Peacock Rocks

I didn't know my Uncle Don well, but he fascinated me none-the-less.  He lived in Arizona, was a postman, saw ghosts while on duty during WWII~ but most of all, he collected things.  Like the rest of us he had a restless wandering soul, and went out to the deserts and brush lands during his time off.  He would drive and walk and take photographs, but most of all he would find things and bring them back to his yarden.  Bleached bones and fossils, shards of pottery and broken wagon wheels, rusted machinery from long-ago mines, cacti and rocks. Behind his house in Phoenix was his yarden, with a high wood fence and the treasures displayed all around it~ there was a rabbit hutch as well, which was interesting, and we had rabbit for dinner that night which was slightly disturbing but very, very tasty.

The night I speak of was on one of our cross-country trips, just Mother and I, and I must of been youngish- not a teenager yet, but I was the navigator- found the White Rock Hotel in Albuquerque where we stayed, got elevation/heat sick at the Grand Canyon causing no end of problems (and a rather rough introduction to Gatorade), remember a fellow at a rest stop advising to drink 'hot coffee in hot weather' because it will cool you down by equalizing the temperature of your body.  And we stopped at Uncle Don's and Aunt Helen's in Phoenix.  We didn't stay long- a night, maybe two- and I don't remember much except going to the grocery store with Aunt Helen (for some reason I was amazed that they had gumball machines in grocery stores in Arizona- ), eating rabbit for dinner (fried, like chicken.  It was amazing.) and the yard.  The treasures everywhere, the rocks, the bones, the fossils.  I was totally enchanted, and Uncle Don took a moment and explained to me about the rocks, the bright iron pyrite, the ore with strands of copper, what a gold nugget might look like....and the peacock rocks.  Peacock ore is found around copper deposits (oddly enough, it is also common in Cornwall, part of our family places) and is beautiful.  It has a metallic sheen to it, and is multicolored blue, green, purple, black, copper- sometimes it doesn't look quite real. And then, then he let me keep some- a pyrite nugget, a fossil of a fern, petrified wood, a flat smooth sandstone....and a bright bit of peacock that he let me choose for my own. Treasure.

That, of course, started me collecting- but not in the same way I collected other things.  I wasn't as interested in the science of the rocks so much (though we were drilled- no pun intended- in geology in school, especially concerning all-things-coal)- I was attracted to their colors, textures, weight.   I liked the smooth oval rocks of the ocean best- we already had quite a few of these- but I liked these desert rocks as well.  Later, the crystals of the mountains, rose quartz, geodes full of surprises.  Turquoise fashioned into beads, and amber which is not a rock at all.  In college I learned to carve stone, and loved the raspberry alabaster with its pink and white veins, it's translucency.  The summer I took sculpture we went to the outer banks on family vacation- I sat on the beach and polished my stone with the sand and the waves.  The sculpture wasn't much more than a smooth blob (I have no idea what happened to it) but the experience of sand and stone and water was magic.

I began collecting rocks again.  Not for their properties, but for their place.  One from the places that I lived at in the mountains. Pebbles from our island on the dashboard of the car- added to with stones from Johnstown, Alabama, Charleston, Texas, Boone....everywhere I went.  Now when people travel I ask them to bring me back a rock~ it is free and easy~ and I have them from all over. Black onyx from Ireland, a smooth flat stone from London that is the size of my cell phone.  A tan stone from Belize, the chunky large rocks brought back from Tennessee. Others.  Little bits and pieces of the world right here, right now.

Day after tomorrow I leave for New York- and I will take a rock from our home.  Perhaps one of those that Mr. Owens found for me, heart shaped or encasing a shark-tooth, something special- for it is said that if you carry a bit of your home with you, you will never be lost.  "Touchstone, take me home, turn me round, make me whole"

Sometimes Bad is Good

Mr. Owens is asleep, which is good, because I *must* go to school today and work at getting the kids doing what they are supposed to be doing, getting everything squared up for the time spent away.  Yesterday was a complete wash-out, I couldn't even look at a screen until afternoon, and then all I did was lay on the couch and watch Criminal Minds. The beloved manz waited on me the whole time, bringing endless glasses of cold lemon tea, remaking the pitcher full because I drank at least two whole ones.  Kept my trash can of holding close by, took my temp, tucked me in even turned the ac on when I couldn't cool down no matter what.  Made me take the nausea medicine even though I tried to argue (we compromised on a half-dose.  I tried to just do a quarter dose, but he caught me and made me take the rest).  Made me toasted english muffins, plain, which worked.... scrambled eggs (that I *thought* was a good idea, but turned out not-so-much)...and then finally gave into my pleas for Pringles.   This was late afternoon and I was overcome with an absolute total craving for pringles- not just a 'some would be nice' but a 'if I don't get some I will die' craving. Like Rapunzel's mother in the fairy tale craved rapunzel, like I craved tuna and chocolate malted milkshakes when I was expecting Grendel.  I haven't craved anything like this for a long, long time.

Why?  The combination of very salty and light.  The salt settled my stomach and helps me to retain fluids, the crunch entertained me, and I ate the whole can over a few hours.  Not healthy, not on the diet at all, but it worked....enough so that I could manage the last of his chocolate ice cream later (oh the sacrifices he makes for me!) and take my medicine without gagging.  (It still feels like a thousand ants are crawling over me when I take that antibiotic, but it's manageable. barely).  I slept well last night, got up on time this morning, and so far my oatmeal has stayed where it is supposed to.  (But, if I wasn't going to be away for so long, I would stay home today- still dizzy, queasy, ear is ringing away...but what needs done needs done).

Pringles- a brief story about pringles and the first time I ever ate them.  Which is a very odd thing to remember, but I remember clearly when they came out in the 1970's and everyone was curious about them- Dad was dubious, but always adventurous in trying new things. The first time I ate pringles was when we were moving from Headacher to the house on Luzerne Ext.  We hadn't moved in yet, but were at the house painting and cleaning.  Sue and Tom where there to help, it was Springtime I think- the house still had (I think we switched it out later? Not sure) dark green carpet and this huge homemade breakfast bar thing was still in the kitchen. (Later the bar was moved down to the basement, and became my 'laboratory'- I was a strange kid)... anyway, I remember us all being in the kitchen.  There were soft drinks (coke/pepsi- Tom's favorite) and Pringles-in-the-red-can.  The smell of paint.  For me, it was love at first sight as far as Pringles went.  I liked their taste, lack of greasiness and weird green spots, that they all stacked up, fit right on the tongue like a little saddle, and best of all- the can.  I immediately drempt up a kabillion uses for the can- even then I was in love with making things out of other things.

Grendel always loved Pringles as well- they were one of his constant boy foods growing up.  We experimented with the different flavors, not the host of new ones, but those that were new back then- salt and vinegar, onion and sour cream.  I haven't eaten them much since then- they are not something that I would by for myself and Mr. Owens likes regular chips better.  I enjoyed them yesterday though, and they did the trick- 

Cure All...

They found the lost girl, safe and sound, and I am home again today.  Days like this I hate being home from school- there is a lot to do, the students are in the instructional phase and not ready for studio, I am going to be gone soon for a week.  And I tried- but there is no way I can go to school- can't even manage my way around the house, driving would be a disaster- and teaching? I'm struggling to complete a thought.

I did go to dr. Lori yesterday who confirmed that I have a serious ear infection, as well as a stomach virus thing that has been going around.  She gave me antibiotics for the ear, and medications for the nausea and diarrhea (to much information, I know, but writing about it lets me whine about how icky I feel and also makes for rationalization of staying home from school).  Anyway, the nausea medication basically knocks you out- I took one last night at 6:30, went to bed and this morning- when Charles woke me up at 6 for school (I usually get up at fourish) I attempted but it is impossible.  I can't think straight, I'm groggy, can't balance or walk straight, and queasy again (but I am not taking another pill right now- I have feeling sluggish and stupid, and that is exactly how I feel). ..I'm back in bed typing on evie.  Keep closing my eyes though....but the antibiotics give me a serious case of the creepies- where you feel like there are thousands of tiny sharp bugs prickling your skin all over, can't sleep but to sedated to do anything... ugh.  I have a ton of paperwork/ school work that I should be doing (not to mention taxes) but I can't focus on much of anything.

I remember staying home from school when I was little, always the vaporizer (hot or cold- I loved how the steam/vapor felt, and the sound it made was reassuring, like a cats purr).  I would read encyclopedias, be dosed sometimes with castoria (which was a cure all that I remember tasting something like burnt molasses mixed with coke, but probably didn't taste like that at all), drink water and tea and play ghost with kleenexs.  (You play ghost by twisting one end into  a head shape, then holding it up so  the vaporizer steam catches it- it will fly for a second, before getting all soggy and crashing.  For some reason I really liked this game).  Watching the black and white tv, but only rarely....kids shows were not on during the day and I wasn't interested at all in the soaps and talk shows of the grownups.  Or game shows, other than Jeopardy.  

Today is like that in a way- no tv, tried to start to watch something with the manz but movement gets my tummy going.  Can't concentrate enough to work or read, so am rambling typing, listening to the birds outside, the cat snoring at the bottom of the bed.  Going to try to sleep today and get better- if I keep fighting it and try to work, it ends up being counterproductive.  I'll just have to redo the work- I like to work more if I am awake and alert and full of ideas- then I can work well and fast.  When I feel  likes, everything is disconnected and takes forever- like walking through pudding.  I mentioned it before, but I *hate* this feeling-  I want to wake up, get things done, go see the flowers outside...but not today.  Today is for sleep and rest and getting well.

Missing

Yesterday afternoon this girl, Rebecca, went missing after school- she was last seen at Trask, then nothing.  Her parents, friends and police are looking for her- everyone wants her back home and safe.  I hoping that she will be, that all will be well, that it was a misunderstanding or a simple wandering away or mixed up plans. I am extremely grateful that she has people to look for her, to care- and I worry about those who do not.

High school is not like what I experienced~ even though I disliked (I'm being polite) high school, it was firmly in the comfort zone of our time and place.  Everyone had parents, lived at home, and any shenanigans were covered up discreetly.  There was a safety net of... I don't know what to call it- standard practices? That dictated the response to any perceived indiscretions-  pregnant girls vanished (but I don't recall anyone even getting pregnant when I was in high school.  Obviously, we were teenagers and not exactly prudish, but babies?  Was it because so many of the kids were Catholic and ingrained in no-sex, or because of birth control, or what?),  there were drugs around of course (I avoided them.  It's funny, because when I talk about the time I grew up in, and living in California, people jump to all sorts of assumptions.  But no, I was not wild. At all.  Just the smell of regular cigarettes made me queasy, and I just didn't care about doing things to fit in.  Drinking wise as well- even back then, drinking was no big deal, because I was taught to appreciate wine with dinner, the adult ritual of 'cocktails', and learned very quickly that bad beer just isn't worth it. I just never got in to the partying scene.  Even at college, I 'tended bar'- poured the beers- rather than drinking much myself....bad beer sucks.)  Anyway, back to high school back then. (For frame of reference, I graduated in 1981, went to college 81-83 for the first time...then moved to California.)   I don't remember anyone running away... of course we had our quiet scandals.  One girl (older than me, also named Rebecca) who was 'sent away' to 'boarding school' because she was anorexic.  A beauty queen (literally- a pageant winner, back around 1977) who became pregnant by the physics teacher- but *after* she graduated and he was a very young teacher...so it was acceptable. Sort of.  A death in a car crash attributed to pills and drugs.  But mostly we were stable, in our stable lives and things that weren't were kept private.

It's different now, it's even different since I began teaching 15 years ago, even since Grendel went to school.  Part of it is context- instead of the upper middle class area of Westmont (we were a bit of an anomaly- we did ok, but most of the students at my small school were the kids of doctors, lawyers, company men) - is that we live in a rural Southern community, where money and jobs are hard to come by and often impacted by the variables of weather and economy.  Part of it is the changing morals of the country, which is a good/bad thing-  in my heart, I know that everything under the sun has always gone on, and was most likely buried away in the land of 'things-not-to-talk-about-in-public'.  Dirty laundry, skeletons in the closet, party line gossip.  It is good now that people discuss these things, and better even that they find the strength to get out when life is toxic.  Sometimes it is said that these generations do not try hard enough to stay married, stay committed to a job or relationship or what not- but what they do have is the wisdom and power to escape and survive.  That can be a strength.

What has happened though at the high school level is that many of my kids are constantly lost- they are in fractured families, drift from home to home, try to live on their own.  While there are many good foster parents around, foster kids- especially teenagers- are seen as a kind of 'cash crop' during tough times.  They are taken in and traded like playing cards, some move every month, some just as soon as they begin to settle- especially those that are 'aging out' of the system.  Many, many of our students live on their own- they may be staying with a friends family, or in a camper, or tent or car.  They may be someones 'boy/girl friend' just so they have a place to stay, food to eat.  It sounds desperate and it is- and there is absolutely no safety net for these kids once they graduate.  The smart ones join the military, or scrape up enough financial aid/ scholarships to go to college (blindly, like Grendel and I, hoping for a miracle to wipe out student loans).  A few of the lucky ones snag jobs in high school and hold on to them, or take advantage of some of the certifications they can get in school~ there is always a need for nurses aids in the city.  Sometimes they just drift off.

The girl that is missing is not one of these- she has a home, and parents, and friends.  She does well in school and- at least on the surface- everything seems ok.  People love her, care about her, noticed her absence right away....and we are all hoping praying wishing for her safe return.  It doesn't matter if she chose to runaway or was taken- right now the importance is that she is missing and needs to be found, she is someones child and is loved.   I hope though that this care would be there if others went missing- the lost ones- that someone would notice their absence (they tend to be frequently absent) and raise an alarm.  That is another reason that I let kids find me on facebook, have my text number- so they have *someone* to check in with, or that checks in on them, someone who they could call if they really need help.  I am not the only teacher that does this- not by a long shot.  We have become another kind of safety net, something that, though invisible, is there.

I wasn't at school yesterday.  My head started Monday afternoon, and I cam home early and went to bed- it continued on through the night and into the wake-up time....about 4 am the manz convinced me to call in and go back to bed, where I stayed all day long.  It is an infection of some sort- head and ear, my balance is shot, I'm hearing all cotton clogged and echoy with ringing- and last night it moved down into the tummy region and the bathroom became my best friend.  Today I am up, keeping my coffee down, must go to school- am going to be out a week for the NYC trip and cannot abandon the students more than that...work waits on no one.  I am fortunate though because I have someone who cares, someone who looked after me from Monday night until now (and is continuing to) bringing me hot tea and toast, lovely cool Mexican ice creams, checking on me constantly. Calling the doctor and will make sure I go (today after school), taking good care, worrying over every small thing.  And I know that the world would not end if I stayed home today- I am still queasy and dizzy, it's like being car sick- but I also know that going to school isn't likely to be fatal, and I will feel mentally better if I go.  So I will.  And I will talk to the students, check in on my lost ones, find out what I can, hope that all will be well.

Einstein's Brain!

I love Albert Einstein... he always reminded me of a Koala bear, small, fuzzy, cute and unexpectedly grumpy but mostly good natured.   Add to that the awesome brain power, the intense curiosity and love of thinking, invention, compassion, regret.  Good humor, great hair and tweed suits... he is an icon, a modern god of playful intelligence that is at once blinding in its brilliance and shabby in the side chair.  If I get to choose what God-the-Father would look like, I'll take Albert any day.

And guess what?  On our roadtrip, in Philadelphia at the Mutter Museum, Einstein's brain is on display!  I am absurdly happy to know that, and to know that I will be able to see it- and with a bit of luck, photograph it.  Nothing of the mystery and pleasure of the image of Einstein is reduced for me by the gross anatomy- instead it is like visiting the relic of a saint...I understand pilgrimages and the desire to inspect some martyr's thumb.  It's wanting to see a part of them, try to know *why* they are different.... 

Yesterday Mother told me she lived in Philadelphia during the war, worked there maybe, loved the city.  I didn't quite know that- I knew Jack went to Temple University, and I think Gladys studied nursing there for a bit, but that is a whole chapter of family history that I don't know about.  There are so many stories I don't know and I would like to- I'm great at remembering what I experienced first hand, and much of what was told at dinner tables and in living rooms...but there are giant chunks that I don't know and would like to.  I'm not bored by it, I am fascinated...and would love to sit and listen and draw it all down, or read what is written (handwriting doesn't matter) or hear a recording- I wonder what happened to all the recordings that Jack and Dad made.  They used to send letters back and forth via tape recorder.....  at the time I wasn't interested, and I don't know what became of them, if anyone bothered to save them- or the recordings of the old ladies at Eiffler house, other things.  I have all the photos, all the letters written to me, family trees and even the collection of hair- but not those.  I wonder what was on them.... I know Dad loved to write, to tell stories and was very good at it- I know Jack loved to think, to talk, to collect information.  I do both in my own way- this blog is like diaries and letters, an open book, and information?  I have tons. And heaps. And gobs of it~ I want to know everything.

I wonder what it would be like if my family had the internet as a communication tool back then- I can see Dad loving to write, keeping a blog, sending emails.  I can see Mother avidly a fan of pintrest and polyvore- using her skills of design and taste to collect and create for herself and others.  I can see Jack still able to work and research and discuss without the limits of the bed and body- but part of the collective conscious, shaping the way we think. I really think that in another world and time, they would enjoy these tools immensely, find that the ease of creation and communication is accessible to everyone.  It is one of my things, this wanting to know- this wanting to time travel back and see and know what everyone thought about, listen more closely to the stories, explore the scary rooms and closets of Auntie Lou's house, discuss the psychology, thought and science with Jack.  Make art with Mother, let Granny Wrye make me over just once, go antiquing with Aunt Gladys, explore the desert with Uncle Don.  Listen to Popop talk about the old country and soccer and the mills, be quiet and still and listen to the stories adults tell when they forget you are in the room.  There was so much I don't remember and didn't understand- and want to know.  History is my family treasure, stories are my heirlooms.

Test Farm Road

Yesterday was beautiful- bright and sunny, warm- it was supposed to get all stormy, but that was delayed until now and I ended up playing all day instead of working.  Not by intention, exactly, but I decided to go to the Dollar Store to get some things for the NYC trip.  Nothing much, just the stuff I always forget- toothpaste, bandaids, cold meds, you know, small toiletries.  Then- because the dollar store parking lot was crowded and I parked on the side- I drove around back for an easier escape.  I ran right into distraction #1.

I love abandoned places~ and there was a small abandoned building *right there* in a field.  It looked like a tractor shed, but in front was a blue metal folding chair and a toilet- I decided to take a photo.  Turned out that the building was a homemade house, unoccupied.  Mostly just fallen boards, but some odd things left behind- pictures on the wall, an empty desk, a hardhat, welding mask, two Singer sewing machines in table cases- one of which was an old pedal machine with the lovely scrollwork iron legs on the case- rusted into oblivion, but one day quite a prize.  Horseshoes fixed to the wall for clothing hooks.  Tapestry dining room chairs broken and rotted, but quite elegant still. Strange combination of things for a house in a field.

Then I went to the Mexican bakery (which is becoming more of a bakery/botanica- hooray!) for some Flordia water since I was all smell obsessed yesterday.  That accomplished, I decided to drive out to the daffodil tree and pick some wild ones for Turrello...and I took a different way.  I still ended up on Railroad Street, but for the first time I noticed that there was *something* behind the wood line where Test Farm road connects. I never explored that road because of the name- while interesting sounding, I knew (correctly it turns out) that it lead to one of the Murphy Factory Farm sites.  These are feed/ hog farms and the testfarms tend to lean towards genetically engineered crops/critters, sounds interesting, but nothing to see but metal barns and fields with numbers.  There are usually hidden by woods/land and this was no exception.   To explain a bit about the terrain, railroad street follows the line of the railway- which now stops in Wallace.  There is still the elevated track bed and bridges, the depots in Willard and Burgaw, but the railroad itself is long gone.  Because it belongs to the state, it has grown up mostly in trees that block everything when in leaf.  Today though was exceptionally clear, I was looking from a different angle and I saw......the barn.

The barn is *not* a typical Southern barn.  In fact, I have *never* seen this type of barn down here- yet there it was in all of its abandoned glory.  It reminded me of the great red barns of Pennsylvania, and it was still a bit reddish....and- all those silos- I had to explore.  Dutch Gambrel barns are built to maximize storage, facilitate snow/water shedding, and provide for extended sheltering/working with livestock.  They are expensive to build, and locally rather unnecessary- most barns are build in the Tobacco steep pitch style.  There are Gambrels in the mountains, but they have a lower roof line and are built of wood- and usually have adjoining tobacco slopes on the side.  This was irresistible- I parked Capone, grabbed my camera and cell phone and started through the fields.  (If you are worrying, stop.  I explore safely- not in sketchy areas, not when it doesn't look stable or safe, never without my phone and camera, and I leave no trace.  I'm careful and have been doing this for years and years now- so- no worries!)

The fields around the barn are used- they are low cut and full of early spring growth of mushrooms, wild chives, purple eyebright, dandelions and shamrocks.  Woods in front of the barn I am guessing at one time held a house that is now long gone- but there is the remains of a drive, and pivet has grown up everywhere.  I couldn't spot a chimney, so I may be wrong.  The barn itself is a beauty- again, atypical for our region because it is not made of wood, but brick, cement and stone.  (Stone! We don't have stone!)  The roof is not only a true Gambrel, but has ornate shingles- diamond shaped, but curved and with points- I haven't been able to find out what they are called yet, but they are *very* decorative for a barn. The second story had windows, and the top gables with cupola vents.  Five silos are around one side, two on the other, and there is another barn behind this one- a bit smaller and with only three silos.  I'm guessing from the foundation that this was also once a grambrel, but the roof was gone.  Both barns were used for dairy cattle- they still have the milking framework, water/food stations and can lanes.  Small side rooms have access to silos, and areas I suppose used for equipment. The barn with the missing roof still has moldering hay bales (no, I didn't go in.  Sneezing is not my favorite sport)- but the big barn is intact.  The roof has some holes, but the floor is cement and sound, and oddly enough, the floor to the second story is also cement (how did they do that?)- cement stairs lead up and the roof arches over head- huge, lovely beams.  The silos are empty, there are still a few things stored in the barn long ago and forgotten- an ancient bike covered in dust and cobwebs, a rotting horse blanket, tack that is nothing but the rusted metal rings and buckles.  A plastic target buck (with real antlers tied on) that is covered in moss.  Beautiful, strange.

My guess is that this is what remains of a huge dairy farm.  This is supported by the dairy barns, silos, proximity to the train tracks- fresh milk could be sent rapidly to Wilmington via train.  The dairy was obviously very successful at one time- I wonder what happened, and how long ago they were abandoned.  Why they weren't either preserved or torn down- though I am very glad that they still stand. I will do some research- I like to know the stories.  Maybe Charles's dad will know- he is a local history kinda guy, but more in the Penderlea area than here.  I should like to go back there and paint it, photograph it some more, someday, someday. 

Scents

I am picky about smells.  I dislike commercial perfumes, artificial scents, sweet smells (unless it means actual cookies are baking), over the top fruity-floral.  I like herbal smells, wood, spices, 'green' (things like grass, hay, pine, rosemary, eucalyptus), citrus, natural flowers (except gardenias, jasmine and freesia- way to sweet).  Favorite flower smells are geraniums, daffodils, rose, violet, mock orange- but I like them mixed with some spice or green.  I love the smell of the sea, hot sand, paint, cedar, leather, ginger, linseed oil, curry, garlic, pepper, cloves, fresh cigarettes, burnt matches, tea, coffee- but no thanks to new car, cigars/hookah stale smoke, patchouli, musk, fake apple and most anything labeled 'tropical'- unless it is just plain coconut.  That's great- 

The manz is incredibly sensitive to smells for a smoker- and that is so strange because he picks up things I do not- things that are usually classified as 'bad smell get it away' such as: the doggs, feet, burnt toast (anytime we use the toaster oven he smells burnt toast forever- even though toast was never burnt in it-), some of my art supplies (oh no!  It's the stink ink!).  Odd thing is that Turrello the cat is exactly like him- sniffs like a bloodhound, comes running to smells.  When we come home from everywhere the cat has to sniff us all over along with anything we bring new into the house.  He loves to smell our food (rarely tastes it- just thoroughly smells), is particularly attracted to the smell of certain colors of my paint (blue watercolor is his favorite- he even tries to lick it), but his over the top favorite smell has to be daffodils.  This has gone on since he was a kitten, and his first springtime- since he is an indoors-only cat, we attributed it to 'outside- what is that?' curiosity.  But the next spring it was the same, and this early spring that we are having- I brought in our only blooming daffodil for him on Valentines day.  Joy!  Cat Joy!   Much sniffing- we held it out to him until we got tired, then put it in a small vase on the book shelf where he extended his cat self as much as possible in order to smell it.  When I get up in the morning he has raced out to the studio and must smell his flower first thing.  It's been a few days and the daffodil is dried now- I will go out in search of others today (they are my favorite spring flower).  Never have seen a cat smell like this.

So, in my quest for good smells I am experimenting with creating my own.  We have a candle plate- a small lowtemp hot plate made to put candles-in-glass on.  It melts the wax and releases the scent without burning the candle- lasts longer, no smoke, safer supposedly.  With the bonus bonus that I always have melted wax to use with art~ hooray!  It was awesome at first- during the fall when there are the sharp scented candles like apple cider (which smells not so overpoweringly of artificial apple, but rather apples, woods and spices) and pumpkin.  When Christmas came it became harder- the pine candles usually smell like car-trees, the food scents are to sweet and disappointing when you discover that the cookies/pie/cake/gingerbread are imaginary, and then it dissolved into spring scents that tend to be overly floral sweet or perfumed.  And we've noticed over the years that the scents don't seem to last as long- and we have tried a variety of candles- it has become frustrating.  We also tried the reed diffusers but they tend to be either to strong (especially when the cat knocks it over) or dry out because I forget to flip them.  When I clean, I use Flordia water in the mix (and the rosemary soap when I have it- I am out now, and the only place I can get it is at Enams, which requires a trip up to Grifton.  On pinterest, I read about how to make scented oil lamps using dried orange peels- and I have since been obsessively learning how to peel oranges into perfect bowls and drying them.  It's kinda hard to peel an orange into a perfect bowl, so I also dried all my mistakes- I have a tin of them at home now, and more drying at school.  

What I have done this morning is to gather all of the dried bits at home, cut them small with kitchen shears and then grind/mash them in my mortar.  I added some dried rosemary from the yarden, and have a jar of wax melting on the warmer.  I intend to add this all together and hopefully end up with something that smells good. I did go investigate and sniff various commercial candle scents, but they are artificial, expensive and ....just not what I want.  I could get essential oils- and should like to- but that again requires a trip to Enams or downtown to the smelly-store (which is a wonderful place, but very expensive.  They have all sorts of oils though and do custom blends- that you can then have made into perfume, lotions, salts, whatever- but again, expensive.)  In the meantime, it costs nothing to experiment with what I have on hand.  And it makes me feel happily witchy on this morning of a changing day.  (The weather for this weekend includes: sun, highs above 70, seriously strong thunderstorms with high winds this afternoon, extreme drop in temperatures and a very likely chance of sticking snow by tomorrow afternoon. Go figure.)

As usual, I have an abundance and beyond of school work to do- but right this moment I am feeling domestic and in the mood for making, drinking coffee, writing and cleaning....all nesty.  Maybe venturing out and taking photos, finding daffodils for the cat.  Documenting this day and making lists- I would even be up for a road trip to Enams, but timewise- to much work, and would rather not be on that road in heavy weather.  Besides, perhaps I can find a cool botanical store and interesting smells on my journeys- or in my own back yard.

Adventures Ahead!

Brutus Capone (CrowCarII)

A long overdue introduction to our new car, Brutus Capone.  I also call him Crow Car, because he is the same shifting black color as crow feathers- sometimes blueish, greenish, changing constantly with the light and the sky.  We bought him back in October- he is a Chevy HHR, which has the same designer as the PC Crusier, but is a larger car.  I love the retro look of him, echoing up images of gangsters (thus his name).  He is mighty, mighty hip and equipped with all sorts of modern bells and whistles.  Can't wait to take him on a really long road trip- we intend to visit Texas this summer, and if the lottery comes in, who knows where we will go?

I love adventures.  I absolutely love getting in the car and driving and finding something new- even if it is just my daily trip to school and back, there is always something new to see.  But my real love is for long road trips, hours and hours of driving and discovering everything all around.  I'm sure this is a result of endless travelling when I was young, and carsick though I was (terribly so. Still get car sick easily- I can manage if Charles or Melissa is driving and the road is straight, but in the mountains I get sick even when *I* drive. No fun).  Anyway, that is beside the point- the point being that the will to go is what is important to me, and the discovery.

At the end of this month Melissa and I are going to the National Art Ed Conference in New York City- we are presenting (on Saturday morning, in a prime-time spot! Yay!) and will do the expected conference stuff  (presentations, the main speakers, hit up the vendors for our yearly supply of totebags, hobnob with others) but the best part about it is the trip and the chance to explore.  We are leaving a day early so we can visit Philadelphia and see the Liberty Bell, thus satisfying Melissa's crush on Ben Franklin.  Melissa is doing the driving- she has a new amazing momvan that has everything including room for all of our treasures.  (Remember, our treasures are different from other peoples- don't expect bags of clothing from Bloomingdales or Sax Fifth Avenue, but rather odd found things~ hubcaps and branches, plant clippings, books~ who knows?  We were obsessed with collecting bags of dirt when we did the New Orleans trip).  And that is the key to my kind of adventuring.

I'm not one for mainstream tourist sights- fortunately I have seen most of them when I was a kid (with heavy emphasis on Natural Wonders and Battlefields)- but rather for the curious odd things.  Things not on the basic agenda of most people- I respect the worth of the established, but I'm always looking for something new, which results in trips to strange places.  What I want to see on the trip:  Willowbrook Asylum on Long Island, Harts Island, Randyland at Coney Isle, The store featured on the TV show Curiosities.  The Morbid Anatomy museum (which is not 'morbid' but a collection of antique anatomical and medical illustrations, models, tools...one of the things I collect).  But I'll be happy seeing anything, anywhere- taking lots of photos, trying new foods.  (I know there will be new foods *somewhere*- I'll try anything once, almost.  With the exception of Balut. ew.)  

These adventures are so important to me.  On one hand, there is the practical-sensible aspect that speaking at a national conference is good for the career, which I like to keep 'healthy and well groomed'.  On the other hand is the infusion of experience- thoughts, sights, sounds, tastes- difference.  I love my home and my life very much, but I need those infusions of adventure in order to keep my brain catalyzed, to feed it something new that cannot be gained by just reading or watching, but only by doing.  And it is never quite what is expected, and I never know how the experience will translate into knowledge, art, teaching, writing, creating- but it does- and it is always worth it.  Always.

Sorting obsessions

First off, I didn't take this picture, although I like to think that it is something I would of taken.  Instead it is one of my pinterest pins- and that is what I am really going to write about today, even though the strings successfully communicates the idea behind it all- and that is my obsessions with collecting and sorting.  I wonder about this sometimes- I am going to see Dr. Mike today so I may talk to him about it- I'm curious.  I've always been a collector of things- have written about that many times- and have a new obsession, pinterest.

Pinterest is my absolute favorite new technological toy.  It is a social network, but organized visually through shared pictures and themes- not your own images so much as those you find and like all over the web.  You can instantly collect them into the categories you determine, and share with the community at large.  It's rather hard to put in words, but when you see it, you understand instantly how it works.  For me, it's like an image based sketchbook where I can gather research, images, references and everything I like in one place.  And that act of gathering is what I am thinking about now.

I love to collect- when I gather, it provides me with a calmness and a sense of safety, and I often take it happily overboard.  Thank God I like natural objects, old books and junk- otherwise I would be broke.  And I work hard at managing these collections so I don't turn into a hoarder. I try to transform and give away, and display- our home, my classroom and office are cabinets of curiosities- full of all this interesting jetsam.  The kids at school love it- they tell me that my room is the best place in school because it is interesting, comfortable, and welcoming....that makes me happy.   And the virtual collecting place of pinterest allows me to collect without actual possession, fulfilling the need while maintaining my money and space. No one seems to care if I get carried away and collect thousands of things, all sorting according to my own logistics and connections.  Some people even like them.

On days like today, where I wake up and I'm already frustrated- lots to do, have to be at school early and endure an annoying day of monitoring my freshman home room while they do busy work that will take all of 15 minutes (I have them for three and a half hours).....then short classes, grades due, tutoring, PDP reviews before school, group work for ECU probably tonight (after 8. live on line. no one seems to realize that my brain does not function after 8pm- I am ready for bed).  And of course I'm worried about the usual things- taxes (must do them this weekend!), financial aid (must do that as well), money (vanishes at the speed of light)...well, I'm anxious and stressed and impatient and just grrrrrrrrrrrr right now, which is not a good omen. And I want to have a good day- I have no excuse not to.

Yesterday was wonderful- I recorded the live class early so I didn't have to go online at night to teach, then came home to spaghetti and garlic bread, grapes and one forbidden chocolate heart.  The manz gave me a beautiful card that he made himself (it had little doors), with a love letter inside- which charms me entirely. We curled up and watched tv (no, nothing romantic- instead a sampling of my favorite CSI type shows- I'm not big on romantic stories, give me a good murder any day).....comfortable evening at home, loved it all- so I don't know where all of this is coming from today.  Collecting worked a bit this morning, but then I wasn't able to transition well, the writing here seems all slow and stumbly, and I have to wash my hair. (I've gotten to *hate* washing my hair.  Why? again, no clue- except there just never seems the right time to do it.  If I wash at night, it gets all strange when I sleep, if I wash in the morning, it takes forever to dry-) just another thing I need to just go ahead and do instead of dwelling on it.

And I think that is my solution for today.  Just go ahead and get it done, it won't take as long as expected, and you will feel better.  Grace in action and all that- off I go.

Valentines day~

Valentines Day.  Something that most people either love or hate, or just feel obligated to.  I always loved it, the colors, heart shaped everything (but especially the heart shaped boxes of mystery-chocolates), the roses, the old fashioned over-the-top Victorian style cards.  Candle light. My Mother was one of the lucky ones- she was always gifted with caramels, roses, dinner, romance- being unapologetically  romantic was one of my Father's strengths. He enjoyed it- making the memory, the moment, sparkle.

I think that is why I like the holiday so much.  The holiday itself, even in it's commercialized American way- perhaps *because* of it's commercialization- calls attention to love/romance on a grand scale.  Yes, it can be looked at negatively as an excuse to sell candy and cards, to support the florist industry mid-winter, to make people miserable trying to live up to expectations and exotic lingerie.  BUT, none the less, it keeps the ideal of romantic love alive.  The possibility of love for the sake of love- without conditions or expectations or all tangled up with money and sex and the complications that come along with daily life.  Love. 

It's easy to say 'I love you'.  We say it all the time- to each other, in reference to football or chocolate or shoes, we love objects and ideas and activities. I say it quite a bit, and I mean it when I say it- in all the different ways it is one of my favorite words, expressions.  I don't think that cheapens it, or over uses it- it is for me a connection, a message of reassurance, of another persons importance in my world.  Different levels, different degrees, but love is love- 

Romantic love is a different aspect, and includes creating your own type of mythology about what love is, who the other person is, how to express it.  It is~ the aesthetic of love.  Love as an artform, crafted with care in music and words and taste and vision and scent and touch.  Something to enchant all of the senses and create a world unto itself.  A holiday for the heart.

Good Dogg

Cody

Barbie called me Saturday- and I didn't hear the phone, was sleeping the fever off (have an ear/throat thing going, mostly gone today) and manz was out talking to Chicken man..... anyway, no clue that the phone had rang until Sunday night.  But I did see her facebook post about Cody- he passed last Tuesday- a good dogg gone to rest. I remember him when Michael brought him over- he knew a few tricks, full of energy.  He loved reflections and playing 'flashlight' with Mother when she visited~ good dogg. Bless him with bones and soft beds, long walks and interesting things to sniff, balls to chase forever.

Our doggs are more than just dogs- which is why I spell it with two 'g's - it is a way of separating them from the ordinary to the personal, the members of our family.  My first dogg was Heidi, the curly odd poodle/dachshund  mix that won my father's heart, could do any trick ever (Mother is amazing at training doggs- even the wildest noodleheads learn from her), was the constant companion as I turned from a child to a flown-the-nestling.  Ginger, my parents other dogg that lived with me for awhile.  Sister Sue's Jenny, and Brandy, and the ever loveable Mr. Hank and graceful Daisy.  Barbies Barney the dachshund (who I never met, but whose story she tells of his sweet, sad, short life I know), Sadie, Princess, Cody and table-climbing Cash.  Bill's Valentine.  The doggs of Sue's kids- Axel, Remmington, Gus, Shadow, Emma and those I haven't met yet.  Aunt Glady's huge slobbery beloved Chumley.  Melissa's Mom's dogs, Jake and Josie, and Melissa's pack- Egypt, Bella (our Bear's sister), Roscoe.  Coco and Lacy out at the farm. And my doggs~ Mother Time, Marylin, Hoople, Fitzy, Ruffian (my much loved coydog), Elvis, Jezebelle, Max and Bear.  Others.

I wonder where doggs go when they die? I believe that they have souls- I believe actually that most everything has a soul, or at the very least, a spirit.  Even objects have their own spirits and stories- it is rare to find something that is truly without, though most people move through the world I think in a blindness to that.  Or maybe I'm just crazy (but I know better in my heart.  I'm not crazy, I'm awake).  Everything is for a reason and a purpose, and when things 'die' they do not end, they just change, pass on, become something else.  Something not so entirely different, yet not the same at all.  Transfiguration of the spirit.  Eternal life.

I don't worry.  Yes, I mourn and grieve like any one, but I don't worry about heaven or hell or salvation.  I am curious about what happens afterwards, and I don't know what it will be, but I do think about it every now and again, and wonder.  Do we create our own 'what comes next'?  Or is it what the collective thinks- a place of judgement and punishment, reward, forgetting, forgiveness, endless light?  Or an eternal cycle spinning in the dark, generating sparks of flame that shine then vanish?  I don't know- all of this and more probably- and basically, that is then, this is now, and *this* is where I need to be.  For better or worse, life takes care of itself and I'm sure the afterlife will as well- but in my mind, I like to imagine pleasant things.   Like when I dream of those gone- why, just last night Daddy was working on the lilies that grew by the back deck at the house on Minno Drive, talking about dinner, and I was telling Mother not to worry, that I would take (something?) down to Granny Wrye in the pigeon coop (her apartment). While I'm sure Daddy and Granny Wrye have moved on to better things, their stories continue for me in the heavens I create for them.  Does that make sense at all?  I don't know- but it is a comfort and a pleasure to my heart, these greenevers of the soul.  

Owl be Seeing Who?

This weekend a return to winter- cold and windy, time to be inside.  I have had this *thing* for weeks now- not really a cold, just a persistent cough/sore throat/stuffy ears thing...and by the time I got home Friday from adventures-with-Grendel, it was kicking up.  Charles dosed me down with Nyquil and put me to bed, and well, I just can't handle my Nyquil anymore.  Slept for over 12 hours but was groggy all day- ended up staying in bed pretty much with my Ricola drops and a book (which was wonderful- like a vacation).  Pampered with homemade soup and a forbidden bowl of ice cream for the throat, some lovely green grapes and the right kind of medicine. (Whiskey with honey stirred into it.  Does the same thing as Nyquil but tastes ever so much better and no sloggishness this morning).  Sleep and sleep and sleep.  I did wake up enough to read my homework (50 pages of internet security manuals for class....argh) and watch a movie with the manz.  During the movie I made the owl- it's just felt, and quick and messy- something a child might sew- but it made me happy and it has its own special charm.   I have no idea what to do with it- but it wanted to be made and so it was.

Owls.  I've not been an owl person before- oh, I always liked them well enough, but never really paid much attention to them, even though an owl was one of my first introductions to creative vision in school.  When I was little- I'm thinking second grade, which I think was Mrs. Banda - we had an assignment to make an owl and bring it to class.  We all trotted home where our mothers (of course) helped us (it is a rare second-grader that could use a sewing machine, but it was kind of understood that we all had mothers who were at home and sewed. Times have changed~).  Anyway, in a few days the owls were due- the typical owls showed up, grey and brown and black.  And then there was *my* owl- it was decidedly an owl, but made of a dark blue-purple fabric that had small brightly colored moddish flowers on it (this would of been the late 60's)  and yellow button eyes.  It had the owl-horns (the feathers that stick up on the side of the head) and a black beak.  It looked like the jungle at night- strange and beautiful and not like anyone elses owl, not at all.  Mother had created an art owl- a creature of dreams and magic.

Of course, being a child, when I looked at everyone else's owl, I thought that mine was wrong because it was different.  And being me, I probably got all teared up.  (I rarely, rarely cry when sad- but I cry when I am angry or embarrassed or criticized).  But then my teacher explained that my owl was *not* wrong, but beautiful, and creative and different- and that is why it was special.  I don't know if she was just saying 'teacher-talk' so I avoided a meltdown (even then I was queen of meltdowns), but I think she meant it.  Anyway, I took it to heart- and even though I still hid behind the conformity of others, I remember that owl, and what it stood for, and the visions within it.  It was an awesomely cool owl.

My owl here is not so creative- it's more of a basic owl shape, basic owl colors, doodling with thread and felt- but- it was my medicine of the moment.  Making something always makes me feel better- it's a grounding of the soul, a meditation for restless hands.  I have a really, really hard time paying attention to video if I am not making something- even the most compelling films require engagement.  (with the exception of when I am sick or tired to the point that I just lay there- and that only works with really, really good tv.)

Back to the owls- these past few years/months owls and I have become more drawn together.  I acquire them by accident.  The bright tin owl lantern on the studio wall, the glow in the dark owl key chain with the diamond eyes Mr. Owens found me, a brass dish with an enameled owl on the lid. Not only things- but I have been drawing them obsessively without realizing it- not in the new book, which is way under drawn, but my most recent sketchbook is owl-heavy.  A new totem or guide? perhaps. Owls are symbols of wisdom and death, women and observation.  I can understand that, and it makes sense as I get older and my roles change.  I am still the crow and coyote, but there is also room for rabbit and owl in there as well.  Seasonal totems, and the owl would be winter  (rabbit has always been spring, coyote summer, crow fall).  And today, in this early morning, the wind is howling, the cottage is creaking, all are asleep- but me, owlish, looking for wisdom and the words of the day.

Lost Music

Lily Lane

This morning one of my former students ask facebook to answer 'have I inspired anyone?' (this was suggested by her boyfriend- not her).  I am one of the first to see this post, and I had to reply: " You inspire me- always- because you were never afraid to be fiercely individual, express your loves and hates, wear your 'art' on your sleeve.  I am inspired now by your learning and adventures, the art that you make, the life that you lead.  You inspire me because *you are an artist*".  And every word of that is the solid truth.

When talking about school, education, teaching- in the general public and while being trained as teachers, as teachers among ourselves, we give each other the reassurance that we make a difference in the lives of students, that we inspire them, that we are a nexus for their evolution of self. Or at least we add to the spin- good or bad.  Sometimes we acknowledge the students as inspirations because they overcome huge odds and adapt and thrive- or even just survive- and not to discount that, but that is a different kind of inspiration.  More almost like parental pride (and I have that type of pride in Lily as well, because she has had her challenges, made good and bad choices, managed to live through all of it).  But then there is a different kind of inspiration- that which shines.

Lily shines for me.  And I'm finding it hard to explain, but she is one of those people who are born artists.  We are not talking talent (though she has that in abundance), or creativity or imagination or even passion- rather all of these things, and intellect, and work, and emotion, and individualism and such a unrelenting drive to live and express with all of her being.  Her art - shown is one of the more traditional works- takes her into all sorts of strange experiments, horrific and lovely, but somehow all part of the song.  Sometimes she pushes it to far- the painting above no longer exists because as she kept working on it the surface disintegrated and fell apart- but that doesn't matter.  It was made, and it lives still- like most art, no one will ever actually see the original, 

and that doesn't matter either.  What does matter is the magic in the making, the joy in the work that comes through, that incredible shine.  *That* inspires me, and I wish her well.

Coming Home

student work

Remember the 6 word story?  I used that for prompts in my art classes- both the beginners and the advanced- and this is one of the results from the AP class.  Simple story "Mom? It's me.  I'm coming home."  But placed on ephemera- an old letter, an envelope, an obituary....modern found magazine text.  Past, present, time, meaning- I really like this.  Evocative, which is one of the things art should be.

Like certain songs that get stuck in your head, and resonate over and over again- there is one in my head now that I can't stop singing to myself, thinking of, hooked on the melody and the lyrics of which the only one I remember is 'Cigarettes and Chocolate Milk". I'm not personally that fond of either one- don't smoke, and - well, I do *like* chocolate milk, but like malted better, and chocolate always reminds me of the milk in school lunches- small paper cartons with thin, room temperature milk that you were never quite sure if it was safe to drink or not.  I'm not a fan of school lunches...

Today I'm a bit off pace with writing, thinking.  No school today- we are going to the funeral this morning, and maybe to the hospital this afternoon to drop off Sara's gifts from school- can't see her though as she is in ICU.  I'm concerned, and thinking about her, wishing her well. And another of my students was also in a crash on Sunday- flipped her 4 wheeler, no helmet of course, will be ok- out for a few weeks, neck/back/arm injuries, but lucky to be alive.  If she had been riding alone in the woods, or landed differently- worry.  I know that the kids need to get out and take risks and experiment but the mother in me wants to fuss and keep them safe. I like everything to be safe (there is that 'world' quest coming back again)- that seems my primary objective at the moment.  And it is a bit strange because I never feared Grendel traveling solo, running around the island at all hours, exploring in the cities, staying home alone and then being on his own- but I feared other things- guns, four wheelers, driving.  I didn't have those things- the guns and the four wheelers- but Kyle did, and I know that at Kyle's the boys did (and do) go shooting, driving, and- Kyle at least- used to have an unreasonable love of blowing things up.  I think my fear of him driving was a disservice, and I didn't push learning it, so he hasn't mastered it yet and is reluctant to.  My fear, and I think his wariness, comes from my first years teaching where I had so many students die in car accidents and we attended the funerals- it made me sad and cautious, and I'm sure it made an impression on him as well.  Something to conquer.

I'm really off track this morning- sorry- I should be braced for a good day, had a really good sleep last night complete with dessert dreams of this lovely drink made with chocolate, salted caramel and vodka- it was warm and had a light whipped cream on top, sweet but with the salt that made it interesting, and a bit of a bite.  Good, good stuff.  And I came home after endless meetings and teaching my online class to homemade chicken soupy stuff that was warm and comforting, eaten in my chair while watching cartoons with the manz.  

I know that today will be full of emotions, and I suppose I am distracted by the anticipation of that, but I am thick thinking and not clear- a state that I am not fond of at all.  I get irritable with myself when I think slow, when the words don't fly right, when I can't focus in on the picture.

Gravedancing, and the rule of 3

There is a rule of 3, and we all know it- things happen in threes, third time is a charm.  Sunday evening, I was sitting here working (of course) and a funeral passed our house, headed down the road.  The only graveyard I know of down here is the tiny abandoned one behind the house behind ours- there were few cars, and I wonder if they were headed there.  I wonder if it was Hazel who used to own this house....this was followed by the news at school the next day that one of my students had been seriously injured in a car wreck, with the driver that hit her grandfathers van dying at the scene.  Time? 6:30 Sunday evening, same time as the funeral wound its way down our road (I know because I looked at the clock when the hearse passed- I always do.) Sara herself I hope will be ok- she is in ICU, and is one of my favorite new students- quiet but funny, awkward, arty- loves magic and horses and boys in that order.  Then last night Charles mother called- an Uncle had died (I had never met him) but I know his wife Alberta well.  She works at Walmart as a greeter, knows everyone in the county, always has time for a hug and conversation  (so much so that they exiled her to being the greeter at the garden department in January- who shops in the garden department in January?- but I found her to say hello).  She just had moved back to the main door greeter.... we always talked and laughed about the family, about life in general and... she is my friend.  I am worried about her because I could tell from her stories that she loved her husband deeply, and last night Charles told me that earlier they had lost a son (who was his age) to suicide and that wiped her out for a long time~ she still cries about it.  Well, I would to-
and I mourn for her.  There is not a viewing, but a funeral tomorrow morning, I will take the day off (despite having to take way to many days off lately- but this is important, both death and life and the curriculum must make way).  Today I am still and quite and worried about Sara and Alberta and thinking.  For not being good socially, I wish I could see them both, just sit and talk and draw and take care.

I am a gravedancer, which is someone who is comfortable with death and its traditions, with graveyards and mourning, with helping and remembering.  I've never been afraid of death or graveyards or funerals, and I'm good with it- much better at it than handling sickness or births (which are joyous, don't get me wrong, but I am not an organizer of babyshowers) or birthdays... but I know how to take care of the dead.  It's not morbid, its a gift- there are just fewer of us around than there are those who celebrate the other passages of life.

I've always been this way, always loved graveyards.  I remember Grandview, the huge graveyard in Johnstown that took up a hilltop, full of mausoleums, tombs, gravestones, memorials, the endless rows of the unknown from the flood, big cedar trees over the unmarked graves of long ago.  Each section like its own little town, inscriptions changing languages, symbols and shapes and names reflecting all of Europe together.  Carefully maintained (and oh- we did our part!  Dutifully scrubbing down the white marble Gothic stones for Granny and Poppy Wrye- now that I think about it, how odd is it to spend time scrubbing your own gravestone- yet Granny did- planting pachysandra so the ground would be always green, weeding and decorating and taking good care.) I would help, or play admist the stones, or explore later on when I was older.  After I moved away I would come back to visit our plots, take photos of all the quiet loveliness, explore secretly down the old road where all the discarded flowers and broken stones are tumbled together.  I remember as well the graveyard in Cambria California, where Jack had a plot, quite a different place.  Back in a wooded area, small and covered with trees smelling of eucalyptus and pine, an abundance of sweet peas growing everywhere. All the colors and all the smells and the golden California sunshine filtering down.    Here in the south things are different, family plots tucked deep into fields behind houses, everyone unto their own.  The shell above was on a grave in Magnolia, where the public graveyard still follows the casual plotting of the south.  No manicured lawn, but areas overgrown with nettles and trees, pinestraw all over the ground, older graves tipped and broken but beautiful with moss and weather.  Some forgotten, some carefully and brightly decorated with names made of flowers, flags, birdhouses, dolls, brightly painted concrete angles...and on the older graves,  the shells.  It's funny, but when I am unhappy or sad or lonely or just want something- I go to the graveyards and wander and think and take photos and find things.  They always give me gifts- sometimes beauty, sometimes a stray bit of something, peace.  I feel safe there.

          Likewise for those who are not buried, they have their safe places as well.  Daddy sits on his niche in the studio- an odd unexplained small brick shelf built into the fireplace that is the perfect size.  He has his lions (the brass book end and a tiny clay one that used to live in a plant in his bedroom), the crow watches over them, and there is a candle that sometimes I light.  Over in the corner, on the bookshelf behind a travel box, are Ruffian and Jezebelle (and they probably hate it because they didn't get along in life, but don't seem to mind it now- at least there is no evidence of dogg-ghosts around).  At school, under my desk, is Elvis.  And yes, I know it is weird to keep him at school, but ever since his box broke up way back on the island, and a bit of him got vacuumed up, I never resealed it.  I keep it and when I teach my students about death (we do that in crafts class, because it is an important thing to learn how to deal with and no one else ever teaches anything about it)- if they wish to they can see.  It helps, it really does.  It is my role in the way of things, and that's ok.

Quest

I have been thinking about quests, the topic we have been working on for our presentation, and my life in terms of them.  All of our stories in terms of them.  A quest is a voyage of discovery, a path that we take- willing or not- that leads us to a place we need to go.  (And back to one of my favorite quotes 'we get to the places we need to go'  a truth).  Along the process of the quest we experience the heroic cycle- the leaving, the trials and helpers, the death and rebirth, the return triumphant.....only to leave again.  Stories old as time, and they are true be it for the Alexander the Greats of the world or the person next door.  The wisdom in it is to view our lives as a series of cycles, not a line with a start and arrival point.  And cycles change.

I wonder what my questing cycle is?  I will have to think about it- I know that I have been The Fool (adventure), The Magician (knowledge and power), The Hermit (introspection), The Empress (growth and motherhood)....maybe others.  And there are those that we are- the quests we are on to discover the aspects of our nature- and the events that happen to us.  Events are *not* quests in themselves, they are part of the trials on our particular quest.  I am excited about this idea, and wish I had the day with my computer and books and sketchbook to play with it- but I must move along to the reality of school and work and responsibilities.  But first~

The quest that I *think* I am on at the moment is that of The World.  The world is synthesis- finding the connections between different things and weaving them into some sort of unity.  Exemplified by the rules of 4- four seasons, four elements, four alchemical humors, four archangels, four anchors of astrology, four states of matter (solid, liquid, gas and plasma)....and on and on.  Four is the number of stability, and right now I am questing after stability- of income, of career, of school, of marriage, of relationships, of environments- I am wanting things connected, balanced, settled.  I am also looking for the connections in things- I don't want it all settled through separating the different parts of my life, but through interweaving them so that each part makes the rest stronger. I view these aspects as the rules of head (intellect, education, school/work), heart (marriage, friends, family, relationships, intuition and creativity), home (income, environment) and health (physical and mental well being).  I am remembering now something that I used to draw constantly for a time when I lived on the island- a type of house doodle that exemplified all of these things- so now I have discovered that this is not the first time I am on this quest, but a returning cycle.  Interesting.  Exciting.

You know, I love writing like this and sharing these thoughts with you, with myself- because I let things swirl around and go otherwise.  I think them and they vanish, I vocalize them and they fly away- but if I write it down I can keep them around....and share them with you.  I couldn't imagine having this conversation with most people ~ not that it wouldn't be fun, but just that conversation tends to stay to typical topics.  What have you done? Eaten? Gone to? What is the weather like? How is...?  Which is pleasant and necessary, but not terribly exciting. (for the record, right now I am eating these same things daily: Greek yogurt. An Orange. Tuna with Hot Sauce. Lots of coffee with Almond Milk.  Salad with a protein for dinner.  Diet tonic water. So far I've lost a bit over 15 lbs, but interesting? not so much).  And also- I have a cold that has settled in my head- my ears are full of cotton and I can't hear much of anything. (Solved that in the classroom by having a student be my 'ears'- they repeat questions/statements that I can't hear so I know what is going on- adapt, adapt).   Anyway, I am glad that we can share thoughts like this- even though I know it is a bit one sided- after all, I just write, you read if you choose to, and sometimes respond ~ the important thing is, that we are sharing, and that makes me feel safe and well and centered.  Thank-you.

Ben Franklin, Black Dogs, Drawing and the End of an Era

Greyspace in Magnolia, NC

It's Sunday, and raining, and the black dog is at the door.  There is an artist from New Zeland that introduced me to the black dog as a metaphor for depression, and I like that- I think others use it as well- but it links that black dog to the behinder, cadejo, hell hound and the like, all the black dogs that roam the world dodging our steps.  They bring warnings, and guidance, sometimes fear, sometimes magic.  They're ok.

You know, sometimes I am on top of things and sometimes I struggle- and that always seems to come to light on Sunday mornings for some reason.  First off, I love to think, I love to work and sometimes I get distracted and obsessed by both of them- but there are few things I would rather do than play with ideas and create words, pictures, plans.  Yesterday Melissa called and we got to work on our conference presentation for quite awhile- and even though it was the phone it was fun because of the ideas, the generation of thought that flows so easy between us- and it was a task that would baffle most people, linking the following things together: Jungian Archetypes, Tarot Cards, Quests, Art, famous Scientists.  But for us together it was magic- same mindsets, same links. And I found out *exactly* how much she loves Ben Franklin, so we are planning an extra day on our New York conference trip to visit Philadelphia, see the Liberty Bell and the famous crack. (I am hoping for an indulgence of cheese steak and shoofly pie).  I love to travel, have adventures and I am looking forward to this- I've never been to Philly either (in a walkabout way) and I haven't been to NYC in years and years.  I want to smell the Pearl River Asian Market again (it is a huge multifloor store, and it has a unique scent that I remember but can't describe- something like lemongrass, something like sandalwood and tea... I just want to smell it again.)  Strange.

And I worry because I am not drawing, not working in my sketchbook and I don't know why.  Sometimes it is because I want to sew instead, but still and all this is very unusual for me- by now I am usually half through my first book of the year....but the pages are pale, white as the snow that never fell this winter.  Strange non-winter with the flowers blooming now at the start of February, spring to early for the land, feels like something is wrong with the world, everything off pace and tired.  I want to draw but I sit down and I just stop....it's like a great grey wall comes down and all I do is sit.... I don't know if I am tired, or the artistic tide is just out, or if there is something in me that needs reset that is waiting for the gears to tumble back into place.  It disturbs me because I *always* draw, it's how I talk to myself best, work out things best, and now I can't.  I don't know why....and that brings us to the end of an era.

Charles isn't working at the auction anymore- there was to much of a physical toll for not enough money, and there are some aspects of the work that he just cannot do anymore. And they had a 'difference of opinion' about that~ so the parting wasn't amicable and that makes me sad.  We will be taking a break from there for awhile, and I miss it- our friends, the abundance of interesting things, sitting and drawing for hours.  Acquiring things for school, collections, to resell... it was an important part of our life and I mourn it.  That is probably why I am so out of sorts this morning, not at work yet, dog at the door.  I like to think I'm good with change but the truth is that I am not.  I like stability in everyday life with the occasional adventure thrown in.  I like to know what I can count on and what I can't, that the things I love will remain constant- and when they change, it is very difficult for me to go back, even though I think of it often.  The island, Johnstown, California~ other places, other people, other things.  I tend to burn my bridges behind me, and I really wish I wouldn't- but there is a hollowness there and it is never the same. And all I can do is remember.

Things Mr. Owens Found in My Chair

Yesterday was Friday- and I was at school all day, a good day (love my classes/kids this semester!), then an appointment with Dr. Mike, then stopped by AC Moore for some large black/white/gray paper for photo backdrops.  (I also ended up with turquoise and grey felt, and a couple of white unscented candles for another one of my 'I'm gonna make my own good smells' projects).  When I got home- late, around 7, the manz had dinner waiting (salad with chicken- he cooks the chicken up in various secret-man-ways and it is moist and very savory) and had cleaned the studio.  Not just kinda cleaned, but move everything and do the floors, take cushions out of chairs, even clean the Max nest type of cleaning.  (Of course, this has nothing at all to do with his inability to handle late night poptarts.  Friday morning I found him sound asleep in his chair, an empty poptart wrapper clenched firmly in his right hand, tell tale crumbs in the beard.  Tsk- looks like it might be time for an intervention- what I didn't know though is that only *part* of the poptart had gotten eaten, and the rest had fallen into the chair.  Where it got sat on and slept on and smushed.....)

Anyway, he vacuumed out the chairs.  In his chair there were usual bits of manz things- crumbs (even though he is the most Felix snacker I know, except for those late night indulgences), a stray bit of paper, some cat hair.  Then he cleaned out my chair, and found:  Max hair (of course, he is my lap dog), embroidery floss, wool yarn, fabric, bits of paper, bits of charcoal and crayons, an ink pen, several needles including a huge tapestry needle that I have been looking for forever (I use it to sew books), scissors, and this scrap of fabric that says 'I Love You'....and that is where the story is.

When I was a little girl, I loved my dolls.  I remember them- Jenny, the tall 'walking' doll that had a blue velveteen dress and odd short grey hair (she looked a bit like Maude from Golden Girls), Baby (soft cloth body, soft vinyl head, hands, feet)  all the barbies in the universe, Ollie (a homemade version of Raggedy Ann, with multicolored hair, a blue/tan check dress and embroidered face) and Raggedy Anne.  There were others- and the all important stuffed animals- but these where my absolute favorites.  I would dress up (I had someones white dress- it looked like a communion dress?- an apron with a type of strawberry pattern on it, a blonde curly wig and a straw bucket hat), turn the rocking chair upside down with the top resting on the couch so it would make a gypsy wagon/ boat/ hut  (the swivel rocker part on the bottom would show and make for an excellent steering device) and drag out all my 'friends', my huge box of plastic dishes (and treasured plastic fruits and tiny cans) and play for hours.  I loved doing that- I still remember everything, and sometimes wish I could time travel back to loosing myself in my imagination for hours like that again.

The Raggedy Ann doll was special.  I honestly can't remember where I got it- if it was given to me, or handed down or where it came from- but it was a 'real' Raggedy Ann.  It had a calico red/white print dress, white cotton apron, stripy red and white legs with black shoes (the legs and shoes were part of the doll), black smooth button eyes and the red yarn hair.  Her body was pale flesh- 'me' color- and...the best part...she had the 'I love you' heart printed on her chest.  I loved her.

Raggedy Ann was one of my favorites, and I kept her for many years after- she went to California with me, then South Carolina, then to the Mountains.  She sat on a small rocker in the living room until she was replaced by a Grendel, then she lived in the Cedar chest.  Many years later, she came back out on display again- which wasn't a good thing after all. 

I don't remember exactly where it happened, or when (except that it was post-Grendel), or which of my many doggs was the culprit (I highly suspect Ruffian), but someone chewed her eyes off.  I was mad and horrified and didn't know how to fix her, so back into the cedar chest she went.  We moved out here to the cottage, had mousey problems, and when I cleaned out the cedar chest (and discovered a hole in the bottom) discovered that Raggedy Ann was the preferred home of the mice.  They left everything else alone, oddly enough- afgans, baby blankets, my wedding dress....and that was good...but poor Ann!  She had met her maker.  I let her go....but, I saved the bit of body with the heart on it.  It ended up in one of my project baskets or something, and I hadn't remembered it or thought of it in years....and then Mr. Owens finds it in my chair.  I knew what it was right away and happily proclaimed "You found Raggedy Ann's Heart!".....I'm glad that he has sense enough and knows me well enough to have saved it instead of tossing it.

I don't know what my plans for it are right now- but I'm thinking of a small frame, and hanging it above our bed.  It makes me absurdly happy, and deserves to be treasured- a bit of love from long ago.