bizarro new world

Oh my god. This is so strange. After backing up some files to CD on my old (I think) virus-infected Dell, I bought a new computer. It's an HP something or other ~ by the time I had listened to the happy parade of fast-talking 22 year-olds with Dell, Best Buy and Fry's I was so addled and glassy-eyed that I just handed my credit card to the last guy I encountered and begged him not to hurt me. Good thing he worked for the store.

Which is all pretty exciting, or should be, except that this new model is running Windows Vista, with which I am unfamiliar. The first thing I did was to accidentally run a file backup program, which completely filled my D disk and immediately triggered messages that I'm low on memory. Wonderful! Right back where I started. I can't tell if I managed to delete it or not. Nothing looks right or functions the same. Where are those happy little geeks when you need them?

I don't even know how my start up screen functions, and I'm afraid to check and see if I'm still compatible with my digital camera or MP3 player. I haven't tried the media programs yet. Although it's really nice to up-and download in seconds rather than minutes. I love my tight little new keyboard too, although I've no idea about some of these hieroglyphics. Is that a hyperlink key...?

Anyway, I just came here to check the blog before I do any further damage. I must say, it is very different from the one I'm accustomed to seeing. The pictures look smaller and the page seems bigger. Everything appears somewhat distorted. My sidebar-self seems to have gotten shorter and a little wider ~ not unlike my actual self, come to think of it. How dare Virtual Me mimic the more unappealing aspects of Reality Me? Most inconvenient. I think I'm getting the vapors.

This is all too much for me. I've been challenging what's left of my brain all day. Time to fly the martini flag here in Luddite Land. I bet there's a key for it somewhere here on the board. I wonder what this pretty crescent moon thing does...

growing older but not up

We are growing old together with something less than grace, my appliances, my husband and I. Although not necessarily in that order.

And while as a rule I like to ignore this sad fact of life, I was forced to confront it yesterday when an abrupt reminder arrived in the form of a cheerfully insulting 'welcome' letter from AARP. It was a harbinger of doom that I chose to take personally.

"What the hell?" I cried, flinging the temporary identification card away from me as if it were on fire. Turk, seated at the kitchen counter opening his own mail gave me a knowing glance as I raved on. "I am not old enough for AARP! Why would they think I am? Who are these people and why are they saying such terrible things about me?"

"You think that's bad?" he asked, eyeing a pretty cream-colored piece of stationary in front of him. "This is from the Trident Society. They want to incinerate me."

"I don't think they want to incinerate you. I think they want to bury you at sea."

"I don't see that that's any improvement. And it's definitely incinerate. But that's not the point. The point is, why are they in such a hurry to bury me in the first place? Where do they get these lists? My accountant? My doctor? What do they know that I don't know?" He paused. "I'm not dead yet."

"No, honey. Indeed you're not! And I'm not old yet."

And thus it was unanimous. We remain, as always, untouched by time or mortality. We smile, happy in our shared delusion.

Meanwhile, in another room the family Dell is dealing with it's own issues. Running slower and slower of late, it's been creaking and groaning loudly enough to hear the little hamsters that power it chugging along in their rusty cages. Being online is becoming a painful experience, and I'm afraid an intervention may be in order. Pages load like lava flows when they load at all, after which they disappear in a slow fade from top to bottom. Error messages abound, and Windows sends up ominous flares warning that I am dangerously low on virtual memory. If it only knew.

So I am in the process of uninstalling obsolete programs (at least I hope they're obsolete and not, you know, essential...) and deleting ancient files. I am not sure how much good it will do. What I would really like to do, while I'm at it, is to purge all AOL programs from the system, but I'm afraid that doing so would also remove my control over the old AOL blog, which I should but can't bring myself to delete. (I know. I'm just sentimental that way.) But if anyone has any information regarding the issue, I'd love to hear it.

In the meantime, it looks like it may be off to Rehab for my poor geriatric Dell 4500S, which takes me out of the blogging game for a bit. But that's the trouble with interventions; they're always hardest on the family.

the answer

"Listen: We are here on Earth to fart around. Don't let anybody tell you any different"
~ Kurt Vonnegut

Farewell to a profoundly generous and heroically empathetic man. He was funny, sad, brilliant, sensitive, accessible, lonely and complicated ~ qualities that add up, in the course of a lifetime, to represent the depth of human wisdom.

And somehow, thinking about it now I suddenly realize that I have no desire to waste this glorious bright gift of a day sitting here in front of the dead white light of my computer screen, reading the tributes of others and growing old in my chair.

"The main business of humanity is to do a good job of being human beings, not to serve as appendages to machines, institutions, and systems." ~~ 'Player Piano,' 1952

The answers are, and always have been to my mind, fairly straight forward. To thine own self be true. Do unto others as you would have them do unto you. Do a good job of being a human being. Damn it.

So ponder the mysteries of the universe if you will. I, my friend, am off to do some serious farting around.

(* pearls before swine)

And so it goes.

art that makes you giggle

Nikas Safronov is a genius. Creating an entirely new genre of art ~ let's call it celebrity historical kitsch ~ the Russian artist has made a name for himself with a form of portraiture guaranteed to appeal to the vanity and imagination of high profile egoists everywhere. And me. It appeals to me. I adore this painting. It makes me laugh. And really, isn't that what we ask of all great art? That it make me laugh?

Of course it is.

As detailed in today's issue of the La Times, (click on 'photo gallery' for more) Safronov re-imagines movie stars, politicians, tycoons and their wives as historical dukes, earls, popes and emperors with a lively brush and (one must assume) even livelier humor. George Clooney grins, impossibly sexy, as an elaborately tressed dauphin while Madonna, consistently self-satisfied, appears as a linen-draped virgin.

Naturally, there are detractors.

"There are dozens of gifted and talented artists in modern Russia, but Nikas Safronov is certainly not one of them," fumes Marat Gelman, a Moscow art critic and gallery owner quoted in the Times article.

Well, sure. But how many gifted and talented artists are this laugh out loud funny? Or would think to paint themselves as Renaissance lords or Franciscan monks?


The practice is not without precedence; Rembrandt made use of historical costumes and props for himself and his sitters back in the 17th century. But it was the 17th century. And he was, you know, Rembrandt.


More importantly, Safronov will happily paint you and me as Renaissance lords or Franciscan monks. And I am here to tell you, we need this.

I think I might like a portrait of myself envisioned as Madame de Recamier, or perhaps Artemisia Gentileschi. Maybe I would like to appear as an elaborately-coiffed courtesan of the medieval period, or a pearl-draped Queen Elizabeth I. Or a wench. A nun might be fun. Or even Catherine de Medici. I'm not sure. Clearly, I need to give this some thought.

And so should you. I firmly believe that everyone should have one of these hanging over their fireplace. It would serve to keep us humble ~ imagine taking your latest rant against foie gras or the evils of excessive corkage fees too seriously under a dramatic image of You as the Emperor Napoleon ~ and certainly your dinner parties will never want for conversation again as your guests feast their eyes upon your own personal version of this:


So go ahead and ask yourself; who would I want to be? George and I dare you.

balance

I went to yoga this morning for the first time in a couple of weeks and found myself literally coming face to face with the fruits of my own sloth.

As I hung there in Downward Facing Dog, quietly contemplating my Suddenly Swinging Belly and groaning my way through a Decidedly Defeated Warrior (to paraphrase Donald Rumsfeld, you go to war with the body you have, not the body you want) I was struck by how much I had let myself slide, and how little time it had taken to do so.

We were entertaining again this weekend ~ the house was already clean and really, how often can that be expected to happen? ~ and again the larder was full of Fabulous Forbidden Foods (herbed goat cheese...foccacia bread...tagliatelle alla Bolognese... CAKE! I never get to eat CAKE!) while I was full of...well, let's just say I was full of excuses not to cut back, work out or basically discipline myself in any way.

As can be expected, I am now sporting one magnificent Muffin Top which, though it sounds like a yummy yoga pose (yay!) is actually that soft tubular roll that billows inelegantly over low-riding jeans (booo!)

We had a new instructor today; one with whom I was not familiar but apparently everybody else was. She is a tiny Korean woman ~ no more than 5 feet tall and 80 pounds if that ~ with the body of a dancer and the manner of a marine drill sergeant. No soft-spoken hippie-child she, with the caressing tones and gentle exhortations to "listen to your body," and "just do what feels best for you today..." that I have become accustomed to and seduced by.

No. When this little Yoga Sarge yells, "Plant your feet!" you plant your feet; when she bellows "Dig deeper!" you start to burrow down and when, to the sweet background flutter of flutes and Hare Krishnas she barks, "Lift higher!" well, you damn well lift till you break something.

She, meanwhile, is twisting and contorting her own body with all the strength and agility of a Chinese acrobat. If a glittering trapeze had dropped out of the ceiling and she started to fly, I would not have been in the least surprised. As she moved with effortless grace into a standing split, her body one elegant vertical line, head tucked behind her ankle and feigning confidence that we would follow her example, I was heard to gasp out loud. And not just because I was trying to, you know, stand upright.

Later, when Zen Master Zena asked if we could feel the stretch during some sort of twisted, CIA-invented, one-armed, sideways, leg-up-in-the-air-plank/torture and we all cried out in pain, she giggled.

I love this girl.

She's only teaching the Monday class for two more weeks. If I can keep the chips out of the pantry and the cake out of my face, I may be able to get myself back into some sort of shape. And maybe my inner warrior won't feel as defeated as my outer warrior looks.

Just in time to go on vacation. Namaste.

I've got a right to sing the blues

The Irish Blues
by Pat Donohue

Well I woke up this morning
I got outta bed
my face was all ruddy
my hair was all red
And my eyes were all swollen
I thought I was dead
I woke up today with the Irish Blues

I haven't been around for a couple of weeks because the hubs and I have been busy cleaning, polishing, painting, shopping and even doing a little remodeling in honor of our turn to host the annual St Patrick's party for Turk's merry band of golf buds and their wives.

I try to be good
but faith and begorha
I go to bed laughin'
and wake up with sorrow
and what do you bet
it's the same thing tomorow
I tell you my friend
it's the Irish Blues...

I'm happy to say it went really well. At least everyone seemed to be having a blast. A party's only as good as the friends who gather, and you couldn't ask for a lovelier, livelier group of people.

Well now I'm a grown man
And just like my daddy
I like to go out on the feast of St Paddy
And take on the ways of a much younger laddy
And wake the next day
with the Irish Blues...

You know a party was a success when you wake up to find the food gone, the bottles empty, the silver in the sink and a football in the fireplace.

Well last night
the Guinness was flowing
and last night
we really got going
with singin' and dancin' I couldn't refuse
I woke up today with the Irish Blues

I spent yesterday enjoying the memory of the evening before, still vaguely high and in partial recovery with NPR, where I heard this wonderful bluesy little number on Garrison Keillor's A Prairie Home Companion. I'm committing it to memory and singing it next year. The gang says we're hosting again. We've decided to take it as a compliment.

Yes and last night
the Guinness was flowing
and last night we really got going
with singin' and dancin' I couldn't refuse
I woke up today with the Irish Blues

Sing along here...
(Fast forward past the greetings, about 3 minutes or so in.)

change

On television, my other, better reality, everybody is talking to dead people. Patricia Arquette can't get a decent night's sleep what for all the dudes and damsels in distress banging around her dreams on Medium. Then she has to figure out how to prevent/solve/explain how she knew about the mayhem in the first place. How the woman gets to sleep at all is the biggest mystery. You'd have to knock me out with a mallet.

Meanwhile, over on Ghost Whisperer, spirits are constantly dropping in on poor Jennifer Love Hewitt, causing her false eyelashes to flutter and bosom to heave as she smiles beatifically and sends them on into the light. Or the tunnel. Or Better Place; wherever the hell it is they're meant to go.

And on my absolute drop-dead favorite 'I see dead people' show, Six Feet Under, the Fisher Family gets to hang with the dearly departed at their clients' very own funerals (cool!) and are occasionally comforted in their you-can-imagine-quite considerable angst by their deceased father, who smokes and jokes and is even able to give them the occasional hug. Now really, is that too much to ask?

One of the wonders of New York are the glories of it's mass transit system, and I will hear nothing to the contrary. On my last day in Manhattan I took the subway to Grand Central and picked up the 1:15 on the LIRR out to Pinelawn Station, which is located right next to the memorial park where my parents are buried.

It was off-peak hours, and I had the car nearly to myself for the hours' ride out to the station. I hiked across the windswept grounds in bitter cold, but the sun was brilliant in a clear, cobalt sky. Pinelawn Memorial Park is a lovely and well-maintained place, peaceful in it's way, and serene. I had an hour to stay, but if I missed the next and last train back to the city, I'd find myself stranded overnight. It wouldn't have been the first time.

After Dad died, Mom and I came to visit here whenever I was in town. I know it brought her comfort. The last time we came together we arrived quite late, after 4:00 pm, because she was always fussing around so much that attempts to get her out of the house before 3:00 were futile. It was cold then too, and dark, and we didn't attempt to leave the grounds until after 5:00. When I drove up to the gates and realized they were locked I did what any sensible person would do. I started shouting.

"Oh my god, Mom! We're locked in the cemetery!"

At first startled, Mom started giggling. "Oh, my!" she exclaimed. And she laughed again. In fact, she was practically rolling.

"Mom, it's not funny! We're going to wind up spending the night in a car in a cemetery! Oh, my god, what am I going to do?" I wailed, driving around frantically until finally finding a caretaker to unlock the gates. Late and lost; me panicking, Mom giggling; this is the story of our lives.

This is the story I wanted to go on. I wanted to laugh with her about it all over again; tell Dad and feel him smile. I stood there over the bronze plaque with her name newly embossed in gold next to his: Ruth 1913-2006. It is brutal in it's finality. I don't know how I could have thought this would make me feel better.

I have not been dealing particularly well with my mother's death, and I thought that a visit to the cemetery would help. There, I thought, I would meditate and find peace. I was going to write that I didn't know what I was looking for, but that's not true. I know what I was looking for; it's just that it isn't quite sane.

I was looking for her. I was looking for a reprieve. I was looking for another chance. I wanted the last year of her life back so I could make it better. I wanted a chat, like Nate and Dave Fisher get on TV. I wanted a do-over.

Of course, what I found was not what I wanted. She is not with me as I sit on the stone bench overlooking her grave, gazing at the white birch that was planted because, she said, it was my father's favorite. She isn't there. He isn't there. They aren't anywhere. The story of their lives has ended; the story of our lives together. And that is what I can't seem to wrap my heart around.

What I know is what I've always known. All life is change. To accept love is to accept loss; to accept loss is to accept pain. To know the one is to embrace the other, and I've spent my life trying to avoid the unavoidable. I need to stop yearning for things that cannot be. I need to accept. I miss them. But I have to understand. This is the end of our story.

observation

If I don't drive around the park,
I'm pretty sure to make my mark.
If I'm in bed each night by ten,
I may get back my looks again.
If I abstain from fun and such,
I'll probably amount to much;
But I shall stay the way I am.
Because I do not give a damn.
~~Dorothy Parker

There is something exhilarating about being alone in a strange place with no deeds to do, no promises to keep. I wandered happily and without purpose. At Bryant Park they were setting up for Fashion Week. In the Garment District I luxuriated in richly colored textiles and piles of beads; in the Jewelry Mart, I eyed mounds of gold and polished gems with a benignly covetous gleam. With Jack at the 'Jack of Diamonds' counter, I negotiated my little golden apple down to $155. And still I did not buy.

Down on Canal Street, I drank in the boho pleasures of paint, paper, ink and such at the massive Pearl Art Supplies (thanks for the tip Mz Shoes!) and envied the clever young artists just beginning to explore their craft. On the streets, music blared and people of every shape, size and color moved restlessly among narrow stalls strewn with purses, dresses, bangles and beads, chatting on cell phones and calling to friends.

Heading back, I stumbled upon St. Patrick's Cathedral, where they were checking bags for contraband before letting anyone enter the nave. I never found out what they were searching for (sins, I thought) and stood back, admiring the soaring arches and stained glass. I left feeling only vaguely guilty, my sins intact.

Somewhere along the way, I turned a corner and ran into Ms. Dorothy yet again, at the lovely old Algonquin Hotel. I was greeted by an inquisitive cat named Matilda, whose name (as 'Resident Feline') is on the card presented to me by the genial bear of a doorman. I would liked to have lingered in that inviting, ghost-filled bar, and today I kind of wish I had. But it was getting dark and colder yet, and I had one more stop before I met the girls for dinner.

Central Park is an oasis in this bustling town, and beautiful in it's winter shades of mauve and gray. I stayed until I could take the cold no more, and headed back for the welcoming warmth of the hotel.

Sanctuary

My land is bare of chattering folk;
The clouds are low along the ridges,
And sweet's the air with curly smoke
From burning all my bridges.
~~Dorothy Parker

faute de mieux

Faute de Mieux

Travel, trouble, music, art,
A kiss, a frock, a rhyme--
I never said they feed my heart,
But still they pass my time.
~~ Dorothy Parker

Ms. Parker has been much on my mind of late, having just finished The Portable Dorothy Parker which, at 613 pages and about as many pounds, is not so much. Portable, I mean. So I didn't pack it. Turns out I didn't need to. The spirit of Ms. Parker kept popping up all over the place. That's New York for you. Full of ghosts.

I woke up a trifle fuzzy Tuesday, having enjoyed dinner the night before with Kim and her ebullient young assistant in an Irish pub so unabashadly inauthentic that the quesadillas were hot and the Guinness cold. We followed this cross-cultural repast with a round of very oddly-fashioned Old Fashioneds in our cozy, clubby hotel bar. Poor Kim once again had to get up early and was long gone before I woke up. Ever the trouper, I soldiered on.

"Oh, my...GOD!" I shouted to no one in particular as the revolving door tossed me headlong into a biting wind and temperatures somewhere south of the teens.

"Cab, Miss?" smiled my adorable, big-hearted doorman.

"No thanks. I'm walking."

I'm a California Girl now, a breed well known for our hardiness, I've no doubt. That and our refusal to wear fur. So I zipped up my short leather jacket, slipped on a pair of ancient gloves and headed off in the general direction of SoHo. At least I thought it was in the direction of SoHo. What I mean is, I exited the hotel and turned left at the corner. It seemed as good a direction as any. I was off to see the city.

I hit The Empire State Building for a late breakfast, where I had a huge mug of coffee and some homemade chicken soup (well, they said it was homemade, and who am I to question?) A kindly jewelry dealer did his best to sell me a very pretty gold charm that, though it sported a price tag of $595, he was willing to let me have for $175. Just because I was a visitor to this fair city, and so very charming.

Well, I am charming. And a tourist. But while I enjoy the game as well as the next gal, I had also promised Turk to keep my credit card firmly holstered for all but essentials. Try as I might I couldn't come up with a clever way to classify a shiny golden apple as strictly essential. I left my dealer with an expression of sorrow and a wave of regret.

The wind was bracing and I was rolling. There is an excitement to this place that is uniquely it's own. So much has been written about New York and by far better writers than I that all I can do is think in cliches; that it's all about movement and bodies; rhythm and jazz. It's commerce and money and poverty and pride, an energy at once exhuberant and grim. The atmosphere throbs with life; movers and strivers and hustlers and jivers. I grew up in New York but lived my life out on the eastern half of Long Island. I haven't been back here in years, and I'd forgotten how much I loved this loud, noisy, dirty, vibrant city.

Oh, lead me to a quiet cell
Where never footfall rankles,
And bar the window passing well,
And gyve my wrists and ankles.

Oh, wrap my eyes with linen fair,
With hempen cord go bind me,
And, of your mercy, leave me there,
Nor tell them where to find me.

Oh, lock the portal as you go,
And see its bolts be double....
Come back in half an hour or so,
And I will be in trouble.

... Dorothy Parker, Portrait of the Artist

the sleeping gypsy

Sleep seems to be the one thing I do really well of late. Or at least with any level of commitment. I awoke at 10:00am on Monday with Kim pounding on the hotel door, which I had apparently bolted in a trance after she'd left that morning. She'd been up since 6:00am to set up, had to change into suitable executive attire and get back to the convention floor immediately. Ever the supportive sister-in-law, I went back to bed and fell asleep. Immediately.

Kim said she didn't need me to help work the convention this time around, assuring me that this was because she had a new assistant and was well-staffed and that it in no way reflected poorly on my prior performance as itinerant booth babe. I am not sure I'm entirely convinced. Still, let it never be said that anyone has to tell me twice not to go to work. Foot loose and fancy-free, I headed for the nearest museum right at the crack of noon-ish.

We were staying at an historic midtown hotel, originally built by William Randolph Hearst for Marion Davies as a Manhattan pied-a-terre for those times, one imagines, when a castle in San Simeon just isn't enough. It is elegant and traditional and has one of my very favorite New York things; a smartly uniformed doorman. This one was young and cute and I swear I caught a trace of a brogue.

"Where is the entrance to MoMA?" I inquired. Just because I could.

"Right across the street, Miss," he replied with a wave of his white-gloved hand. I haven't been called 'miss' since I was twenty. I love this doorman.


I'm not much for video installations as a rule but found myself entranced by one that I wandered into on the first floor. The room was completely blackened, the only light coming from images of solitary nudes, completely submerged underwater, that were projected on several large screens on the wall. On the floor in front of each screen were slabs of polished black marble that reflected the image projected immediately above it.

The effect was that of watching bodies suspended in sensory deprivation tanks, floating in the existential void immediately below the viewer; one step would be all it would take to plunge into the abyss. New-age music surrounded, broken by the occasional explosion as digital bodies took the plunge once again. It was mesmerizing; eternity's mysteries beckoning from the depths of a blackened pool. Beguiling.

But time was not unlimited and color and light beckoned too from the upper floors ~ Gorky, Pollock, Rauschenberg. Van Gogh, Picasso and Cezanne. Humor there, too; Klee, Miro and Magritte. These are the places I go when I don't know where I need to be.

I come to contemplate the incredible imaginative resources of the creative mind; it's ability to communicate yearning or sorrow, wonder and joy. To seek answers when words fail even to form the questions. Or just to find answers to practical issues of line and form.

It is easy to lose oneself in the sensual, tactile application of paint and fiber to canvas. To marvel at the ability of two-dimensional objects to express other-dimensional emotions and ideas. And I am struck that many of these canvases appear more animated to my eye than many of the video installations downstairs.
Studying Rauschenberg, I found a solution to a problem that had led me to put a piece on the back burner for a while. It is a reminder that, in the words of renowned video artist Bill Viola, every project has its own secret destination, and that it is important to stay open when it comes to the act of creation:

"A lot of what making art is, is just being open, and empty. And putting yourself in the right place for things to, literally, come together."*

A lot of living is like that too. Being open and receptive to change; to allow one's life to present it's own solutions, in it's own time. Learning patience.

I have always wanted to see Matisse's The Red Studio and it is here. The colors are more muted than I had thought, the red darker, the greens grayer. At first I'm a little disappointed, then I understand. This is private space; his vision, not mine. As anyone who has ever lost themselves in an activity that fully engages the mind knows, time and space are dissolved, rendered meaningless in the artist's studio; here, only the process, and the objects of his own creation have substance and stability. I could live a lifetime in this red studio. This too is mesmerizing. This too beckons.

* LA times West Magazine Jan. 28 2007

The terrorists don't hate us for our freedoms

They hate us for our fabulous hair products.

My One Pass frequent flyer reward ticket required a Saturday overnight stay, so I flew to Houston and spent the evening hanging out with my brother at his gig, where I proceeded to party like it was 1985. In retrospect, this was probably not wise. In retrospect, I probably should have partied like it was 2035, and I was safely tucked away in a home somewhere. Or just acted my age and not partied at all. As if that were an option.

I was due at the airport first thing in the morning to fly to New York to meet Kim. I knew I was in trouble when I arrived at George Bush Intercontinental and the the sky cap couldn't check my bag because the flight was leaving within 15 minutes.

I am a seasoned traveler. I have a few miles under my belt and I know that being late for a plane never used to be that big a deal. You shouldered your bag, put your shoes, belt and jacket back on and ran like hell. If you missed the flight, you caught the next. You had your stuff and you lost only time and a little dignity.

No more.

I've flown several times since the new TSA restrictions limiting carry-on gels, liquids and lotions and had the routine down pat; there was only a powder compact, lipstick and eye pencil in my carry-on. Everything else a girl could possibly need for a few days in Manhattan was in my suitcase, which should have been safely stowed in checked luggage, but was now subject to TSA requirements, wide open and vulnerable before a uniformed man with a badge, gloves and absolutely no appreciation of the importance of exfoliants.

When he found the zippered case with it's treasure trove of toiletries, his eyes widened at the depth of my cluelessness. I explained that I had expected to check the bag but couldn't because I was late for the plane, which was leaving in less than 10 minutes. He pulled out a tiny plastic baggy ~ a sandwich bag, really ~ explaining that everything I needed had to fit in that one container. And as he started putting some things in the bag and tossing others into the tray, we began to barter.

In all fairness, he was a nice and amiable young man and did his best to be accommodating. We were smiles all around.

The Design Line silk drops shine serum had to go; the L'oreal Color Saving Conditioner with Vitamin E and UV filter could stay. When the ziplock wouldn't close (and it absolutely had to close) I traded the Aquafresh toothpaste and mouthwash for the Joey New York Line Up Night Moisturizer. The Origins Never A Dull Moment Skin Brightening Face Polisher with fruit enzymes appeared non-negotiable, but when he picked up the brand new bottle of eau de toilette I'd just gotten, he responded to my horrified recoil and cry of "Oh, no! Not the Chanel...!" with a sympathetic, "No, no; I think it's small enough to make the cut," and jammed it into the baggy. When I couldn't get it to close, he took it and pulled it tight by the sheer force of pity and goodwill. In truth, he was adorable. I blessed him, grabbed my now slightly lighter bag and staggered off running toward the gate.

The plane, of course, had long since departed. A laughing Continental employee informed me, when I told her where I was going, "Not on this plane you're not," re-booked me on a flight leaving within the hour and directed me to the new gate in terminal E.

"Go down to the end of the corridor, make a left, make a right; about a half mile you'll find an escalator. Take that up to the train on level 3. Ride that to the end of the line. That's Terminal D. From there you'll take a cab, or a camel if you can find one..." Or something like that. I stopped hearing her after the phrase 'take the train'. It was starting to feel like a very long day.

I boarded the plane and took the window seat next to a large woman in a hijab, mother to an adorable toddler whose screams upon taxiing were so ferocious that the attendants threatened to take the plane back to the gate if she couldn't control him. I took my pillow and leaned against window.

"What is wrong? Do you have a headache?" she inquired.

"I do."

"Is it a migraine?"

"No. Just a headache."

"Oh, I am sorry." She grabbed her son, who was climbing over me to get to the window. "Come," she said, "she is in no mood for you."

I smiled wanly. I appreciated the gesture and really wanted to be friendlier, but last night's tequila was banging around my skull and I was still mourning the loss of all those lovely personal grooming products.

During the course of the flight, as the child wailed and the woman's sharp elbows wacked me repeatedly in my ever-diminishing space, I closed my eyes, contemplating just how one would go about assembling a WMD on a crowded plane with an ounce of perfume, some hair gel and a pair of nail clippers without anybody noticing.

I still don't know if it's possible. I rather suspect that it isn't. But I do know that the meditation proved surprisingly soothing, and I drifted to sleep with a smile on my face.

flyby

Big hurry ~ no time to stop. Off to New York for a quickie holiday, where I hear the weather is delightful this time of year. It seems my lovely and talented sister-in-law Kim has business in the city and, perhaps unwisely, has invited me meet up with her there. When I hesitated, having begun to adapt quite nicely to my new life as a melancholic shut-in, she cheerfully reminded me that life is not a dress rehearsal, and we should seize our opportunities as they come. Point taken.

So off I go, in California-girl winter finery (short jacket and sunglasses, trendy scarf and boots that have never known so much as a drop of rain or unkind word) all designed primarily to ward off the chill of air-conditioning and frosted barware.

I will attempt to be helpful. I will succeed in enjoying myself. I will endeavor to entice her into being just a wee bit wicked. I guarantee one of us will.

Just checked. Today's temperature ~ 31 degrees. Tomorrow's ~ 17! Carpe diem, baby.

Noel Coward; more brillinat than I

Windy today
and I am less than brilliant...

So begins a poem I heard read by Garrison Keillor on the radio a bit ago, and it struck me as a pretty good summary of the way I've been feeling of late. As I was searching for a quick line or two to toss in here to explain my lingering social absence to online friends, acquaintances and total strangers who couldn't possibly care less, I thought I'd try a Google search of the only two lines I could remember.

Appropriately enough, I typed in, "I am less than brillinat," which yielded nothing but a condescending, "did you perhaps mean 'brilliant?'" by the google brain-bot and gave me a chuckle; I could practically hear it muttering a snide, "genius" under it's breath. A few clicks later I was at the Writer's Almanac from American Public Media and the original poem, "The Color of Sky" by Tony Hoagland which, though excellent, was not really saying what I wanted to.

But I also found this lovely little poem by none other than Noel Coward, whose work I have always enjoyed but would not have thought of in the context of such nostalgic sadness. Clearly an illustration of my limitations and not his.

Nothing is Lost

Deep in our sub-conscious, we are told
Lie all our memories, lie all the notes
Of all the music we have ever heard
And all the phrases those we loved have spoken,
Sorrows and losses time has since consoled,
Family jokes, out-moded anecdotes
Each sentimental souvenir and token
Everything seen, experienced, each word
Addressed to us in infancy, before
Before we could even know or understand
The implications of our wonderland.
There they all are, the legendary lies
The birthday treats, the sights, the sounds, the tears
Forgotten debris of forgotten years
Waiting to be recalled, waiting to rise
Before our world dissolves before our eyes
Waiting for some small, intimate reminder,
A word, a tune, a known familiar scent
An echo from the past when, innocent
We looked upon the present with delight
And doubted not the future would be kinder
And never knew the loneliness of night.

That was all I meant to say.

blue ladder

The Santa Ana winds are howling through the foothills and the acrid smell of the smoke of a distant fire has infiltrated the house. My 'studio', which consists of an old wooden table and some newspapers stashed out on the patio, is a-blowin' in the wind. I'd been looking forward to painting, but c'est la vie; now it's a good excuse to cozy up in here.

Yesterday I finished a small (11 x 14) oil on canvas sketch taken from a picture snapped on a lazy afternoon at the Reel Inn in Malibu.

I felt reasonably good about it, although it is not really what I started out to do. I was trying to free up my brush and a tendency toward some sort of vague, pseudo-impressionistic style, so it's not exactly a success on that point. I'm somewhat color blind as well, and often have trouble distinguishing between various shades of blue, green and yellow, so I was playing around a little with that.

But this afternoon I started wandering through some art blogs and suddenly feel less comfortable in posting it. Feelings of inadequacy are tiresome to endure and even more tedious to read about so I will refrain, and remain positive by sharing a link I found on Danny Gregory's site to these amazing journals by Kathrin Jebsen-Marwedel. They are full of vibrant color and originality, and make me wish I hadn't just wasted half my day staring at a computer screen getting all lumpish. I have no doubt Kathrin never lets a little weather get in her way.

On the plus side, I consider myself to have fufilled my New Year's resolution to complete something from last year, and can now move forward cheerfully unencumbered by unreasonable expectation. There's still some light out there. I think I'll draw the wind.

why I love the French

And it's not just their incredible style, their love of scarves and tiny dogs or their habit of sweetly switching to English whenever I try to converse with them in their native tongue. It's also about things like this (from the local paper):

In a parody of a national proclivity for protest, hundreds of marchers in France spent New Year's Eve demonstrating against 2007. During a lighthearted protest, participants waved banners reading: No to 2007 ! and Now is Better!!"

See, that just tickles me. Who says the French have no sense of humor? Or too much time on their hands?

And just now on NPR, commentator Terry Gross was talking to a woman about the so-called French paradox, which refers to the fact that, despite a steady diet of coq au vin, boeuf bourguignon, butter and baguettes, red wine and cigarettes (there's an Edith Piaf song in there somewhere) the French remain a relatively svelte people. It's all about balance and proportion, apparently. Quelle surprise! They eat less, take longer to do it and enjoy it more.

Of course I've known about this, this 'balance' thing, for a long time now and try to practice it but tend to forget, indulge more, moderate less and just plain get lazy. The past month it's been all butter and baguettes, followed by the occasional penitential trip to the gym for six sweaty hours of self-flagellation on the treadmill. It isn't pretty. It isn't effective. And it isn't an approach Catherine Deneuve would approve (there's a limerick in there somewhere.)

Evidemment, what I need to do is to start thinking in French. Like the French. With an accent perhaps, and an air of world-weary sophistication. God knows I can't spell in it. As long as I don't try to speak it.

I'm off. To the gym. Moderately.

happy national hangover day!

Today's festivities will include lolling around on the couch and searching for something soothingly side-splitting on You Tube. There will be unfocused noshing on butter cookies and leftover pizza, and maybe even a little ceremonial hair of the dog, should there be any left to be had, that is. One is never sure.

For those of you participating in the holiday, welcome, and my condolences. For those of you not indulging today because you didn't indulge last night, kudos to you. Here's your medal; now kindly move along. Your saintly wholesomeness holds no power here. Today is the high holy day of the dissolute and irresolute. Leave us in peace please, to observe the day in our own way. Don't you have some resolutions to go embroider on a pillow somewhere?

Actually, thanks to the magic of milk thistle and alka seltzer, I am feeling remarkably clear-eyed and well-focused. I may even go to the gym. Or I may even still be drunk. Whatever it is, I am feeling so optimistic that I believe I'll even finish a painting today. (Not Mom's portrait, of course; she whom I have tormented lo this weekend long. I just can't....seem to leave it...alone...)

No, this one is just a sketch, started a while ago but never completed. There's a resolution ~ this year I will finish everything I started last year. And the year before. And the year before that. Then I will go on eBay and sell it all at Sotheby's prices to people named kikitoon and ilvmermaids56. I shall become rich and eBay-painterly famous. And I will use my powers for good, and never evil.

Dammit. That felt like a resolution. Now I have a pillow to go embroider. Later.

joy to the world

I wish you peace, joy and all the beauty of the holiday season. Whatever you celebrate, celebrate. And share the love.

Cheers, babies! Namaste.

portrait of the artist as a bit of a mope

There are three things I always look for in a restaurant: good food, a convivial atmosphere and bartenders who know the meaning of a generous pour. And if, after several such generous pours they let me scribble on the table, so much the better.

I've been thinking a lot about portraits lately ~ the act of creating them, the role of the artist in rendering an individual according to a particular perception, and especially (and I cannot emphasize this enough, people) the responsibility of the sitter to at least try and resemble the painting.

I recently finished reading The Portrait by Iain Pears and highly recommend it. Told completely in the form of a monologue delivered by an artist to his subject, an ex-friend turned mortal enemy, it is at once a thriller and a fascinating exploration of the balance of power in the relationships between artist and critic, society and art, and how these dynamics play out in the realm of an intense, almost obsessive friendship. At first put off by the prospect of the single focus narrative, I found could not put it down.

And I've been trying to work on a portrait of my mother. My goal was to convey her spritely spirit by using an off-kilter angle and clear, bright colors without the darkening influence of shadow in order to create a stylized and playful image. To communicate joy without falling off the edge into sentimentality. But I'm a little unsure of my ground here. So far, what I have managed to communicate is, Help! My daughter needs art lessons.

Normally I do not fret about failure in art. As I've said before, I am a terrible but enthusiastic painter. This isn't false modesty; I really don't mind my lack of prowess as much as you would think. And that's only a little bit of a cop-out.

But mostly I'm all about the process. And since I rarely expect anything to turn out well, I get to be thrilled when something turns out to be very nearly the image as originally conceived. Failure in art is never truly a loss and always an opportunity to learn. No one failed who didn't try, no one learned who didn't fail.

That said, however, in this case I feel like I've let Mom down. Foolish and sentimental I know, but there it is.

I keep reminding myself that the art of portraiture takes many forms. Even a single page search of 'portraits' on artnet is a study of the myriad approaches people have taken in rendering the individual as subject matter. It may be expressive and primarily about color and space. It may be a psychological exploration of personalities and relationships, or a technical examination of texture, pigment and tone. It might be all of the above, or something else entirely.


In part, I've been painting my mother as a meditation, trying to channel her spirit and keep her with me in the process. I am a skeptic in matters of extrasensory perception, psychic activity, the alleged chattiness of wandering souls and the idea of life after death in general. But Mom was a believer in such things and I confess to wanting, against all reason and hope, to summon her to me. Magic thinking. It's embarrassing to admit, but at times I find myself whispering, as I try to capture a light in her eye or the line of her cheek, "Where are you, Mom?" I dare her to come see me. Prove me wrong. She'd like that. Oh, how we'd laugh...

In the end, of course, it's just paint on canvas. I knew that. I know that. But the meditation itself brings peace and focus and for me that will have to be enough. The picture will reveal it's own truths. As for achieving an actual likeness well, possibly not. But then that's why Daguerre invented the photograph. And for everything else, there's a memory card.

buzzkill

Blogger won't let me post any comments today on any Blogspot blogs, no matter how many usernames or secret passwords or magic incantations I use. What the Google?

Blogger, you are chilling what little is left of my jolly. Consider yourself flipped.

balboa

I've decided to sit out the holidays this season. In fact, I've pretty much decided to sit out everything for a while. I seem to be lacking that certain lightness of spirit required to interact with my fellow human beings in a socially acceptable manner these days. I have got to stop flipping off every mechanical Santa that accosts me at the drugstore, as well as every would-be elf with a cellphone and a Christmas wreath, even if they are driving Hummers. And taking up two spaces. It is just not my place to discipline these people. I am currently not fit to walk among my fellow man.

But winter is beautiful in Southern California. The December light is strong, clear and golden, casting deep, beckoning shadows. As always when my spirit is restless and off-balance, I feel an urge to run toward the water. So I grabbed Turk, who was busy coaching various football, golf and I believe some cooking competitions from his headquarters on the couch, and headed west.

We wound up on Balboa Island in Newport Beach, which was busy getting ready for the annual Boat Parade. Always an equal-opportunity neighborhood, the good people of Balboa had bused in some snow for the underprivileged Children of Newport, many of whom had never seen snow and wouldn't have a chance to see it again, at least not until they hit the family ski lodge up in Big Bear. They shrieked and ran and pelted each other with snowballs, their flip-flops flapping merrily in the sun.

The area had been roped off with yellow crime scene tape, which seemed appropriate as much of the snow had turned to a heavy slush and some of the hurling balls looked lethal. An adorable 6 year old commanded her family of six, "Line up so I can hit you!" which seemed an emminently practical plan to me. Someday she will be President. Turk walked by with his hands in the air.

"Don't shoot! I come in peace!" he pleaded.

"Surrender monkey," I accused. The little girl laughed.

We wandered down to the waterfront, where we found further evidence of global warming in the form of marauding polar bears and confused sea lions. And penguins in search of a movie.

Even I had to smile at the penguins. And the sea otters. And the cotton-y snow on the roof. And the reindeer carousel. Well, everything, really. If there is one thing funnier than rich people, it's rich people decorating for Christmas. It's endearing.

When I found myself wanting to pet the sled dogs I knew it was time for a drink. We hopped back in the car and headed for Woody's, an old haunt not far away. The sun was dropping fast and promised a spectacular show. "Hurry," I insisted. "I don't want to miss the sunset."

We didn't see the sunset. I'd forgotten that Woody's faces east. So we sipped our pints contentedly, basking in the sun's reflected glory.

We watched as two young blondes cavorted gaily on the deck of a yacht just outside the bar, a nice-looking man smiling on with benign goodwill.

"I'll bet there are orgies on that yacht when this place closes," said Turk, a bit wistfully I thought.

"Want to stick around till closing and find out?"

"Nah. I'll be lucky if I can stick around till the end of Happy Hour."

We downed our beers and turned toward Harpoon Harrys in Sunset Beach, where the sunset and a cozy dinner by the fire awaited. I'm still not fit to go out in public. But I haven't flipped anyone off in days.