July 06, 2007
Museum Possible
Above my expectations, the MOMA trip was something I can't believe we didn't try sooner. But our mental armor was strong that day. We pared the visit down to a Braque and that huge dog painting in the second floor foyer (hell if I remember; I was too busy trying to convince Chas that, even though the paint looked like dabs of toothpaste, he indeed could not touch it)...
And then, the Matisse exhibit. For both boys, a treat: nothing but nummies, in all dimensions. Having found our medium, our tether to real life, we were set. All we had to do was circulate smoothly without shouting too many body parts and we'd eventually hit the outdoor mezzanine. It was perfect! Couldn't have dreamed up a better recess.
After knocking out the ya-ya's, we had pizza downstairs.
The MOMA heats up a good pint-sized pepperoni pizza and the kids devoured it. We swilled a few pints of beer and then Damon and Dwight (Damon's brother) took the kids across the street to Yerba Buena Gardens so that I could see the rest of the Matisse exhibit in peace.
I think the kids, mostly Ford, would have appreciated that second half of the exhibit, being a bold departure from the previous body of work. Matisse had begun cutting pieces of paper to rearrange in composition for his larger paintings. And then, down the hall, the "Jazz" series of prints, all laid out on the white table--what have we all come to know better as the work of Matisse?
Still, what's best for the boys is plenty or room in the schedule for freeform fun. And fortunately, what's best for them worked out to be best for me, too. Thanks, D :)
Posted by Steph at 06:43 AM | Comments (1)
June 28, 2007
we're thinking of buying tickets to hell
We’re a little culture starved around here, snug within the benign mycelium of silicon valley. Granted, if I’d just know where to look around here, I’d find something interesting on exhibit. But the truth is that I’m just acheing to go to a fussy art museum where I can feel the music of terrazzo under my feet and experience air conditioning without a trace of retail and ride that fabulous chase from security guard to security guard, close behind Chas, always on the fringe of expulsion as he tries to weave fast arcs around freestanding sculptures. Art is, after all, mostly about the personal experience one has with the piece, and with Chas there is no exception. He loves sculpture, it FASCINATES him to discover giant colorful pillars shooting from the ground or brushed-steel geometry shining in the sun. OH! The joy! Must scream and run circles around them all!
There’s one exhibit in particular that I’m planning on taking them to see sometime soon, the Matisse exhibit at the SFMOMA. Ford is a collage guru and I figure it might provide a springboard for translating some of his 2D work into a new dimension; specifically, creating something 3-dimensional that his younger brother might be tempted to play with (especially if it’s made of paper or papier-mache). But again, really, I’m just sad that we haven’t been able to go for so long, for fear that we might die during the struggle to patiently corral our children politely through a quiet space for art.
I think it’s more important that they experience art from a very young age for several reasons. First, I think it’s fun for them to see how some people have translated emotions or themes into art. Secondly, I like for them to understand the value and purpose behind the art process. Thirdly, I want them to grow to respect the work of others as well as their own art, because the enduring value of art is that it has the power to change the future in many ways: it can alter a person’s perspective, create controversy, quiet a restless mind, you get the idea. Lastly, I want them to evolve quickly within the rigid confines of the art museum institution so that they naturally respect that paticular environment as they would a shrine, an that is mostly because I’d LIKE TO ENJOY THE MUSEUM, TOO.
So, this weekend I’ve requested we pay the MOMA a visit, take our chances, hope for the best. There’s a book I heard about that recommends certain tips for taking 5 year-olds and older children to the museum, How to talk to children about art: is the title. As an art teacher, I feel qualified enough to come up with my own suggestions (which, in all it’s conceit, is actually true) but I’m still curious about what it has to say and am ordering it anyway.
Wish us luck! Double that for the MOMA.
Posted by Steph at 07:00 AM | Comments (5)
April 18, 2007
Easter weekend
It rained last night, throughout the night and into the morning, until the sun poked through the snivelling stratus and proclaimed that it was no longer a time of grieving. So the rain packed up and moved eastward, I'm told. And in its wake, the starlings came back out of hiding among the ivy boughs, and the quail promenaded atop the dewy lawn, properly.
For the past three weeks we have had occasional rains, and each time the pitter pattering begins above our heads on this old roof, we tell ourselves, "This is the last rain of the season." That was the last rain of the season.
Speaking of proper, this is a blog where I am obliged to to log a chronicle of events, and I missed the holy weekend of Easter. I've been called on this, so let me indulge you people on what you missed, heretofore two weeks.
Alis threw Seth an Easter rager. Thirty-odd toddlers turned every stone and log looking for eggs and chocolate on the Whitman commons that straddle Skyline ridge. She spent the week beforehand sewing fleece easter bunnies and dying eggs in pots of boiled beets and onionskins and cabbageleaves. On other nights, she wrapped heirloom seeds in tulle and tied them to colorful tongue depressors, and when she was busy wrapping little pots of violas and wheatgrass with tissue paper and hand-painted yarn, she enlisted friends to string wooden beaded bracelets into the wee hours or, as in my case, stand in her kitchen, slackjawed and dumbfounded, to gawk at all the hard work she really put into this fete while she dyed yet more gorgeous eggs.
Which is all to say that my boys cared neither here nor there about any of this, on that particular day, the day of the hunt, as they poked and prodded through the Lamb's Ears and Lilies until they found all forms of chocolate, but that we girls, and by that I mean me( because I was trying not to notice my younger competition) secretly dashed through the garden like a pixie, collecting shiny glass beads and seed packets, purple-and-orange violas and wheatgrass pots, slipping them inconspicuously into Chas' easter basket while he gorged on his gold, his precious chocolate. Occasionally I'd urge him to pick up a seed packet that I'd found, and he'd probe the entire area first for chocolate, certain that I had scouted for nothing other, and finally reach for the only thing hidden in the foliage, which was indeed the seed packet and which he indeed picked up. For me!
And so, with seeds to plant, I'm faced by the bare patches of three quarterempty flowerbeds, spared just for such purpose, and the blank face of a front and back yard, freshly plowed by a thirty year-old and rusting tractor with a likewise rusted and ringing plow, just days ago before the rain fell. I see mounds upon which to plant two to three ppumpkins seeds apiece. Give or take a melon.
I have tenacious, hard callouses on my hands from three weekends ago, when we spent the rest of Easter weekend in Pebble Beach, playing drunk barefoot tennis doubles into the black of night. I'm not sure how I didn't bleed through my feet by bedfall, on those heavy, luxurious sheets; on the contrary, my feet tingled as if they'd been freshly shorn of three old inches of thick hide. Perhaps they were?. Indeed, the rest of me felt that idyllic; it's fun having rich friends with third homes nestled in the surreal beauty of California's monterrey bay peninsula. We drove home along the coastal highway bisecting the prim acres of golfing lawn and the rugged, emerald blue jumble of ocean and guano-stained rock and the white froth of my amazement. Acres upon acres of blooming artichoke and fruiting strawberries, laborers scattered along the endless rows that stretched inland, hunched over the produce like props. Surreal produce signs with enormous specimens that seemed to shine from the light of the sun itself, which glared down sternly upon us as we shook off the two day hangover that only an irresponsible weekend in someone else's mansion in someone else's neighborhood could bring.
Posted by Steph at 06:45 AM | Comments (0)
March 13, 2007
SPC: Flickr tools #2
With little difference to the stiff neck I felt yesterday morning, I drove the kids down to the beach. All the elation that nearly winded me on the drive down to Half Moon Bay fizzled once I started lifting Chas out of deep tide pools and stretching to capture fossils embedded in the rocks. I remember the swirling panorama of beached seals and hungry surf, thinking, This is a very bad place to be with a stiff neck and two exploring preschoolers.
So I let both of the kids clamber their way back to the beach on their own (Chas is getting surprisingly nimble) and then rested in the tent while they bouldered and threw rocks at the incoming tide. This overexposed shot is taken from my little infirmary. I like the way it captures the heat, unforgiving light and pain (although I might be the only one to look at this picture and feel it). It also has a nice retro tint. What's your impression? I'm obliged to use these flickr tools for SPC's current challenge but I'm not sure I'd use these tools in my own. It lacks authenticity. Not sure I like that, although it has a home somewhere.
My advice to anyone waking up in the morning with a stiff neck is to traction yourself to a board for the rest of the day and hook yourself up to an IV and catheter. Don't drive a long, winding road to the beach, set up a tent, wrangle children across the rocks at low tide and then press reverse. That was a recipe for disaster. Damon says it wouldn't matter; that the muscle would spaz no matter what.
I wonder if he's right.
If you want to learn more about online photoediting tools , check out a gallery exhibiting some at SPC.
Posted by Steph at 07:32 PM | Comments (0)
March 03, 2007
Shroom Hunting
It rained a lot last week, sheets and sheets of rain. But this morning, glorious sunshine. On top of Maisie's Peak, out of breath after a week off and with an arm stretching towards San Francisco, downtown was as tall as a cuticle, my fingernail on the horizon. But I could see it! Amazing early spring air, damp with pungent Bay Laurel and lichen and moss.
Jerry met us at breakfast and decided that a post-rain Saturday was prime for mushroom hunting, so we drove up the hill to an alpine lake along skyline Ridge, ditched the canoe (whim #2) and went off the beaten path with the kidlets.
Chas surprised me with his reaction to a Banana slug. He was pretty offended, wouldn't touch it at first. This blew me away; I think these things are the coolest molluscs around, like a cold slice of mango looking back at you.
We found a rough-skinned newt, too, that was hard to photograph in the deep shade of a thick, ancient redwook .It crept with fat, orange and humanlike fingers across our hands, drunkenlike yet determined to get back into the detritus. So I returned him to the ground before we exhausted the little guy, and he indeed honed immediately into a random opening in the lattice of wet pine and laurel litter.
We bypassed fallen trees, macerated by rain and time and recently, bear paws. Fresh fiddleleafs, little forest babies, unfurling and mushrooms everywhere. Fruiting above a mycelium beneath an oak tree, wrinkled black Elephant correction: "Elfin" saddles. Little brown mushrooms, maroon unbrellas, fluorescent capes and fans of turkey feathers. Matte black puffs, like ashballs, and salmon candylike clusters on rotting bark. In the split of a tree, neon orange jelly fungus.
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January 27, 2007
Eden
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January 25, 2007
.blink.
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Fitzgerald Marine Reserve
Ford is rediscovering the coast and he asks to go back, time and again, to Santa Cruz. However, I've blissfully started introducing him to different shoreline habitats and today I figured was the perfect time to indulge myself, and the kids, in a low tide experience along the rocky surf at Moss Beach. I'd actually never been before. As it turns out, the park is a refuge for the Harbor Seal, who swims between this beach and the harbor, in lower Moss Beach; and, during low tides, this is the safest refuge for them to rest, atop the black rock that crops up through the crest of low tide. In fact, the rangers set up construction cones around the rim of the beach to give the seals privacy. Otherwise, they might flee the beach and swim to exhaustion, unable to find the refuge they need anywhere else along this shoreline.
We had just reached the beach, at the end of a short trail, when the camera battery died.
Ford was so anxious to recall what we saw today once we returned to the hotel. He quickly synopsed the visit with a drawing of his favorite finds (which deserved better light when I took this photo, but this will have to do):
With a stick, we had turned over an organism in the sand that resembled an enormous, wide cow tongue. On the underside of the orange beast, a flat foot with a central groove, in the shape of a U. On the backside, a row of partially hidden plates under thick hide-like orange flesh. A chiton relative? A grapefruit from outer space? Actually, I was right: Cryptochiton or Gumboot chiton (named after the color and texture of its flesh). Way cool, but also very dead and intensely rank. Next!:
Ford's favorite of the day: the Green Sea Anemone. He discovered that he could stick his finger into the flowery nubbins and make them close up, squirting water out in a tiny little stream clear up to his nose. Very entertaining, he did this for the longest time until the tide started swallowing us. But not before we investigated Turban snails and rescued a parching Pisaster.
Posted by Steph at 01:58 AM | Comments (1)
July 14, 2006
The Quilts of Gees Bend: The Soul of the Quilt
I arrive in Houston at six o'clock, scarf down a plate of italian sausage and spaghetti and my parent's house, and escort mom to the Gees Bend exhibit at the MFAH. We have an hour before the museum closes and I get momenntarily lost navigating my way to the museum's new addition, through the same corridors I used to browse with a trail of small children in my teaching days at the Glassell School, across the street. It's embarrassing and I smile to an Asian security guard who doesn't seem to remember me this time.
The glossy terrazzo floor reflects little observational discussions, the tapping of fancy shoes and the muted cast of each bold, vibrant quilt in this collection. And boy, are they something. If the colors and assymetry of the quilts don't immediately make you smile, look closer.
If you have a sensitive conscience, then you have questioned the way we live today: the overlooked luxury in each car parked in the driveway and the way you can choose your way each day, the piles of fashion magazines and the excess clothes, garages filled so full of crap because the house is spilling over and space is limited-- this is the typical American family way of life (not that I am the exception) and this is a way of life that starves people of happiness and groundedness and peace. I think about this a lot and was brought to tears when I listened to an interview with one of the quilters as I scrutinized a soulful patch of denim in a quilt, a piece taken from a pair of worn-out blue jeans, that included the dark blue ghost of a pocket, the reminder of the fabric's former life. I wanted to run my hands along the seams, feeling the backbone of handiwork and sweat and conversation that birthed these colorful objects. I cradled the idea of reuse, inspiring the happy purist in me.
I thought about the stiff smell of rows upon rows of fabric bolts, the angst of shopping for the perfect hue, specialty scissors and quilting stores with basketfuls of fat quarters in every imaginable print: cats drinking milk, cats dancing, cats pouring milk, cats stargazing, cats chasing balls of yarn, cats chasing mice, cats napping, cats making me dizzy with a cascade of possibilities, for some reason(pardon me if cats are your thing--and I still think cats are cool). I thought about my own sleeping, shelved monster of a fabric stash. I thought of the closetful of clothes in my bedroom that I will never wear again but refuse to give away, holding them for some special deconstruction but not finding the time just yet. And so they sit there, looking stale. And smelling about the same. I think I vowed right there to boycott the purchase of any more fabric from a store or supplier for a good, long time--at least until I can manage to recruit much of what I already have. You know the old adage, Waste Not, Want Not. I mean, I value the use of new fabric for projects (and man, can some of you SEW!) but for now, I will value myself more if I downsize.
Plummer Pettway 1918-1993 "Roman Stripes, variation (local name: "Crazy" Quilt) cotton twill, denim, cotton/ polyester blend, synthetic knit (pants matieral), 86 x 70 inches.
These isolated women had only the outgrown and worn-out clothes and bolts of local fabric (I think Sears once gave them bolts of the avocado fabric that shows up in nearly one hundred of the collection's quilts). One of the quilters, in the interview I was listening to, struggled as she tried to convey what it was like not to have much of anything to work with. Work shirts, blue jeans, feed sacks--nothing was wasted. Nothing.
I smiled to read little excerpts about the children, sitting on the front porch beneath the quilting table, watching the needle poke through the underside of the quilt. I told Ford about the way the children (who became the artists of these quilts) picked up scraps of fabric that had fallen to the floor and began making little quilts of their own, right there on the floor. "We didn't have much, but we was happy" echoed similarly among them. And I still get tears to remember one woman share her surprise in knowing that someone else besides herself appreciates them, not to mention put them up on a wall.
Missouri Pettway, 1902-1981. Blocks and strips work-clothes quilt, 1942, cotton, corduroy, cotton sacking material, 90 x 69 inches. Missouri's daughter Arlonzia describes the quilt: "It was when Daddy died. I was about seventeen, eighteen. He stayed sick about eight months and passed on. Mama say, 'I going to take his work clothes, shape them into a quilt to remember him, and cover up under it for love.' She take his old pants legs and shirttails, take all the clothes he had, just enough to make that quilt, ahd I helped her tore them up. Bottom of the pants is narrow, top is wide, and she had me to cutting the top part out and to shape them up in even strips." --both quilt images from Auburn Universitys: Quilts of Gees Bend in Context's website.
Posted by Steph at 11:24 AM | Comments (9)
June 06, 2006
SPC: Pop Art: week 1
Summer is saturated with mass-production. The sun destroys anything left outside. So after lingering twilight, chasing fireflies and each other around the flowerbeds, toys stay outside night and day. Our home has stretched out onto the lawn. Plastic toys will only last a few months in this climate.
This is an inflatable swimming pool that I bought last summer. I also bagged sand toys, beach balls and a Slip and Slide, but these have all been shuffled into the other toys, buried in sand and punctured by piercing UVrays. This pool has lasted longer than I imagined, knowing when I bought it that it would destruct by Fall, like summer plastic tends to do.
It's beginning to get a fair amount of use, now that we're baking our way towards the double digits. And every day we drain it, like I'm doing (with Ford) in the photo above. I don't have time for stylized puns on Pop art. Take this as a nod to mass production. We like it. Well, maybe not, but it's convenient and cheap and beautiful when you're short on cash. And who isn't, when you majored in Industrial Design in school?
And you can see more Pop art self portraits here.
Speaking of mass-produced: balloons. They are in high demand at our home. Chas loves them. We can drive by Blockbuster (our fallback now that all of our Netflix movies have gone awol) and Chas will scream for boobahs. BOOBAH!!?!? BOOBAH?! BOOBAHH?! like some heroin addict. JUST! ONE! FIX!!!
We brought home two of the Blockbuster balloons with us on Friday, and Ford picked one up to practice the properties of static electricity.
So he rubbbbbbed the balloon on his nappy hair a minute and then I watched him hold the balloon over a small mount of sugar. The sugar flitted excitedly on the table. "A sugarstorm, mom!" He passed the balloon over a pile of punched paper holes: "Dancing dots, mom!" and then he passed the balloon over an ant trail in the kitchen: "Mom! Check it OUT!" And, sure enough, the ants were flicking up onto the balloon. Can you see them? They're tiny pharoah ants (otherwise known as 'Piss Ants' by my father in-law, the entomologist). Science is so funny.
Posted by Steph at 06:57 AM | Comments (4)
May 04, 2006
Surfside
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April 21, 2006
Over the Weather
I watched the kid's sunhats bob and spin in the Twinner this morning as I pushed them up and down the neighborhood hills. Left and right, the wildflowers! Everywhere, embroidering the landscape with color. Like butterflies, we stopped at every honeysuckle to sample the sugar; Ford wouldn't let a single vine pass unplucked. Australian cowdogs bounded to greet us, licking sunscreen off our hands, as we walked under the arching necks of blooming yuccas, a mature hedge that bordered their yard.
We spent another day at home, but mostly outdoors: pruning trees, training vines, repotting, chasing black bear caterpillars across pavement. In the middle of the day, we watched the storm pass in green darkness, spraying a horizontal rain and dropping hail between the boards of our patio the size of small grapes. Then the sky opened like a vault, and I got a wild hair to drive the kids down to the lake, where I waded into the water with a hand cultivator and a pickle jar, collecting aquatic plants.
I thought it would make the betta happy.
But we survived the last day of the flu: grimacing with every cough that blew my way; washing, washing, washing; spicy seafood soup with lemongrass and mushrooms from the Thai restaurant down the road; iced tea in mason jars with fresh spearmint; bundling up into the down comforter to watch Godzilla movies with Ford in blue twilight. His hair is thicker, no longer baby-like. I'm finding it difficult to snuggle with him, he has grown lean and long.
I laid there, in the rain, remembering cocooning like this in the Airstream. With Ford I would snuggle up in the same comforter, womblike and warm, under the air-conditioning's permafrost. We'd lay there, wrapped in down and encircled with window: we'd curl up and watch the water crash on the rugged Kennebunkport coastline, or tractors plow by, or passersby swoon at our silver bullet bling.
I ran through the neighborhood again, backtracking alone. This time, to the stopwatch. I started out pounding but eventually glided, like I was pedalling up and down the hills. I have retrained my upper body to assist, my legs to reach higher. My eyes followed the powerlines, where birds were busy preening in peace: cardinals, mourning doves, Whitewing doves, Scrub jays, cowbirds. Above them swooped chimney swifts, and the whole lot of them were in song. A four-foot cedar stump jumped out at me from the bushes, black and damp. I never noticed it this morning, but I imagine it was bone dry and pale, then. But that's the bunny in the magician's hat, why I stayed to watch the show and left my gym bag in the car, only two inches further out the driveway.
Posted by Steph at 02:05 AM
April 07, 2006
Turbulence
I am sitting on the grassy slope, keeping an eye on the kids and our bikes. Chas is lying on his back, arms wide, laughing at the twilight and the moon. Ford is networking with another stranger. They're wild and free. I'm in a funk, but Damon encouraged this bike ride. And here we are, downtown, waiting for the bats. Emotional management.
A colossal thunderhead looms over downtown, rolling south. It's insides churn with lightening. We pack up the kids and head back, weaving through pedestrians on the bridge. Half of them are holding camerafones to the sky. Passing them, we feel a headwind as the storm sucks up our warm air, wafting guano up from beneath the bridge: intense and murky, like cultured warm beef agarose.
Faster we pedal back, past the biggest pillowfight I've ever seen, diffusing with hoopla under police megafone. I want to be in it, to detox. I can't clip through the shadows fast enough for all the angst. Instead, I whiz through the trees wondering whether my kids will grow up as moody as me. While some parents hope their children become pro basketball players, I hope my children become rational problem-solvers. Fortunately, I am married to one. The odds are even, I guess.
Posted by Steph at 06:06 AM | Comments (8)
April 04, 2006
While My Battery Was Dead
I just got a new battery for my Powerbook. Damon stood in line for service while Ford played a video game. I stood over Chas while he stood bouncing on one of the black ball-shaped seats at the kiddie table.
Friday morning we took a hike along the creek. We chased a young bullfrog, who teased us along a stretch of cattails at the bank before disappearing into some brown muck. Ford was so eager to catch him, standing there with his little plastic red bucket. Chas only wanted to shout and jump into the water. We had to retreat into the woods to keep everyone safe. 
I stopped to inspect the mustang grapes, and Chas disappeared. I felt my heart in my thighs ten seconds later, when he reappeared uphill about thirty yards; he had found a loop and had come round to surprise us. Mind you, we were walking along a twenty-foot precipice that overlooked the creek.
Chas is a bushwhacker, both on and off the trail. We put him point blank, while Ford trailed behind, scouting for honeysuckle. He managed to find four blossoms, and gingerly dissect them for the four drops of nectar among them.
On saturday, we biked along the lake. Though the landscape is vibrant and the wildflowers are in bloom, people were the life force along the lake, running, canoeing, parading, strolling. Winding through the trees, we trailered the boys and their havoc, like a small zoo train with a cage of crackhead chimpanzees. I wore a constant smile; for one thing, I wasn't the one hauling the trailer, and for another: it really does sound cute. Despite the mayhem, I like robust, vibrant kids and my kids are anything but reserved.
Some jocks were playing kayak polo under the MoPac bridge, the ball barely clearing the beams beneath me as we rode over them. A Pug meetup and show along the waterfront, one was wearing a pink tutu. A birthday party for a resident goose. The swallows are back. Wisteria and Chinaberry blossoms made the air heady and seductive. I am in love with Austin.
Dinner with friends Saturday night at a neighborhood dig, margherita pizza under the oaks with good wine while the kids scrambled on the lawn and playground. A two-man blues band played in an alcove on the patio. Sunday morning completely disoriented me. The blazing heat, with the loss of an hour, drove me straight into summer. Jogging through our barely-rural neighborhood, grasshoppers zirred past me across the blacktop. The only thing to ground me in April was the fresh, green terrain, littered with half dollar-sized white flowers; everyone's yard looked like a driving range. Wooly bear caterpillars marched across the road, and a brown tarantula stood paralyzed as I passed it on the curb.
Posted by Steph at 06:11 AM | Comments (2)
March 24, 2006
DFW Intl. Airport
Into the relentless sunny wind, Chas ran towards the distant airplane as it lifted off the tarmac. "DET! DET!" he shouted, pointing, and Ford translated it for me: JET, JET! HE reached the end of the berm and stopped still, apprehensive, as the jet loomed closer. But the roaring became intense, and Chas turned round and trotted back to me, quietly frowning to the ground, pink cheeks bouncing. I scooped him up and together we tracked the gleaming silver jet as it thundered over us.
Ford is into jet turbine engines. He likes to describe their operation, and tell stories involving turbines. He will pick up a gall off the curb and tell me, "Mom, do you know why this gall is so fast? It's because it's a jet TURBINE-powered gall that shoots through the sky and into your eyeball!" or "I'm so fast because I have two jet turbine engines, spinning like huge atoms, on my sides." He has been into jet turbines for while, but I can't remember what set it off, this fiery interest. These days, he's all about atoms, particles, molecules, jet turbines, and electromagnetic forces. I'm not cut out for this.
Posted by Steph at 05:48 AM | Comments (2)
March 23, 2006
SPT: time :week 3
We left the house on Sunday at noon.
The fog loafed through the canyon without much hurry,
and in our own haste I thought breathlessly about 101,
driving into town just before the tunnel above sausalito,
before hitting the traffic awaiting the Golden Gate bridge,
around 5 o'clock.
I was sad for a while after that, missing the eucalyptus,
thinking of how ridiculous is was that we had to move away from that place,
where Ford was born and where I enjoyed salty air in my lungs
simply because housing was too expensive.
The thought was fleeting, though, because the quality of life is good here.
And I like the smell of juniper about equally.
Around midafternoon we ran into thicker rain, to explain the mounting traffic.
When we arrived in DFW, cars were swimming in feeder lanes,
and flashing lights from towtrucks, fire trucks and squad cars reflected in the flood.
The following day, we spent much of out time in the car.
Why? Because I forgot how big DFW really is. In fact, we lived out of the car,
collecting disposable stuff and growing stinky.
Chas would go to bed later that night exuding that patented
deep-fried Twinky chimichanga funk, still in his day shirt, but too tired from
a fatty dinner to take a simple bath. Which is okay, because we were tired, too.
Damon had two exhausting days of training. A difficult thing for an introvert.
On the way home, I picked up my needles
and a skein of Peruvian kettle-dyed wool.
I smiled as we passed Willie's Bio Diesel truck stop, in the middle of nowhere,
happily having left that muddled maze of people-clutter behind us.
While the kids were awake the ENTIRE trip back to Austin,
Chas occasionally would point to my needles and frown, reminding me to be careful,
by saying, "ow. ow. ow."
Posted by Steph at 04:08 PM | Comments (2)
March 14, 2006
Kath at Redcurrent made me a winner! Once again, I love Kath! And I can't wait to get the pants in the mail.
Ford ran his first 1k fun run at the Austin Rodeo Rumble. We trotted beside him past cotton candy machines, hot dog stands and hat vendors, in the noontime heat. But he was a winner, himself! It was the first time in two years when he agreed to wear shorts and a tshirt (he prefers long clothing).
Chas lounged in the chariot with a popsicle:
Sheep dog trials were underway in the arena afterwards. Their finesse blew me away, and made me wish I were so effective corralling my own kids. Focused and efficient, the Australian shepherds rested on the ground while the cattle fumbled over each other on their way through chutes. We'll have an Aussie Shepherd next door in a few days; our neighbors are moving from Santa Cruz county, dog in tow. Will it dutifully keep everyone out of the road? Hope so.
We spent the better part of yesterday hung over, the kids climbing all over us in blinding sunlight while we lay in bed. Around 5pm, I rallied the kids (as if they needed any help) for a neighborhood detox run. It was difficult. Ford wanted to run every so often in one-minute sprints, then recline in the twinner. I plodded along, feeling full of sand and rather gummy. But it was well worth it, because dinner the night before at Polly's, drinking wine while the kids orbited around us at warp speed, was uplifting, totally fun. In the meadow behind their home, I saw the first bats of the season, flitting about above fresh green grass in the twilight.
We took a spring walk this morning at Zilker Botanical Gardens. I helped Ford list all the new emergences: flowering quince, fragrant mountain laurel, new growth at the base of old inland sea oats, cypress trees leafing out in whispy tufts of soft lime green needles, ferns unfurling in dappled shade.
I called out to Ford, "Look Ford, there's some spiderwort!"
and he walked up to investigate, but snorted back "That's NOT spiderwort! That's Purple Heart, mom!"
And I smiled and shook my head, amazed at what four year-olds spit back out at their parents, these days. He looked up at me in rebuttal, face scrunched up in the sunlight.
Some unabashed, desperate attempt of one tree to get laid--what kind if tree is this?!:
Posted by Steph at 06:06 PM | Comments (4)
March 05, 2006
Pedernales morning
We drive to the Pedernales River this morning for a hike. It is quiet around 11:50 except for the last of the churchgoers leaving mass. We cruise under a weary, overcast sky that echoes a landscape hardly awake from winter, except for a lone quince tree blazing pink alongside a truckstop. 290 is growing. What was once a frontier escarpment of limestone and prickly pear is now claimed property of "Muirwood" and "Oak Haven" and the mycelium of other residential real estate developments. But the road itself is still old. We climb and descend each hill like a motorboat on choppy water, tossed about by the scars of traffic and extreme temperatures on the road, our eyes following the varicose veins of long asphalt-filled cracks in the pavement. Scores of Open House signs are everywhere, in short trains of five or six (per builder) they picket the shoulder. There's a balmy southern breeze and the American flag at the Pulte Highpointe Information Center is at full-mast, waving gloriously. I wonder how many prospective homeowners will visit this trailer today. A part of me can understand how a person would appreciate a home, like the ones I see beyond the trailer, sitting on two green acres and surrounded by white ranch fencing. Perfect for your one-horse family and sidekick goat.
People driving along this road must buy a lot of pottery, rustic metal art and deer antlers; every other store has a side yard filled with chimineas and yard art. Sheet metal silhouettes of cowboys leaning against imaginary walls are among them, so you could (if you wanted to) lean one of those buckaroos against the entrance to your ranch, right there next to the gate. So everyone would know your home was cowboy-friendly, supporting all cowboy-related endeavors.
Damon used to work on the King Ranch. When he was in high school, he had many different roles on the ranch, and his least favorite was the caballero duty of processing freshly-purchased cattle for their new life on the King Ranch. And since he worked during the summers, I'll begin the description of setting to include blistering heat and dust. Add to that, a two-foot layer of bull shit to stand in (and I mean literally), the smell of burnt flesh, the bustling sounds of hydraulics and metal and groaning cattle.
There's a short list of duties to perform on the newly-purchased stock: a bloodbath of dehorning, branding, castrating and immunizing. You corral cow into the chute with a cattle prod. If it's female, the most effective way to move her is to stun her with a cattleprod to the clit (I kid you not). If the cow has horns, you take a large pair of tree pruners and slam, slam, slam them together until the horn lops off, trailed by a river of blood from the marrow (since the horns are, after all, a part of the cow's skull). While the cow is bleeding out, you take a branding iron and burn the famous running W onto its hide (a cow may have many brands over the course of his or her life). Then, if it's a bull, you have to castrate it. It's a systematic thing, really: you slice with a razor blade, pull them out. Period. Lastly, you immunize. If you look up occasionally while injecting, you can pound the huge hypodermic needle accidentally into your own leg, as Damon did. While all of this is going on, the Mexican laborers will take a few testicles and fry them over the same fire that's heating the branding irons, a sort of freak show snacking. And at the end of the day, the laborers will often take a long latex rubber glove, the kind used for artificial insemination, and fill them with the leftover balls to take home. They'll leave, smiling and proud, holding a bloody bag of bluish-pink cow balls to cook up later, for themselves? For their family?
Yes, we are in the middle of country with a capital K, as in Kountry Kitchen, Kountry Klutter and Hill Kountry Kabins. I had to retype these names a few times to get it right. It was difficult.
The river is low. The river bottom is worn smooth, and deep crevasses bore through the bedrock like swiss cheese. I hold my breath as I boulder with Chas in the backpack over deep divides, and gasp when Ford leans over edges, peering into the whirlpools. We stop to investigate fossils, embedded everywhere along the riverbottom terrace.
On our walk back up the trail, I stop in my tracks to listen. I hear a slight symphony beyond our parade of noise: Ford is belting out more White Stripes, while Chas is simultaneously repeating Dvorak's New World Symphony (to the three syllables "Hi Daddy, Hi Daddy," over and over again--amazing in itself!). Everyone stops, and we all hear it, the distant sound of geese underwater. Looking up, we see birds flying in V-formation, due North, but they are clearly not geese. In a less-focused, more carefree jaunt, these are actually Sandhill cranes flying at about 2000 feet. We watched as they flew over the river, paused, and dissociated into a flowing fabric of cranes, wafting upwards on thermals in freeflowing spiral, resting their wings as they ascended. For about three minutes or so they did this, until one set course and the rest followed, straight into V-formation once more.
We learned three new things on the longish return hike uphill:
1. open-toed sandals and sand do not really mix well, according to a 4 year-old.
2. Ford will knock down any structure, no matter how sacred, to prove his power over inanimate objects.
3. Chas will always attempt to get in the water, so never take him out of the backpack without preparation.
Posted by Steph at 11:56 PM | Comments (2)
February 22, 2006
Commons Ford Ranch
We're on the cusp of Spring, you can smell it in the damp air like pheromones. Grass shoots tint the meadows, still covered with leaves. On some property near home, Chas ditched his wellies to run sockfooted down a long dirt trail, his cheeks bounced up and down as he ran and sang. He shoved his head into a hole in a tree, shouted, and plunged his foot into a burrow near the creek. Life was hidden everywhere. But closer to the lake we passed under a gossiping flock of Red-Winged Blackbirds, a throaty playful labyrinth of song in the pecan treetops. Once we were directly below them, and they noticed us listening, all talk ceased and the troupe flew away like a fluttering, carefree black veil. Chas followed them with his eyes. It was quiet like that for a few seconds, before Ford started belting out White Stripes lyrics (I still have 'Blue Orchid' pumping in my head). On the drive home, close to dusk, a very large Coyote jumped the fence into the chaparral. I shouted and pointed it out to the kids, almost running off the road, but when I looked back at them, both heads were buried into the sides of their carseats, asleep.
Posted by Steph at 01:16 AM | Comments (4)
February 13, 2006
Surreal
I return to the exhibit on impulse, after viewing the installation of Eva Hess' drawings. I know the corridors by heart: the oak floors creak in the east wing, but enough to surprise me every time; I am always arrested in front of the Ernst frottages, three paces north and an immediate left lead to the painting of the pipe, Leger on the diagonal wall across the room. This time, there is something different (after all, things usually change after ten years). An alcove off the Surrealism exhibit with its own security guard outside.
It's like walking into a jazzy vacuum chamber. A dark room, painted blue the color of Chas' eyes, the sky on a full moon. It is a wonder-room filled with tribal masks, katchinas, headdresses and totems. In the center, a sculpture of a human being, with pins radiating from all surfaces. The opposite wall, above my head, hangs a charming sculpture of a man riding a whale, the two of them casting animated shadows on the wall. It is a collection, tribal and oceanic, curious and natural. Things collected by the Surreallists. I stand in this dark room, awestruck, wondering why this feels like home.
In a corner I notice Dominique De Menil's provincial desk, filled with ephemera: keys, marbles, blue butterflies, feathers, coins, seashells, buttons. "For the children who visited her home." It's a Darwinian duplicate of my dad's roll-top desk. I stand in front of the desk for a good five minutes, examining treasure. Wealthy couples circulate in camel coats and leather shoes, fresh out of the box. The men are distinguished and chiselled, the women have long, glossy hair and everyone smells of ambigously scented soaps. They speak softly of travels to Fiji, and smile at certain masks. They feel at home, too.
I exit the museum onto the wide open expanse of green lawn and sunshine. Down the block, behind a rambling old white oak tree, the boys run circles around Damon. As he waves at me from the void between branches, Chas stumbles onto the grass. Ford is laughing, calling me. I take the children into my charge and urge Damon to go see for himself. We are playing gallery tennis, allowing the kids to be kids while we struggle to be grownups.
Posted by Steph at 06:05 AM | Comments (4)
Primitive
They are often called primitive for want of a better name.
They are the most sincere and most unself-conscious art that ever was and ever will be. They are what remains of the childhood of humanity. They are plunges into the depths of the unconscious. However great the artist of today or tomorrow, he will never be as innocent as the primitive artist—strangely involved and detached at the same time.
What could never have been written is there, all the dreams and anguishes of man. The hunger for food and sex and security, the terrors of night and death, the thirst for life and the hope for survival.”
Dominique de Menil, 1962
Posted by Steph at 12:21 AM | Comments (2)
February 07, 2006
February on Town Lake
We leave the playground, and I weave along the lake, trailering the boys. In this warm winter weather, Austin has molted and begun to grow again in little green patches along the water. The rest of the landscape is still dormant, less agressive than the shoots. Clusters of Elephant Ears brazenly crowd along the bank, submerged and waving in the breeze.
The wind awakens me, and my rhythm intensifies while growing efficient. My muscles remember well; I biked for many years before children. I love the way my quadriceps begin to feel warm. I don’t feel this way when I run. My neck burns. I am smiling.
I pass under Riverside drive, and pause to watch reflections dance uninhibited on the bridge’s belly, winding up the concrete posts like white fishnet. Sliders anchor the river, basking in the sun, and we count them. I notice a canoe, motionless, with a fisher aboard, waiting.
It’s a dry day, and chrushed granite crunches as joggers pass us under the bridge. One woman smiles at the trailer, and I follow her eyes to find Chas’ sleeping head on Ford’s shoulder. I return to meditate on the coke bottle water, crystalline turquise jade with a fuzzy rockbottom, brimming with rippling silvery fry.
Barton Springs feeds the creek, the creek feeds the river.The dedicated swimmers, all three of them, are lumbering the length of the pool, their slow, regular paddle lulls me.One is wearing a wetsuit . The elm trees lining the pool are tipped with new leaves, on the pecans, empty shell cases gape at the sky on bare branches, so that we don’t forget that Fall ever happened. But it did, and so did Winter.
Posted by Steph at 09:19 PM | Comments (2)
January 10, 2006
Fun Fridays
Friday at Bull Creek. Cattails.
Scientists.
Philosopher.
Thrill seeker. (Fording the frigid stream in mocassins)
Considering Botox.
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December 29, 2005
Pho
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December 05, 2005
Friday
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November 04, 2005
Wild Basin Wilderness
I took the boys out for loop around Wild Basin wilderness preserve after lunch. As we unloaded for our walk, we were met by a investigative swarm of yellowjackets. Ford began to freak out as I watched him eyeball three drones on his shirtless body. Not sure what to do, since my hands were tied, I urged him to just be still and watch them explore. I told him to use the opportunity to see them up close, so long as he remained perfectly, perfectly still. Which he did. And the whimpers ceased as he began to comment on their similarity to bees. I have no idea why they were attracted to us. All I can figure is that we smelled too lavendar-y with our herbal sunscreen, and that Ford might have left a little strawberry jam on his face after lunch.
At any rate, once we started on the trail, they lost interest.
The trail crests a ridge that overlooks, um, Wild Basin wilderness. It's Westlake's backyard, full of, um, wildlife. Besides the wasps, however, there wasn't much wildlife awake to greet us on the trail except one lone mockingbird. We did see something new, though. Atop a limestone outcropping laid a half dollar-diameter star-shaped fungus that could have easily been mistaken for a spider: a small sphere, on inspection, had burst to reveal a tiny hole on top; the "legs" were eight radiating, pointy black extensions. I think it was an Earth Star, a type of exploding shroom, and this lesson captivated Ford. Like, the rest of the afternoon. These days, it's all about explosives and things with bioluminescence.
I brought a heavy and clunky 35mm camera without batteries. The strap irritated my neck, but Chas, in the backpack, seemingly felt sorry enough to pat the back of my head and play with my hair. He occasionally pointed to things and shouted exclamations that we couldn't understand but agreed with. We felt so jaded on the trail, Ford and I, because it was a very large version of our yard. I guess we were hoping for a water feature or a cave or, um, more wildlife.
Posted by Steph at 05:24 AM | Comments (0)
October 24, 2005
He had me at "Kelp Forest," Fun in the Garden, Hold the Sprinkles
We have a wonderful wool rug in our living room. We bought it in May about three hours before our renters signed a year contract on our home in McKinney, and I somehow believe that it was because of the rug. Being inviting and cozy, it softened our concrete floors and probably made an otherwise cold and cloudy Spring day a little warmer.
There were 3 designs we were deciding among when Damon sold me on the one now own. He told me that it looked like a kelp forest, and with those two words I was sold. He literally had me at "kelp forest." And every time I catch myself staring at the rug, I get warm fuzzies thinking about happy creatures like sea lions sea otters and encrusting bryozoans. And sometimes ice cream and bubble gum. Because they're made with carageenan. Which is made of kelp. You know.
Anyway, this rug is very special to me and I decided it's time to make a napping quilt in it honor, for the cooler month or two ahead. I've been on the fence about joining the Modern Quilt-Along but I figured I could do a me-version of the Redwork pattern in turquoise and dark olive. Maybe take a little creative license and use variegated and hand-painted solids with hand-painted floss? Maybe a little trapunto?
We explored another nursery in town today: The Natural Gardener. It blew me away, I think it is an attraction on many levels. The prices are fair, they have a tremendous variety, endorse organic gardening, have an abundant and helpful staff, numerous display gardens and a few barn animals. I could and will take the kids there on a weekday and kill an hour easily. And maybe a coupla twenties. Easily.
For the kids garden I selected:
Lamb's Ear
Texas Rock Rose
Pineapple Sage
Texas Fall Aster
Purple Oxalis
some feathery-purple-flowered perennial that attracts throngs of Viceroy butterflies that I can't remember the name of and I'm too tired to go outside and look on the plant tag to find out what it's called
Round-leaf eucalyptus
and Damon's pick:
Squid Agave.
(They were out of Pony Foot and I dutifully denied myself the Smoke Plant, but I'll be back for both soon enough)
We had terrible cupcake cravings today and I didn't fight the urge to bake two dozen vanilla cupcakes with vanilla buttercream frosting. Magnolia Bakery recipe. The frosting became a pale pink and Damon insisted I forego the sprinkles (which I will never forgive him for; he believes that sprinkles ruin cupcakes but I will fight this argument to the grave--who WOULDN'T?!). The icing called for one entire bag of confectioner's sugar. That's right. Ultimately, they tasted like Krispy Kreme donuts with the same pleasurable guilt. One can only eat perhaps, well, one. So I boxed them up immediately and marked them "BARBEQUE" for tomorrow's potluck at Damon's colleague's home. Why bother taking a photograph when you can imagine what they look like, without the sprinkles.
Posted by Steph at 01:56 AM | Comments (4)
October 19, 2005
metro-retro botanicals
My brother John told me that, if I were shopping for succulents (which I am), that I should drive over to Big Red Sun in East Austin, because they have the best selection in town (which they do). Above is a wall hanging in an assortment of unique pieces termed "retro botanicals," variations on (what is probably their signature) Midcentury Modern bonzai-kitsch.
While it wasn't wise to bring the children (the place reminds me of someone's home--someone single--the way totems and art mingle in sterile grace with the contrived botanicals) it was wise to bring the camera. What I couldn't spend five seconds examining was more easily photographed so that I might instead watch the heathens, who were climbing all over everything.
Posted by Steph at 08:35 PM | Comments (0)
September 17, 2005
Austin Nature Center
With all the company we've had the past week or so, it has been easy for me to forget what it's like being around Ford, when he is not competing for attention between one or more babies. His enthusiasm, when he is engaged, is really unbridled. Unbridled engagement. That sounds weird.
Today we rediscovered the Austin Nature Center. In May I took the boys there, but we didn't make it past the first tier of exploration; today, we stepped throught the back door and into the rest of the museum. It's such a gem! They have a collection of native animals in the form of a miniature zoo, so the kids can see a coyote or a ringtail or coati or raccoon walk feet in front of them. No annoying cotton candy vendors along the way. It's small, shaded, and in the middle of town. There were several trails adjacent to the animal enclosures that we earmarked for later. Today's focus was the outdoor dinosaur dig.
Ford asked a ton of questions about the Pleisosaur fossil model. "What bone is this, mommy?"
"It's a phalange, but look how many there are on his pointer finger!"
"One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine,"
I ask "How many are on your pointer finger?" I help him identify them:
"One, two, three.."
"Three! That's not quite as many as the Pleisosaur, huh?"
"Mommy, what's this bone?" Points at some kind of wrist bone.
"That looks like a wrist bone, maybe a metacarpal?"
"Where is my metacarpal?"
I take his hand and poke around towards his wrist, nearly in the same area. "Right in here are several metacarpals. But in your hand, the wrist bones that you feel are actually part of your arm bones!"
"What are your arm bones called?"
"The radius (I point to the bony prominence on the distal radial head) and the ulna (yada yada)."
He lays his hand down upon the "fossil" remains.
Chas kept crawling in and out of the Pleisosaur mouth. He does that a lot. I mean, he's not particular to Pleisosaur fossils, but if there is a cozy nook then he must rearrange the contents so that he can wedge his round bottom into it. He will systematically throw Hot Wheels out of the toybox until none remain in the small box, then squirrel around inside the box like a restless dog until he's comfortable. And then he'll sigh, sometimes clap. And then claps some more. And grunt, smiling. It's very cute.
Posted by Steph at 11:53 AM | Comments (0)
July 22, 2005
Freeport, very NOT Maine
As we drove back tonight from Freeport (Texas), through a cloud of small insects that stretched sixty miles in the moonlight and caked my windshield, I realized that this may be the last time I ever willingly drive down past Chlorine Boulevard and the oil refineries on my way to this particular section of the Texas coastline. But we had to do it today, because Chas has never seen the saltwater and I was anxious to beachcomb and show Ford a few ctenophores and nudibranchs among the mile-high piles of sargassum. And I was sure that the longshore current would have brought, along with hurricane Emily, plenty of flotsam to collect at the neck of the jetty.
When we opened our doors on arrival, a warm effluvia (my God how pretentious of me) of rotting seaweed and crustaceans rolled through the car. Nickel-sized mosquitoes swarmed and fire ants began to gnaw on Ford's feet as he stepped down onto the pavement. The sand, if you can call it sand, was a fine, sooty brown, not quite anything like sand but more like the fine sediment atop the ground after a flood. Particles of rock left to churn and churn and churn until there is hardly a surface to grind any further, sand grains the size of atoms remain. It is an irritating, virtually impossible sand to rinse off the body, and it carries with it the unmistakable stench of Freeport if you forget to clean you car out afterwards (just so you know, honey, I did). And the piles of sargassum, the miles and miles of mile-high piles of sargassum, were unprecedented. Even the flies gave up on the bacchus; I think they must have all lost their minds because I didn't see a single fly on the beach. There were only the rounded remains of shell bits, and virtually no sea life besides the rotting seaweed and a few entangled shrimp.
Of course, it is difficult to comb the beach for wildlife when your baby is busy crawling into the Gulf like Kate Chopin's Edna (in the final chapter of The Awakening). He was in love and wonder, on a blind mission like a sea turtle hatchling, flapping his huge broad hands onto the slick sand and beeline-ing it to the Eastern Australian Current or EAC as Crush calls it because that's what sea turtles do, according the Disney/Pixar, and there was NO STOPPING HIM until the waves began to roll over his head and, unlike the baby sea turtles, he stood up, squinting and licking, unsure what to do next.
And just like those cute little sea turtles you see on Nova, I got Chas' first sea legs on film, too. I can post it when we return to Austin this weekend.
Posted by Steph at 11:46 PM | Comments (0)