On the Laguna Trail

Fall used to be my favorite season. It still is, but now it terrifies me. The rustling of the leaves means that the wind is picking up. The sudden heat of Indian Summer means that something is about to catch on fire.  The rust and brown colors of the hills look like burn scars. The sweet heavy smoke from my neighbor's fireplace sends me into a panic attack. And yet I will not let fear and trauma steal away my love for this season. You can love what you fear, and fear what you love. Love and fear are dark twin goddesses of the heart.

The Randomness of What Remains (The Thing and the Image of the Thing)

This painting began as an homage to random found objects. Pieces I'd found at a yard sale, an "artist stimulus giveaway." I took pictures of them and printed them out. I envisioned this piece as an homage to THE THING and THE IMAGE OF THE THING. But that wasn't enough. I lived with it like that for a while. The juxtaposition of THE THING and THE IMAGE OF THE THING. It was interesting but also a little boring. Too safe. Too obvious. Then I started adding and changing. Made it actually even more obvious. I didn't like it. I realized I needed to cover it up. Cover it in tissue paper, paint it black, and start fresh by uncovering. 

When I look at it now, after covering and uncovering, slashing open the tissue paper skin with an Exacto knife over and over again, I can see what I didn't expect:

After the latest fire, our backyard was covered in ash and soot. Not just fine powdery ash but chunks of charred THINGS, clusters of pine-needles turned to coal, blackened skeletons of bay leaves (so many bay leaves!), and a random piece of a burned page from some technical manual.

This is an homage to the THINGS WE LOST. THINGS WE LOST TO THE FIRE. Covered and uncovered under layers of soot and ash. The thing and the image of the thing. The randomness of what remains.

10.14.20

Pandemic Diaries, August

 8.18.20

So here’s the thing about COVID. 

All the shit that’s been fucking up your life before COVID is still there. It’s just amplified now. COVID makes the shitty things even shittier than before. 

I can feel a commercial coming on: 

“Feeling a little blue? Just add COVID! You’ll be on top of the world in no time (aka standing on top of a parking garage.)” 

“Down in the dumps? Just add COVID! You’ll be cruising before you know it (aka down a highway to hell.)”

Depression. Racism. Inequity. Climate change. Addiction. Cancer. Wildfires. 

The whole shit show, still shitty. Going strong. Just add COVID and shit’s gonna go big. 

***

Cloudfaced

I know you are

But what am I?

I see you hiding

Bitter seeds

Between your teeth

Nobody travels further

And yet

We remain

cloudfaced

Slow journeys home

between thicket and thorn

among the rushes

silvery spiders of light

unsung memories

weaving

their slow journeys home

Commitment

I will treasure my sadness like a rare bird. A bird with dark feathers and a sharp beak. My sadness flies with the crows. I will treasure my sadness like a crow. I am huddled inside its dark soft cool wings. My sadness casts a mighty shadow. The other day, I heard the sound of crow’s wings for the first time. I was in a forest so silent as if on another planet. A murder of crows was gathered across from me on the other side of a small creek. They were a beautiful shiny black. Suddenly they took flight, one after the other.  I could hear the air rushing through the filigrane bones and thick weave of feathers that made up their mighty wings. It was a hushed and powerful sound. I now know it was the sound that my sadness makes when it takes flight. 

I will walk with my sadness and hold it close to my heart. I will not abandon it. I will cherish its quiet solemn beauty. I will hold its salty hand. I will caress it delicately with the soothing ebb and flow of my breath. I will keep it safe and sound inside my aching heart. I will carry my sadness with me like a talisman, a treasured gift protected by my rib cage. My sadness will never be alone. 

I will not fear my sadness any longer. I will love it unconditionally, the way I love my child. I will not try to change it. I will plant it in the fertile black soil of my heart and wait patiently as it grows.

7.25.20

Pandemic Diaries: May - July

I miss crowded dirty city streets. I miss bumping into people on the sidewalk. I miss squeezing into an elevator. I miss standing shoulder to shoulder on a city bus. I miss shuffling from painting to painting with the throngs of people revelling at art at SFMOMA and DeYoung. I miss competing at the bar with the crowd to order a cocktail. I miss the sweaty drunken frat boys spilling their beers on me at The Fillmore. I miss San Francisco.

---

My gratitude is not conditional. It does not expect rewards. I am not asking for guarantees or even reassurances that things are going to be ok. I know they are not. I know the other shoe eventually drops. Always. And I am still grateful.

---

On Weariness

Weariness is not the same as sadness

Or is it?

I feel like a faded photograph of myself

Blurred at the edges

I feel like a smudged camera lens

A fogged up mirror

A t-shirt that’s been washed too many times

I am fraying at the seams

I have holes

I am pale and dry inside

I am crumbling away to dust

I am a pile of fallen leaves

Scattering in the wind

No that’s not true

That would be freedom

I am a pile of leaves

Stuffed in a black plastic bag

And tied with a ribbon

I am festering

I am fermenting

I am slowly disintegrating

One morning I will wake up

And there will be nothing left of me

Perhaps

Then I will feel relief?