceramics for our chutney.

5:02pm
I did buy the whipping cream. Done.

habit

Making Memories (this one in Brooklyn), 2011

I've been working on cultivating a few new habits lately, good habits, thanks to the blog named habit. Are you familiar with it? It's about making memories.

I want to tell you more about my experience with habit so far, but I'm so sleepy (yes, it is 3pm) and have too much else to do, so it's going to have to wait. Until then, you should head over and take a peek.

I'll be there along with a long list of others documenting special moments in their days. Each person in their own unique way. You'll find me on the posts dated November 14, 15, and 16.

I hope you are enjoying this autumn afternoon moving too quickly into evening, wherever you are.

Take care,
Denise

One foggy morning...

Flowers and Fog, 2011

I woke remembering a good dream. I was attending a writers retreat and hanging out with Vendela Vida. She borrowed one of my spaghetti strapped tops to go out one night (Yes, I know...do writers go out at night while attending retreats? One might assume, no, they are too busy working or fretting about not working, but I haven't attended such a retreat, so I don't really know. For me, the act remains completely plausible). She liked my top. I felt a little starstruck, but played it cool and pretended it was no big deal.

There are only so many.

Simple Stuff, 2011 (also on habit)

“The small things of life were often so much bigger than the great things . . . the trivial pleasure like cooking, one's home, little poems especially sad ones, solitary walks, funny things seen and overheard.”
-Barbara Pym

It was around noon today when I read this quote. I was reading a Sadie Stein piece on The Paris Review blog. I liked the form. Isn't Sadie Stein a great name? I think so. The quote was in her piece.

I like reading about, watching, and discussing the trivial things that happen to people as they walk through their days. I realize Sadie Stein's days are far more interesting than mine, but she inspires me to relive some of my own little things.

Things such as waking up and still feeling the salt in my hair after a long walk beside the bay yesterday. Observing a man in a white t-shirt early this morning, carefully straightening the interior of a closed restaurant. The light he worked in was so beautiful. Too bad they only open for dinner. The feeling of having an unknown person just behind me, nipping at my heels as I descend a hill. Writing with my grey Le Pen because I cannot stand the new mechanical pencils I bought. The taste of a slice of pear cranberry tart. Like it or not, such small things make up the bulk of our lives.

Lately I've been thinking about the way I sometimes allow my days to happen, to take me away. It can be nice. I want to allow a little of the taking to continue. Relinquishing a small amount of control holds the possibility of being presented with something I wouldn't have pursued on my own. But I also want to make more choices and achieve a balance that makes the regular days feel rich and full and chosen. There are only so many.

A Week in Culture: Sadie Stein, Editor

Omen

Blackbird Memories, 2011

Today I read a story about grief.

The story was intimate and fragile. The stiff pages fought against me. I knew they'd rather be closed. The words still unsure if they mistook their need to be set free for value.

And then a poem, about an idea for a poem that vanished.

It reminded me of talking one's writing away. Is it possible? I should cease speaking, until I know. But will I ever? Probably not.

And a few more of her poems.

But I have to leave my table with watery eyes. The words are too real. Especially the imagined meeting with her teenaged self, so close to ending my year.

Teenager by Wislawa Szymborska

What are you doing today?

Inspired by pages 162 & 163 of The Gentlewoman Issue nº 4, 2011

I believe I've finished a poem, but it is always difficult to know for sure. A celebration will be had in the form of flour, butter, sugar, and such. Thank you, Nicole, for letting me peek inside Grandmother Ruth's recipe box. This afternoon will involve an office with a red chair and strategic branding discussions. Not of my own brand, someone else's. A girl's got to earn a living.

What are you doing today?

An Imagined Rendering

Author's Note, 2011

I moved slowly and carefully. I didn't want it to end.

The Cat's Table by Michael Ondaatje

Adrift

glimpse through a doorway near 23rd & 9th, 2011

notes:

Much is neutral. Not a lot of color, yet as soon as you note it, there it is. A young man in a bright red and white checked shirt, just outside the cafe, smoking a fat cigar. It is 8:30 AM. And there was the beach ball, yesterday. And the young slim bright-lipped barista with the red bandana delicately folded and tied atop her pretty blonde hair.

People know each other here, in this cafe, the cafe where they hide dark chocolate in their pumpkin muffins. It's nice, the knowing each other, and one of the main reasons I've returned. During my first visit I found a disgruntled and handsome middle aged gentleman, weathered jeans and tweed blazer, showering the bright-lipped barista with all of his charm. I could tell it wasn't something he offered up often. Kind of sweet to see her draw it forth. He was sure to tell her when he departed that he wouldn't be back for a week because he'd be off on assignment. It sounded very important. I understand his desire. She hurries no one and elegantly glides to and fro behind the counter. Her description of their carrot muffin is downright eloquent.

I appreciate the comfort of familiarity, even if it is not my own. I'm feeling a little homesick and frankly, adrift. I'm between the place I was born and the place I currently call home. I'll return to that current place for a short while before traveling to the place I called home during most of 2008. I'll be there for my birthday, looking out from a glass tree house. I'm lucky, I know, but sometimes I wake up and have to look around before I know where I am.

Last night I dreamed I had an affair with the young Big Night era Stanley Tucci. I was knitting his wife a sweater. Yes, I said wife, it was an adulterous dream. Oh my. Adulterous, but tastefully edited. One moment I was trying on the sweater for dear Stanley and the next the film jumps straight to the frame where he is laying on my bed shirtless, all else is beneath the pristine white sheets, and I'm exclaiming oh no! what have we done? Next I'm relaying the entire drama to my good friend Isabella Rossellini.

And then I'm awake and trying to recall it all for Chris while laughing hysterically.

They are playing The Big Chill soundtrack in the cafe this morning. A film from 1983. A reminder of how quickly time passes. It's an appropriately cool and crisp autumn day, dead leaves scattered on the street and sidewalk. I'm about to walk back out into it, past three yellow barstools, four succulents, and a waiting scone.

I'd like to think about that.

Fullerton at the Lake, 2011

"I'd like to think about that." How often he has used this simple utterance as a way of granting dignity and validity to the opposing position, without relinquishing or invalidating his own perspective. And note how it isn't a flat submission or commitment: "I will think about that." It's, "I'd like to." As in, I welcome it. As in, I believe it will benefit me to entertain a different viewpoint. To lend my imagination to walking around in your shoes. To enlarge my mental field, my field of consideration and empathy.

-Leah Hager Cohen referencing her father's way of keeping alive difficult dialogue

The rest of Leah Hager Cohen's post here.

Yes.

Anna Emilia wrapped up with a bow, 2011

To walk in the rain with an old friend (yes, J., I believe we have become old friends -- crazy, I know), to taste warm soup, to open a package, remembering there is still such a thing as real mail.

These are the good things in life.

your time is limited...

Window, 2011

“Your time is limited, so don’t waste it living someone else’s life,” Jobs said. “Don’t be trapped by dogma — which is living with the results of other people’s thinking. Don’t let the noise of others’ opinions drown out your own inner voice. And most important, have the courage to follow your heart and intuition. They somehow already know what you truly want to become. Everything else is secondary.”

-Steve Jobs, 1955 - 2011

quote: wired.com

Back in the Saddle

Misty Blue, 2011

It's starting to feel like autumn.

more than the places I've been

Place I've Been (view from Tellaro bus stop), 2011

I feel a pull from the general direction of the Barents Sea, the Nordic countries, somewhere near Sweden, Finland, or Norway. A desire to head toward the open landscape and spare sensibility I imagine.

The raw and honest beauty of Tove Jansson's landscapes and characters. The places that inspired her trim prose.

It is simply this: do not tire, never lose interest, never grow indifferent—lose your invaluable curiosity and you let yourself die. It's as simple as that.
-Tove Jansson, Fair Play

My vision of the snow covered landscape, the austere cabin, and Per Petterson's quiet and contemplative central character in Out Stealing Horses.

All my life I have longed to be alone in a place like this. Even when everything was going well, as it often did. I can say that much. That it often did. I have been lucky. But even then, for instance in the middle of an embrace and someone whispering words in my ear I wanted to hear, I could suddenly get a longing to be in a place where there was only silence. Years might go by and I did not think about it, but that does not mean that I did not long to be there. And now I am here, and it is almost exactly as I had imagined it.
-Per Petterson, Out Stealing Horses

And then there is artist Anna Emilia's weather diary. She treads gently on her landscape. Her delicately detailed paintings, a form of contemporary Folk.

The wind and rain outdoors play the most magical instruments. Anything they touch becomes a small echo. Anything they pass, becomes a small note. A cup of tea in left hand, a sketching pen in right one. Light is disappearing, candle flame dances inside shadows. These gray days the color of sleep.
-Anna Emilia, Weather Diary

Yes, they are all really quite different, but careful observation reveals a definite thread. These are insider views, just a few pinpoints on the map of this vast landscape. A comfortable perspective perhaps only accessible to those born in the region.

Vendela Vida observes the stark landscape of the Sami from a different perspective. She has only visited Lapland three times. In Let The Northern Lights Erase Your Name she writes of a young woman's search for truth in a subarctic climate she is experiencing for the first time, the land of polar night and midnight sun. During an interview Vida speaks of having fallen in love with Lapland in the winter, the subtle gradations in the darkness. She liked the way the physical landscape mirrored her central character's emotional state. I'm intrigued by her exploration of violence and forgiveness in this bleak landscape. My attraction equates to fear and curiosity rigidly standing side by side.

It was three in the afternoon when my plane landed at the Helsinki airport, but outside my window, dusk was already settling in like a bruise. I retrieved my suitcase, its handle cold, and stumbled to the tourist information desk, where a woman with good teeth and bad English helped me find a hotel near the train station. My plan was to take the first train north, to Lapland, after a night of sleep.
-Vendela Vida, Let the Northern Lights Erase Your Name

I wonder how it would feel. Could I love it more than the places I've been? This place where respect for the land appears inherent in its inhabitants, where they haven't forgotten the wilderness is wild.

Until She Knew Enough

Montemarcello, 2011

A quiet boat, soft wood planks, and photographic reflections in still water. The first person to speak to me is outside the building just north of the old Sausalito Caffe Trieste.

He is a proud man with grey hair standing beside a younger man. Both of them before a quiet red espresso machine. He, the older man, the one who is clearly in charge, says good morning, and I say good morning too. He tells me they will be serving coffee, soon. I ask him when and he tells me next Monday at 7:00 AM. I smile and say great, implying I will return, and I will. Then he says ciao, as if he were placed here in my day to ease my transition from Liguria back to Northern California.

A block away I notice I've held my smile. The sun is warm on my hair. It is a beautiful day for return. Cibo has photographs from a cooler season in Italy displayed in my favorite room, the glass room with old paint wearing thin upon its cement floor. There is a pigeon in the room. He steps lightly, knowing he shouldn't be here. His manners are appreciated. The day feels good. I don't long for other places.

Close to noon, in the public library, I find a poignant Hemingway quote from The Snows of Kilimanjaro, Now he would never write the things that he saved to write until he knew enough to write them well, and I wonder who is orchestrating this grand plan.

One of Those Things

Self, 2010

Hello.

It's been a while. Some of you have been around for years and I'd like to thank you for being here, reading, and commenting when the mood suits you. Writing is a fairly solitary endeavor and I enjoy this space, but it's nice to know I'm not the only one. I appreciate your being around for the good stuff and for your patience with my experiments. Much has changed since the summer of 2008, but I believe the important parts remain the same.

This is one of those things I usually do not do, but after some thought I decided it would be a good exercise to go back through the years and see what I've written here. I've thought a lot about the various types of posts I've written. Some make me proud and some duds (yesterday was sort of a dud...) I'm tempted to hide, but I won't. There are themes that repeat and thoughts I've allowed to fade. It's an evolution and it was a treat to look back at the way this space has stretched and contracted over time. Thank you, Amelia and Tracy, for this suggestion. It was viewing your walks down memory lane that inspired me to take my own.

Most beautiful post: February 8, 2011 A Reading
Most popular post: August 12, 2009 Julie & Julia Bruschetta
Most controversial post: May 24, 2011 Adaptation (Theft?)
Most helpful post: August 10, 2010 Who is she?
Success surprised me post: February 10, 2010 Shoot to kill.
Didn't get the attention it deserved post: May 13, 2010 The Pier
Most proud of post: October 27, 2010 Of Parks and Trailers

The following talented writers and photographers have inspired me. I'd love to see them write similar posts and I hope they do, but until then I highly recommend taking a look at their spaces. Seeing the world through there eyes is something you don't want to miss.

Rachel's rachel eats
Rachael's the slow-cooked sentence
Shari's the art of seeing things
Lecia's A Day that is Dessert
Lucinda's nourish me

(found) composition

In the Park (remember the slipper?), 2011

On Polk Street, 2011

The Little Room (Greens Restaurant), 2011

com·po·si·tion noun \ˌkäm-pə-ˈzi-shən\

the act or process of composing; specifically :
arrangement into specific proportion or relation and especially
into artistic form

-Merriam-Webster's 1 a :

The Book

Book, 2011

I fear the loss of them and their beautiful imperfections revealed by time and use.

Odd Indulgences

Pink Pearl, 2011

I like to take an apple, any type, but I'm particularly liking these Pink Pearls at the moment, and peel it, then chop it up, roughly, nothing fancy. Place it in a bowl and squeeze the juice of 1/2 a lemon on top. Next I sprinkle some sugar, just a little, over the lemony apples. This is a particularly puckering experience with the Pink Pearls. I don't believe the combination is a common enjoyment, but I certainly like it.

Do you have a culinary indulgence some might deem odd? Perhaps you'll share.

Or maybe I'm the only one.

Pink Pearl (apple)