Sunday, July 15, 2007

A Perfect Day at Point Lobos


Late June, sunny skies, early in the day, middle of the week -- so not over crowded -- high tide, coming up on a new moon, which gives the waves a little more bounce.

This view is from the North Shore Trail, looking across at Pebble Beach. It costs $9 to get in to Point Lobos State Reserve, but it's cheap fun at half the price! Parking is limited, and they stop letting people in when all the parking fills up.

During the summer and on weekends, you might find yourself parked in a line at the gate, waiting for someone to leave. Fortunately, you can also park (for free - but watch the parking signs) alongside Highway One, and there are several gorgeous paths leading into the park.

This photo was taken with a Nikon D40, really great camera, but I haven't figured out much to do with it yet. I'm still in point-and-shoot mode, and will probably be stuck here until I find my way into a photography class. It's hard for the beginning digital photographer even to grasp all the acronyms that are used in the manual, so they can get a grasp of the subject matter! Alphabet soup, anyone?

Saturday, June 30, 2007

Trespassing in Big Sur


Story to follow, all you invisible cyber fans who don't read my blog!

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Monday, June 25, 2007

California Central Coast

17 Mile Drive, Pebble Beach


Friday, June 22, 2007

Friday, June 15, 2007

Territory


It’s the space we create around ourselves with or without the other people who live in it, too. Do we own it? A space full of busy people, driven by intentions, by desires, by goals. Territory is the space we carry around inside of us, a mirror image of that outer world. It’s a challenge. Do we share it?

What’s going on in your mind as you rush along, in a hurry, late for that appointment, under pressure, maybe angry, frustrated, maybe scared, maybe just mulling over something somebody said to you, and what you wish you had said in return? You don’t have time to stop, to breathe, not a moment to lose. Heads up. Territory is your personal space. Only three feet?

Then there is the whole complex issue of responsibility. Keeping your eyes peeled, waiting your turn. Following orders, toeing the line, getting a grip. Taking matters into your own hands. You’re thinking on the run, gathering momentum, turning, pulling focus, pulling your weight, catching up, meeting deadlines, making your mark, climbing the ladder of success, racing clocks, opening doors, getting pegged, falling behind, caving in, evading, confronting, capitulating, and then there is someone right beside you, doing the same dance. Who is she? A partner?

Fascinating collisions, endless absorbing. You go very deep into them, you’re involved. You become part of something greater. Greater than yourself. Get a handle on it, circulate, say your piece. Find resolution, seek out accountability, vigorously seek it out. This could be convoluted, or it could be something very simple, something that frees you, like trust. It could be letting someone else take the risk of hurting you, know they can handle it if something goes wrong, they have the will to apologize, forgive their own mistakes. The waiting is over.

You’re on your way now, checking things out. Making choices, being decisive, grasping ideas, shaking hands, striking poses, throwing your weight around, taking a fall, being uplifted, arriving on time. Getting caught, giving in, rolling around with the angels, investing yourself, setting up boundaries, holding still. The territory has limitations outside of your jurisdiction, playing games, it’s one less thing to worry about. New horizons.

It’s not just watching, it’s doing. Keeping up appearances, rehearsing, going through the motions, through stages, counting your blessing, breathing a sign of relief. It’s an experience. There’s danger. You might change your point of view, zero in, form new opinions, be dependable, dig in your heels, spin your wheels, stand your ground, stand up for yourself. Function as an essential component of necessity, autonomy, beyond comprehensibility: input, process, output. A state of grace.

Territory is relationships. Threads that weave in amongst us, spaghettified rainbows bouncing off walls like invisible explosions. Tunneling for growth, expansion, hurtling through space, into his arms, catching a glimpse of forever, making a run for it, hanging on for dear life. Judgment Day came and went and you were drawing conclusions, dipping your brush, whetting your appetite. Painting your way into corners, life in broad strokes. The big picture. An intense collaboration, swarming with possibilities, lighter than a breath of fresh air. Yours for the taking. Captured rapture. Jouissance.

Territory is what we make of it. The future? But for now you’re deep in the moment, performing miracles. Paying attention, paying the price. Teamwork. Exceeding expectations, pushing against your own limitations, forging bonds, building your strengths. Something selfless, like kindness, takes over. It briefly clouds your vision, then clear sailing from here on out. Even a list of just two things is far too much to do in such a short time, a heartbeat, the drop of a hat. Every inch a partition, second chances, every second counts. Stake it out. Compete for balance, equilibrium, for peace, empathy, compassion, for a chance to do something noble, something good for somebody else.

A feast of authenticity. It’s the planet. This, and all the other ones. The planet of tomorrow and the one we left behind. The nameless planet.

Program Notes
written for the UCLA premiere of

Territory

Directed by Jaques Heim
June 10-12, 1999

Tuesday, June 12, 2007

Hurricane (Poetry 1995)


And the winds came.
First in whispers.
Then, in long hollow shouts
that moved much faster than sound.

And the winds came.
Buried in darkness.
Whipped out of hiding by swift currents,
twisting the tunnel’s deep secrets.

And the winds came.
Sweeping avalanches of thought
onto the heart's bare branches:
leaves tangled in a storm of invisible waves.

The earth was breathing.
Come back to life and seeking
her killers. Snaking into lonely back streets,
tasting the sleep of the homeless wishes.

The winds moved each infinitesimal atom of air,
shaping it anew.

Photo Credit:
NASA/Jeff Schmaltz, MODIS Land Rapid Response Team

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Monday, June 11, 2007

Holy Ghost (Poetry 1997)

Morning opens evening blue flowers, beside the green garden.

Light slants like whispers in a white dress, the first communion when she spoke to God.

The father and son, still asleep.

Breakfast, a puzzle, awaits as she assembles
unknown portraits in the choirs of the heart.
Deep in the closet, her dress falls in places
where meanings hide meanings, nesting like birds.

They gather. Their faces. It all fits together.
You see something familiar, a trick of the eye.
White lace, like the dress that follows.

She talks to God; the mirror answers with signs
of aging: hair, make-up, earrings, a necklace, perfume,
shoes slide smoothly onto long forgotten feet.

The ring. God hears her move in the kitchen, matching
colors. Eyes blue as evening, watching through plates,
cups, and glasses; through windows.

Meeting the hopeful patterns, repeated.

She walks her mother’s path, the one without
dances, lined with statues and gravestones,
visited by angels with shadows that sparkle.

Inside the cathedral, each muffled sound
wrapped in a soft package, soothing.
Beside the black benches, book-lined,
Mary intoned in mental sculptures.

The Virgin; her girlhood.

Sun slants in reds, greens, and yellows,
visual echoes, poems like new roses,
petals unwinding in motionless spirals.

Windows, with their stained glass
beauty, kind-hearted like her.

Words slip onto their knees, releasing
relentless questions, a feast of sorrows
resonating the void. Haunting shapes
in ornate clothing, eyes closed, head
bowed, face still as prayer unfolds
its wings in the silence of her soul.

Untranslatable yearning arrested in flight.

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Sunday, June 10, 2007

The Perfect Day to End a Friendship

Trying to seize the moment just after the wave crests. Delicate turquoise that vibrates like a membrane between interstellar dimensions. Trying to have a conversation with a once dear friend, who just doesn't care anymore. The perfect day to end a friendship. The sun slants precisely, capturing mystical colors.




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The Lost Girl (Poetry 1997)

The lost girl is sunlight, she’s shadow. She
walks like an arrow in the morning, at night.
She walks straight in anger, in sorrow; sees
things around her, sees nothing, she’s deep.

The lost girl has answers; has words without
meaning, walks alone, has direction, has knowledge,
has truth. Her dreams keep her busy, she’ll know them,
she’ll tell them, will overhear whispers, will mourn.

The lost girl is tender as footprints in powder. She walks
like an arrow, was taken, retreated in silence, in darkness,
with comfort like stones. There was safety, a haven, with
angels and infinite rainbows, where freedom was love.

She was beauty. Her strength was like ages,
like eagles, like bones. Her thoughts were as
wordless as velvet; her secrets like knives.

The lost girl had riches. She had key chains
and lipstick. Her hair was in pigtails,
her fingernails polished, her dress was
undone. Her face was familiar; her name
was repeated in stations, in tunnels, on highways.

This girl was a child, is a woman, was hurt. No one
can see her. I’ve waited these days for the visions,
the movement, as hours unravel, as rhythms combine.
On the pavement her footsteps were sharp,
but they faded. They mingled. They’re gone.

The corners will turn her, the mirror; the moon is her
sister, her savior. The wind moves around her, her dress
stirs, her arms are like branches, like starlight, like clouds.
She walks like an arrow, with purpose, direction, her feet
strike the earth like a drum. Like a song.

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Friday, May 26, 2006

How to Take Your Turtle for a Walk

Once upon a time there was a little boy named John and he had a pet turtle named Brad. John lived in a big house outside the city with his Mom and Dad and big sister Sally, who had already started kindergarten, and was very smart.

Brad was a Box Turtle that John had gotten for Christmas, and he lived in a large aquarium by the window in John's bedroom. The aquarium was a miniature turtle world with plants and stones and gravel and a sparkling, turtle-sized pond. Brad ate worms mostly, which John fed him every day. John also sprayed Brad with water every morning, since Box Turtles don't like getting dried out.

One Friday afternoon, sister Sally came into John's bedroom after school and found him staring sadly into the big aquarium at Brad.

"What's wrong?" she asked.

"I'm not sure." said John. "I think Brad might be sick. He hasn't moved all day. He didn't even eat his breakfast!" The chubby worm that John had dropped into the aquarium that morning was still scrunching and un-scrunching itself beside the pond.

Sally came over and looked into the aquarium, shaking her head. "You worry too much," she said. "He's just asleep." She reached inside and knocked on Brad's back. "Did you try to wake him?"

"Don't!" said John, pulling her hand away. "You're not supposed to knock on a turtle!"

"Who told you that? asked Sally, with scorn.

"No one. I just know if I was a turtle I wouldn't want anyone knocking on me!"

Sally shrugged, sitting on John's bed to contemplate the turtle. "I've got it!" she said. "He's bored. He doesn't like being cooped up here. He needs to go for a walk."

"A walk? You mean like a dog?"

"Of course, like a dog! You know how sad Archie gets when he needs to go for his walk. I think Brad needs to go for a walk!"

John wasn't sure about this, but couldn't disagree. It was true that their dog Archie got depressed if he didn't get his walk twice a day, and this could be true of turtles, also.

"But Brad has no leash and no collar," remarked John. "Do they have them for turtles?"

"Of course, they have them for turtles!" said Sally and, since she went to kindergarten and was very smart, John believed her.

"Let's walk down to the pet store on the corner," said Sally, and so they did.

John and Sally searched up and down the aisles of the pet store, but couldn't find a leash or collar for Brad. Of course, it was ridiculous for a pet store not to carry such important items, but this was no problem for John and Sally, who decided to make their own. They went back to the house and took a ribbon off Sally's teddy bear and cut it down to size and found some string in a drawer in the kitchen and used it to make a leash. Then they lifted Brad out of his aquarium, took him outside into the backyard, and set him down.

As soon as Brad's tummy touched the grass, his head and feet popped out. He was already feeling better, so Sally must be right! John knelt down and eased the collar over Brad's tiny neck and then stood up and gently tugged on the leash, but Brad refused to budge. In fact, he seemed to get depressed again, and tried to go back in his shell.

John and Sally waited. And waited. And waited. And, finally, Brad stirred and began to crawl and John gave the leash another tug to encourage Brad to walk down the garden path with him. As soon as John pulled on the leash, Brad flopped down on his tummy again and pulled in his legs.

"Hopeless case!" exclaimed Sally, as she spotted a friend on the sidewalk in front of their house. "Brad must like being depressed," she said, running off to meet her friend.

John was losing patience, too, but he had seen signs that Brad was cheering up, and decided that the turtle just needed more time. So again he waited, and waited, and waited... and finally Brad poked out his sturdy legs and began to move.

This time, John decided not to tug on the leash. Instead, he just followed along with Brad, leaving some slack, to see where the turtle would go.

John soon discovered that Brad was not interested in staying on the path, but preferred to wander, willy-nilly, here and there, lumbering through the flower bed, around the swing set, through the tomato patch, past the rose bush, and over the mound beside the apple tree.

"Funny," thought John, "Brad is taking me for a walk and not the other way around!"

Well, Brad certainly didn't need a leash or a collar for that, so John slipped off Brad's collar and stuffed it with the leash into his pocket. Then, he continued following Brad as he crawled around and around and ended up in the corner of the yard where John once kept a pet rabbit. There was a pen there, and Brad scuttled into the pen, stopping beside the hutch where the rabbit used to live. As John watched, Brad stuck his nose into a patch of grass, pulled out a worm, and started munching.

John could see that Brad had found a new home for himself, a home that was like the natural world where he was born, and where he could hunt for worms and bask in the sun and sleep in the shade like turtles do in the wild. Clearly, Brad did not want to live in the house like a human; he wanted to live outside like a turtle! So John closed the gate, leaving Brad to enjoy his new home, then went to find Sally and her friend so that he could explain what had happened.

"If you want to take your turtle for a walk," he told them, "here's how you do it. You follow along and go where the turtle goes."