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.

pattern

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.