your thursday morning wake-up call

have you ever woken up a few minutes before the alarm goes off and decided to get up anyway?

when that happens to me, it always makes me feel more alive, even more awake as i swing my legs off the bed and plant my feet on the floor.

is it because you’ve finished your sleep cycle without being prompted?

this morning, because i woke up before the alarm clanged and startled me out of my early morning dreams, i had the time to get out with the dogs before sunrise and wait patiently for the sun to light up the eastern sky.  was it worth the 15 lost minutes of sleep?

7 stations on the road to the ocean, after hiroshige (day three)

“i only went out for a walk and finally concluded to stay out until sundown, for going out, i found, was really going in.” —john muir

7 stations on the road to the ocean, after hiroshige (day two)

one thing that i find so, let’s see, meditative, about walking along this path that leads down to the ocean, is that it acts as a broom, sweeping away anxieties and conflicts and this cleaning process allows for other, shall we say, more pleasant thoughts, to make their way to the top of the pile of the random thoughts that are constantly swirling around, dust motes, dust kittens (did your mother call the little bundles of dust that hide under the sofa or find their way behind the t.v., the places that don’t always see the working end of a mop or broom and have no fear of the vacuum cleaner, ‘dust kittens’?  mine did and i can’t imagine calling them anything else, can you?  at least those of you who know what i’m talking about.  the rest of you i can’t help); it feels good when you can let that happen, that house-cleaning of the negative (sometimes it’s not even the negative, it’s just the detritus of your daily life that can weigh so on you.)

for the past couple of weeks, i’ve been thinking about the upcoming holidays and what i’m going to make for gifts.   when i was a child, it was something of a tradition, probably born out of necessity, that i made gifts for my family, but for many years after adulthood, i didn’t make gifts, although m. would bake and we did host a major dinner (i say major, because it was a production, you know.)  but, i’ve picked up that habit again and i can say it makes the holidays and all their attendant nonsense a little more bearable.  this then, was one of the more pleasant thoughts that floated to the top on this walk down to the ocean.

one year, when i was 10 or 11, my mother and i took advantage of the air base’s ceramics workshop and poured slip into molds and decorated cups, ashtrays (back when everyone smoked), bowls and other useless items.  there was something gratifying to come back to the workspace and crack the mold and carefully pull out your _________, even if you hadn’t designed the item, you had at least chosen it, which required a certain level of creativity and the process of pouring, cleaning, glazing, all added to the sense that you had made something wonderful.

it comes as no surprise to me then, that there is a good feeling associated with making gifts instead of buying them.  the entire process, even when it goes south, as it sometimes does and you have to reconsider what you’ve done and what you can do to save it from being a disaster and definitely not something you would give to a stranger even let alone someone you think fondly of or love; the entire process makes me feel good, just like this walk along the path to the ocean that gives me the time to feel that way.   there’s a gift for you.

i walked

i almost missed you yesterday.  so small & shy, a true wallflower (if there were walls out-of-doors), only your profusion/profession/confession stopped me (the dog as well, but for him, not you, but for me, it was you.)  microscopic blossoms arrayed in a funeral spray (at first) or a wedding bouquet (at last) draped over the elegant arm of (this, someone else’s fantasy.)  the leaves with their scratchy edges & hard surfaces of delicious, edible green (but i didn’t, eat them.)

for you i stopped dead in my tracks (a little puff of gravel dust rose up around my ankles, the pathway as trite as the metaphor.)  where had you been hiding yourself all this time?  i’ve walked this path for years & have never seen you (was i blind to your charms?  are you there just one day of the year?)  look at you!  those pleading pillow lips, the seductive golden throat (a song emanating from it, the melody not a melody, but a long howl of beauty that brought me to my knees in front of you.)  i leaned in closer hoping to smell you, to put my nose on your shoulder, lean my head against your delicate clavicle, but you kept your distance from my bumbling, scuttling movement, allowing a quick photo, & then dismissal “that’s all for now.”

the blossoms spoiled me.  i wait now for nature’s next bit of spectacle, perhaps the moiré ocean will be pulled clean off its table, a magic trick best left for those with more talent than i.

let’s walk & talk

“let’s walk & talk,” were the words i loved to hear from m. (not my m., another m. that i’ve known forever, you know that m. was the most popular name for boys for several decades after ww2, consequently i have more m.’s in my life than any other name.)

anyway, this m., the walk & talk m., was (and is to a lesser degree now) a dear friend (i still think of him fondly but time & distance have taken its toll on our closeness.)

but these walks we would take, on broadway, or clark, halsted, downtown, lakeview, in the afternoon, early evening, late at night, were always about working out some problem in our lives.  big or small, personal, professional, each listening to the other, sharing.

m. was the best listener i had as a friend & although our bond perhaps was more porous than that of other close friends, i always felt that i received so much from him, because he listened so well.

today, today when i walked i listened closely to what i what i was seeing.  can you tell?  it was a macro kind of day, but because i listened i was able to see the resolution, or if not the resolution, at least the path that i must traverse.

& as m. & i would often discover, the answer to our problems was within ourselves.  just as it was today.

pinwheels (time passes by)

time passed me by today.  it went on & i didn’t.  a jogger ran toward me, but no time elapsed from when i first saw him & when his running shoes whooshed (their sound) past me.    a man walking his dog across the street (a little pomeranian, his nails click click click on the sidewalk) went down & came back, but it could have been at the same time, meeting himself coming & going (without realizing it).  today, time passed me by.

time passed me by today.  colors shot at me like arrows (st. sebastian) hitting their mark (my pupils, my brain) without pain, without sorrow. every color was saturated with meaning (sirens, loreleis, harpies, all called out to me),  today i listened, but time passed me by.

time passed me by today.  i walked down one side of the street, crossed over midway down the block, & went back to where i had started.  i stopped along the way (the dogs snuffling in the grass–each blade requiring their undivided attention), but time passed me by.  it was refreshing to have not missed it.

beverly hills confidential (shhh!)

Isn’t salacious a wonderful word?  Just the way it sounds as it slithers across your tongue & through your lips, hissing, steaming as it hits the cool air in front of your face & expanding, glistening with saliva & sinister innuendo;  & then, then it  beckons the person with whom you’re conversing to lean in closer so that no word that follows will escape their scrutiny, their understanding, their pleasure.   Salacious is the word that I thought of when I first started this walk.

This past week I found myself with time to kill in the flats of Beverly Hills, so I took a walk off a busy and well-known thoroughfare & in less than a half  block the city, the traffic, the congestion (of course that means automobile congestion, no one actually walks in Beverly Hills–further than from the curb to the waiting open door of the restaurant/shop/boutique/club/gallery they’re on their way to) fell away like a flat from a movie set pulled into the fly space above the soundstage & there now were open doors, & deep shade from eucalyptus trees lining the parkway, truly sun-dappled & secretive & birdsong & the occasional radio/t.v./popular music drifting across my path, a snake charmer’s melody drawing me up the street.

There was much to admire, lovely potted cymbidiums drooping, drugged from a Juliette balcony; their waxy petals little flashes of light on the shady side of the street, beacons for the eye, watch, watch out.   This walk was peopled with the shades of humans.  Their touch was everywhere/windows open, eyes to the street; potted, tended plants the result of careful attention.

I was surprised by how casual even the first floor apartments were attired, open curtains to the street, a subtle signal of flirtatiousness flicked to the street like hot ash off a burning cigarette.

Everything said ‘human’ but none to be found, a pet (Maltese/Shih Tsu?) perched at the edge of open french doors on a second floor tracking my photo-taking, walking, admiring, up one side of the street & down the other, giving me little notice as it licked its nose with that little sucking sound they make while doing so.  No barking, though, which made me think that there was no one at home, no need to alert their humans of activity on the street.

& yet, other doors, coolly shut against the street, faced & spotted by shade/sun, this blue color redolent of secrets & crimes/times past.  I have always found little stories behind the doors (my imagination set free by the closure/the denial of entrance.)  What keys open this door/whose hand turns the knob/stoops to pick up the mail/softly, gently shuts the door behind them, the lock clicking into place with a little snap of bone against bone.

The dark hollow of an archway encircled with plaster stonework, cool & damp, the carefully barbered shrubs stanchions holding back the world; entry guarded, a bouncer manning the line of hopeful party-goers: “you, & the pretty lady in the black mini-skirt, you’re okay, come in, come in.”   Do you not anticipate coming home in much the same way?  Your day, the heat all shrouded behind you as the still dark air takes your anxiety down, down, down & you shed your aches & stiffness & muscles relax, you’re home.

Beverly Hills, the apotheosis of all that defines southern California: the blinding sunlight, the fog in the mornings giving way to the blanket of smog during the day, always cloaking the reality, the plastic surgery, the flash & cash & Rolls Royces/Bentleys/Lamborghinis/Priuses (“I’m green!”)  I met only one person on my half-hour walk through this neighborhood.  A middle-aged woman walking her dog, a slick hunting dog.  I said “hello” as we passed each other & she completely ignored me.  I am not a bum, I was dressed in a suit & had my camera out/I smiled as she approached/I was all open & friendly: she ignored me, divinely floating past me on a cloud of superiority & condescension.  Tant pis (two can play the game.)

santa clara avenue, dana point

The great thing about dogs is the contemplative walk.  If you take a cue from your pet, you’ll understand just how much there is to ‘smell’ (for dogs) and to ‘see’ (for humans.)  Once a month, when M. is prepping for his antique show, I take the dogs down to Dana Point for their morning stroll.  There’s a beautiful street, Santa Clara Avenue, that we favor as it is at the bluffs edge (at least the homes are) and if you turn onto Ruby Lantern, there’s the harbor.

This house is just one half block from…

…this house.  This should give you an idea how ‘economy of scale’ is truly defined in Orange County.  (Bigger is always better.)

Making a grand entrance, either into the house or out of the garage is absolutely a must.  Some of the homes along the bluff’s edge have gates, both to the driveway and to the house itself, but in what seems an unusually democratic impulse, many do not.    I like to think of  these homes as being more ‘liberal’ (the ungated ones) although the gated ones are some of my favorites.

M. and I go ’round and ’round about the efficacy of gated neighborhoods (we deplore them,) but we’ve never really come to terms on an individual home being gated.  What are your thoughts?

Of the gated homes, the one above is my favorite.   Everything about it is understated and elegant.  From the stone work to the landscaping; quiet, unobtrusive (except for the gates) and elegant.

Across the street are my two favorite homes.  Obviously designed by the same architect in Spanish Revival mode, they appear to have been built in the past century (my guess is late ’20s to late ’40s.)

Although they appear a little the worse for wear, it’s a ‘shabby chic’ look that they wear well.

I’ve spoken with the owner of this house–he para-surfs–which is like parachuting/sailing only on a surfboard–which seems completely foolhardy and daring at the same time.  His home has a slapdash “I’m living life to the fullest and don’t have that much time to devote to making it look perfect and don’t care if it does or doesn’t,” manner, but lived in and comfortable and generous.

Yesterday, I had the nicest talk with a woman around my age who had come down to run through the neighborhood.  We discussed the relative merits of gated versus ungated, landscaping and columns and pillars and generally enjoyed about ten minutes of conversation before she directed her Nikes in the opposite direction and continued on her way.

This home is another ‘older’ one on the same block.  In this county, where new trumps old every time,  it is refreshing to see that sometimes the past does linger, dowager-like, comfortable/imposing/slightly imperfect.

At the end of Ruby Lantern is the harbor (this is the view most of the previous houses have.)

As we turn back to the car, I notice that the magnolias are in bloom, but the blossoms are too far away for a good shot of them (the scent is amazing) so I snag a shot of their glossy leaves from underneath where it appears they are lined in rusty velvet.