The Illusionist

We met our friends Joan and Deb at the Bay Street Mall to see The Illusionist. There was another film of the same name made a few years back, but it has nothing in common with this one except for the title. This one is animated, based on an unfinished screen play by the French film-maker Jacques Tati.

The looks and mannerisms of the main character are based on Tati himself. It's about the relationship between a traveling illusionist and a young girl, a waif who adopts him as her father figure. It's also about the passing of vaudeville acts, replaced by television and rock n'roll. It's a sad sentimental film, more Chaplin than Tati in mood. The older generation of magicians, chorus girls, acrobats, clowns and ventriloquists become anachronistic. They end up out of work and homeless.

Naturally, we identified with their plight: Deb, the part-time teacher whose position is being attacked by union busters, Joan the librarian, whose hours have been reduced because of budget cuts, Bob laid off from his job at the bank so now 'retired', and myself, a commercially unsuccessful artist and impractical dreamer.

The real irony was that we were almost the only people in the theater, watching scenes on screen where the illusionist plays to an almost empty house. It was a quiet film with beautifully animated scenes of Scotland, especially Edinburgh. Those scenes were well worth the price of admission though the story was too sentimental and the film dragged on too long.

The second irony was that we watched it at a multiplex. The loud explosive sounds of other movies made it hard to hear the film's soundtrack, combined with the ping-ping of the video arcade next door. I finally complained to the manager. Instead of a refund, he gave us free tickets for another movie. It may be a while before I make it back.

Hand-made Book

I like making books by hand, but I'm no good at it. I lack co-ordination. Or whatever you call it. When someone explains to me, "This is how you do the binding," I nod like I understand, but I haven't a clue. It's like math class after the teacher has gone through an algebraic formula. The same lack of comprehension.

I'm talking about creating art journals, not actually writing books -- though I've always wanted to do that, too, and failed. Not failed, but never started. "Your eyes are bigger than your stomach," my mom used to say when I helped myself to food I couldn't finish. My ideas are bigger than my ability to execute them. I took an Art Journal class once from my friend Christina. While other people did the assignments, I filled up page after page with red paint and then tore out the pages.

I'm too in love with the details to see the big picture. That helped when I made my Tarot deck. It was simple: just do one card at a time, then go on to the next. Besides, the Tarot was an established system that I could work with. But to come up with a concept of my own? That's different. Maybe that's why I like to blog. The details of my day unfold into small individual essays, unrelated to each other except in their relentless progression.

Listeners

Listeners will always turn the conversation away from them and back to you. Being a talker, I fall for that every time. Talkers. Are we the narcissists? Loving to hear the sounds of our own voices? Maybe. But who are they? The listeners, sitting in the shadows, their faces obscured by wing chairs. Are they our audience, entranced and entertained by our stories -- or are they our therapists, our Father Confessors?  Are they bored, thinking about something else entirely? Do they even hear a word we say? Hostile, wishing we would just shut the hell up? Are they our silent judges? Like God?

"Your turn to talk," I always break off at some point, embarrassed at my lengthy monologue. A long silence ensues. Listeners-turned-into-talkers pause between words, considering what they will say next or even if they will speak at all. Will they ever get to it, reveal themselves? No. Uncertain, afraid of being jumped on or interrupted, they give up easily. They were probably criticized for speaking out as children; now they're afraid of offering their true opinions.

That's one sort of listener. The other sort goes straight to the point. Short and concise, he says what he wants to say and then he's finished. Is that all? Is there no foreplay, no wallowing in words? No lingering aftermath? That one thing said seems wise in retrospect, precious because it's so brief. Or is it just forgotten? So short, so quick.  Barely spoken. Whispered.

Let It Snow

Snow is predicted. I'll believe it when I see it. It has happened a few times since I've lived in the Bay Area though on those rare occasions, what passed for 'snow' was actually a few flakes whirling by the window before they disappeared into thin air. I've never seen snow ON THE GROUND here. Neither has anyone else so we're all excited. Snow!  Its arrival would be as rare and magical as a unicorn's appearance on Market Street.

In the meantime, it rained -- proper winter weather for this area. Bob went to dinner with friends and I stayed behind, comfortably ensconced in the warm dry house while the rain beat down. I like the rainy season. I prefer cool weather and rain makes for high-quality introversion -- important for writers, readers, and artists. It's a powerful motivation for cleaning out your closets, too.

Thistles and Stalks

I showed Bob a plant volunteer in our front yard, a stalk with coral blooms that suddenly popped up between the poppies, the jade plants and the tangle of ice plants that he planted several years ago. They've all gone pleasingly wild over the once rather barren slope in front of our house. Now it's a tangle of unruly plants hemming in the rose bushes that were originally here when we moved in eleven years ago. (It doesn't seem that long ago, but is.)

We bought the jade plants at a garage sale, tiny cuttings in cheap plastic pots. For years they sat on our front porch, neglected. One day we decided to plant them. For us, that was a radical notion. To our amazement they grew, imperceptibly it seemed, into the large sturdy bushes that we have today. The larger bush blooms every year. It's blooming now, covered with white flowers. The ice plants are in bloom as well, crowned with crinkly purple thistles.

How the ice plants came about was theft: every time we walked along Emery Bay, Bob filched a cutting or two from the vast expanse that grew along the waterfront. I was not supportive of this endeavor in any way. Embarrassed, I pretended I wasn't with him when he committed the theft and when he planted them, I was dubious that they would grow. But grow they did. Now they cover the entire slope.

He was a little grumpy when I pulled him out of the house into the cold air to look at our new flower, but just then a humming bird swept in, hovered over the rose bushes and winged away -- a small miracle that gave us joy.

A Strand of Memory

Gone are the days of the old movie houses. Even when I was young, they had already seen their best days. Many closed or became porn theaters. Others of them played art films for cheap (3 films for 3 dollars) so I spent many afternoons in the dark watching bad prints of French, Italian and German imports. I didn't care. I was entranced.

In San Francisco I sometimes went to the Strand on Market Street. That theater was the pits, the absolute bottom of the barrel in the way that the strip joints on Market were the worst and the sleaziest, but I went there anyhow. My second husband Randy had worked on a science fiction film script that later became renowned for its abysmal-ness. I can't remember the name of the film, but it starred Sean Connery and Charlotte Rampling. Randy said Sean Connery was a great guy and a real gentleman, but Charlotte Rampling was a bitch. She couldn't remember her lines and they had to do rewrites for her every morning.

We watched that film at the Strand, the celluloid crackling as loudly as the stale popcorn under our feet. Bubblegum in the aisles stuck to the bottoms of our shoes. Gay men and transsexuals sat up in the balcony doing unmentionable things. Some dressed in drag, others in bathrobes and hair curlers. Straight men sat alone in the front rows masturbating, talking to themselves, or drunk, snoring under wet newspapers because it was raining outside and they needed a warm place to go. The films played on in a continuous loop like the continuous stripteases in the sex shows, only cheaper. Only a dollar. Maybe two. I can't remember now, but those were the days.

Sushi à la Française

I found myself up at 2 in the morning so I sat down at my computer. That's when my Internet searches become increasingly bizarre. The first thing you know, I had stumbled on a site about the French way of eating. It was written by an American mom and nutritionist who had lived in France with her children. (Sorry, I can't link to her site because I don't remember what it was.) She compared French school menus with American ones for 123 days.  I actually read each menu very carefully, in my bleary-eyed insomniac way. Of course, the French menus turned out to be superior to ours in nutritional value and variety of foods. She explained that in French schools, children are seated at table where the food is served to them in courses instead of our American free-for-all. They have two hours for lunch, but only one choice of entree unless there are special dietary concerns. They are not permitted to bring their lunch, but they are allowed to go home, eat, and come back. The main meal in France is served mid-day, with a lighter one eaten later in the evening. The French eat slower, take smaller portions, and spend more time at the table than we do. They do not snack or eat on the go.

How right she was! For lunch, I went back to my favorite Japanese restaurant and there she was -- the French woman whom I had admired in an earlier post. This time she was sans husband, but with her two children, a little girl and boy. They sat one table down from me. Since the restaurant was relatively empty, I could observe them at leisure, which I did. I hope I didn't freak them out, but they seemed not to notice me, absorbed as they were in the ritual of their meal.

It was amazing to watch. The first course was miso soup. They sipped slowly until it was all gone. Then the edamame arrived, which the kids gobbled up. After that came an order of sushi rolls and a plate of chicken teryaki with a bowl of rice. The woman carefully arranged the children's portions: a single piece of sushi, a mound of rice and a small amount of teryaki. They ate enthusiastically, occasionally making "Mmmm" noises of appreciation. Then the tea arrived (silence while they carefully sipped) followed by a large salad of pickled cucumber. That was her entree, but the children freely sampled.  Lastly, le dessert: a saucer of mochi, petite balls of mango, ginger, and green tea ice cream.

The children did not run around screaming. The mother did not talk on her cell phone. She let them play with their food. The little boy fed her several times, which I thought was sweet. (I usually witness the feeding ritual to be the other way round.) When the little girl laid down on the bench and squirmed, she was gently admonished. She sat up again, but danced happily in her seat along with her mother, who also bobbed to the music. What struck me was the careful attention the mother gave to her children and to the food. It wasn't the coddling I see in American parents, nor the alternate pattern of yelling interspersed with neglect. They weren't indulged, but they were nurtured. She was entirely relaxed and present. It relaxed me just to watch her.

The Capitol Corridor

Via Amtrak, we traveled to Martinez to visit friends. Even though the station employees are often rude, the trains invariably late and information about their arrivals and departures unreliable, I still love Amtrak because once I've actually managed to board, I've entered an entirely different world, a slower and more pleasant one.

The Capitol Corridor stops in Berkeley, Emeryville and Richmond before it arrives in Martinez, hugging the coast as it chugs cheerily through the wetlands. We pass solitary fishermen and the occasional hobo tent, speeding through a labyrinth of oil refineries and past the dilapidated C & H sugar factory until at last we reach a curving stretch of track with nothing to be seen but rows and rows of rotting piers sticking out of the bay. Where did they come from? Bob wonders. And what was their original purpose? I don't know and I don't care to know, content with their surreal appearance, which seems as mysterious to me as ancient artifacts.

Robert and Sarah meet us at the station. Later we watch his latest video, Plumb Line, which is all about -- trains! The video is layered so artfully with sounds and images that I feel like I'm still riding the rails. Soon enough we board the actual train heading home: one continuous loop, I think, though the virtual journey seems real and the actual one a dream.

All Gone

I went to the Alameda Library to write, but couldn't get my laptop to connect to the Internet so I left the building, intending to return after lunch and try again. I drove through a rainstorm to the shopping center to scout for a bite to eat, but by the time I arrived, the downpour was so heavy that I gave up. As I wound my way through the parking lot, I saw gigantic signs plastered in the windows of Borders: "Store Closing Soon! Everything Slashed!" which depressed the hell out of me. That bookstore only opened a year or so ago and it's been filled to the brim with customers ever since. Today it was as crowded as usual with people packed in the cafe on the second floor. Maybe none of them actually buys books. Maybe, like me, they mostly browse. It's a warm cozy place to hang out. Without it, the shopping center will seem bleak.

I must admit, I felt bleak as I drove home. We've recently lost our classical station so there's not much decent music to listen to on the car radio. I used to enjoy KPFA's World Music program, which was aired on weekday mornings from 10 to 12, but then KPFA got even more obnoxiously political than it used to be. In a reckless Nazi-like purge, they cut their world music to only one hour a day, replacing it with boring left-wing diatribes. (Since I'm a dyed-in-the-wool lefty, if the programs are too left-wing for me, you know they're bad. Politically correct, self-righteous and martyred, that's their usual tone.)

I had to quit listening out of principle. So no more KPFA, no more classical station, and now, no more Borders -- at least in Alameda.

The Eternal Questions

Is it any surprise to hear that it's still raining? We went out for cheap Chinese food. I hadn't had pot stickers in quite a while. They were good. The Shrimp Mu She was good, too. The wait person always smears your first crepe with plenty of plum sauce, then fills it and wraps it for you. After that lavish ritual, you're on your own. That is the way of all Chinese restaurants. Has anyone ever asked why? These are the kind of questions one ponders after a week of unrelenting rain. But it was nice to be out, to watch umbrellas bobbing by the restaurant window. I assume there were people underneath them.

Rainy Day Woman

Remember the rainy days of childhood when your parents wouldn't let you go out to play? That bored, restless caged-in feeling? That's how I've been feeling lately, only I've become my own inner parent, forbidding myself to venture out except for small trips to the grocery. This is our third day of rain or is it the fourth or fifth? After a while, the days begin to blur into each other -- like raindrops streaking down the windows to condense into steam. Yes, I've definitely become a bit myopic. I need to venture forth into the wild wet world. But it's a cold miserable kind of rain interspersed with gusts of wind, not conducive to long strolls.

I remember other years when I walked alone in the rain and it was marvelous. In the Bay Area, this is the greenest time of year and when you go walking under an umbrella, you feel like you've discovered an enchanted territory that belongs only to you. One year, umbrella-less, I hiked in the Pinnacles. I wandered for hours by myself, rain-drenched but happy. Of course, I was tripping on acid, besides being 30 years younger.

Other years I explored Golden Gate Park, overgrown and jungle-like, where I stumbled over mysterious pieces of broken antique stones or wandered down unmarked paths to encounter street people taking shelter from the rain under leafy shrubs. Since I've moved to Oakland I've often walked in the Morcom Rose Garden, past rose bushes cut back to bare stubs in mid-winter. Or I've walked by Lake Merritt, rain beating on my umbrella as I watched the birds cavort.

8 1/2

After I saw Divorce Italian Style, I decided I needed more Marcello so I ordered 81/2 through Netflix, even though I've seen it multiple times. It did not disappoint, especially the dream and memory sequences. I love the scenes of Guido's childhood: little boys bouncing up and down in the tub and then swept into blankets, sheets, towels (I'm not sure which) by their doting mothers, aunts, and older female relatives. Later in the film, when the boys have grown to schoolboy adolescence, they bounce up and down on the beach as they used to do in the tub while they watch the prostitute Saraghina do her sensual dance. In the harem scene, the adult women in his real life become the adoring sex slaves in his fantasy life, repeating the same enveloping, caressing motions with the sheets.

Fellini and Bergman were the two cinematic giants of my adolescence. Both made complex films about the soul, but their styles were as different as night and day. Bergman was Swedish, northern and puritanical in his sensibilities. Tortured by Protestant guilt and existential angst, his films were spare, austere, and beautifully lit. Fellini was tortured by guilt, too, but of a different sort: Catholic guilt in a baroque, southern country. His films were overblown, exuberant, and seemingly undisciplined. Bergman was the heavy, Fellini the clown.

I liked them both, but preferred Fellini.  It's a tribute to his magic that as many times as I've seen 81/2, I always think that it's in color. But this turns out to be a false memory. The film is entirely shot in black and white.

You Say Cassava, I Say Casaba

Winter has re-appeared, which on the West Coast means rain. Fighting gusty winds, we ventured out  to the main library; then to the Friends of the Library bookstore to forage for books. The Bookmark is in downtown Oakland. Whomever selects the books there has good taste because the shelves are crowded with mysteries that I would definitely choose to read if I hadn't read them already. So empty-handed, we returned to the car, which was parked in front of a Chinese grocery with a sign saying that it specialized in Afro-Caribbean and Latino foods.

Intrigued, we investigated. We discovered weird-looking roots like Taro and other gnarled knobby things that we'd never heard of, huge bags of Cassava  and Fufu powder, plantains, Casaba melons, coconuts in their hairy shells, goat meat, cow's feet, a dozen brands of curry powder, some in huge vats, all manner of molasses and syrups and a hot sauce with a label that said, "Hot Sauce from Hell. Beyond Hot!" A red devil with pitchfork grinned, either in welcome or warning, his teeth sizzling from the heat.

I was thrilled to find hominy in its natural state rather than the canned precooked kind, as well as millet and wheat berries. (I've been experimenting with grains and these are hard to obtain.) But the strangest item was labelled "Stock Fish. Cod from Norway." Dried cod, I suppose, but it looked like long stringy pieces of driftwood stacked in a barrel -- pieces that were taller than my waist. I can't imagine who would actually buy this. One piece would provide you with enough fish stock for decades.

Love Bytes

My computer broke down. I nearly did, too, since I hadn't bothered to back up my hard drive. Fortunately, Bob resurrected it, but the mishap freaked us out so much that we immediately went to Office Max and bought memory sticks to back up our data. Amazing -- you can buy an 8 gigabyte memory stick for only $20!

"These are our Valentine's Day presents," I joked with the cashier.

"Because that's what Valentine's Day is all about. The memories," said Bob. She smiled.

"Especially when you get old," I added.

A black guy behind us yelled out, "You know what the average amount that men spend is? $165 on the day. You know what women spend? $75!"

"Are you talking about Valentine's Day?" I asked.

"Yeah. Men spend $165 on average, women only $75."

"They spend that much money on Valentine's Day?" I was amazed. "I used to get mad if Bob didn't buy me flowers, but now I don't care."

"Do you have a twin sister?"

Dancing at the End of Time

My collage series/pseudo Tarot deck is finished!!! The last card was The Hanged Man. He turned into a woman in my collage -- actually, a female mummy. According to the book of Egyptian artifacts that I stole her from, she had probably been a court dancer so I called her "Dancer." This verse from TS Eliot's Burnt Norton best expresses the card's meaning:

At the still point of the turning world. Neither flesh nor fleshless;
Neither from nor towards; at the still point, there the dance is,
But neither arrest nor movement. And do not call it fixity,
Where past and future are gathered. Neither movement from nor towards,
Neither ascent nor decline. Except for the point, the still point,
There would be no dance, and there is only the dance.

In the Tarot, the Hanged Man symbolizes transition.This can be an uncomfortable time. Hanging in the void.  Facing the emptiness. Waiting for the future to take shape -- quite appropriate as I don't know what will come next, collage-wise. I'm happy that I finished the series, but I'm also experiencing a feeling of loss. I did so enjoy making those little cards!

Food Matters

My three day funk ended last night when I baked oatmeal cookies. The weight loss people say that food shouldn't be used for emotional comfort, but I say they're out of their minds. There's nothing more therapeutic than baking. I will concede that it's the act of cooking that's a big part of the healing process. It wouldn't have worked if I had just bought cookies from the store. And they wouldn't have tasted half as good.

I got the recipe from Mark Bittman's book, Food Matters. It's a mixture of cookbook, memoir, instruction manual, political manifesto and religious tract. A couple of years ago, he was as overweight as I am. He lost thirty-five pounds by sticking to a vegan diet during the day, but eating whatever he liked at night. (He did try to cut down on meat, but didn't eliminate it altogether.)

I love the concept, but have not been able to put it into practice. I've only tried two recipes from the book and both are in the dessert section. They were simple recipes that I used to make when I was growing up: apple crisp and oatmeal cookies. Simple but delicious.

Someday My Prince Will Come

The highlight of my morning was that Mubarak finally stepped down. I wasn't as euphoric as the Egyptian people, but I was with them in spirit as they danced and partied in the streets. Way to go, Egypt!!

My weekly writing session with Deb hit a snag. She wrote about Peru again, but I couldn't seem to write my way out of a paper bag. She lectured me about my laziness. I need to work harder, return to old pieces, re-think and revise.

She's right, of course, but so far I haven't managed to settle myself down to it. I'm waiting for the Muse to appear in the way that some of my female friends used to wait for Love. They wanted Prince Charming to come knocking on their doors. "No," I told them, "You have to go out and find him -- or at least put yourself in the way of some possible Prince Charmings so that the right one can find you."

Waiting for the Muse is just as problematic. After all, the Egyptian people waited 29 years for democracy, but nothing happened until they made it happen.

I did manage to conjure up another collage card. Maybe he's my Prince Charming.

Pajama Game

I spent the day in my pajamas because I didn't sleep well. I kept thinking I'd take a nap so why get dressed? I never made it back to bed, but I never made it out of my pajamas, either. Needless to say, I stayed inside all day. It wasn't a good day. Some bad news floated in via the telephone; then we heard that Mubarak had refused to step down, which depressed us further.

"You must have had an intuition to stay close to home," Bob commented. "Like you knew things were going to be rough." Well, maybe. It's always hard to tell in hindsight whether your intuition is at work or just happenstance.

So I made chicken soup and watched another Italian movie. This one was called Mid-August Lunch, one of the recent rash of warm and fuzzy European movies about a celebratory meal. It was about a middle-aged guy who ends up taking care of four old ladies overnight, including his mother. It was heartwarming. Shuffling around in my pajamas, I felt like one of those old ladies, only without a celebratory meal, a handsome Italian guy or a bottle of wine to cheer me up.

Solano Stroll

Albany is a town in its own right, though it seems like an extension of Berkeley. Solano Avenue is its main street. The street's buildings, which were were probably once hardware and stationery stores, shoe repair businesses and the like, have for the most part been transformed into upscale boutiques and bistros. "Buy Local!" one sign insists, which seems ironic since the small-town California street is now filled with Tibetan, Indian and Japanese import stores, and with Tibetan, Nepalese, Indian, Korean, Chinese, Japanese, Mexican and Italian restaurants. A lot of Tibetan refugees live in Berkeley and and there's strong political support there for the "Free Tibet" movement, as well as several thriving Tibetan Buddhist communities.

Bob and I amble down Solano Avenue. It's a long street and we don't make it to the very end, but we enjoy the stroll. We stop at the Kathmandu Cafe for lunch and share a plate of momos (steamed dumplings with good things inside), but we part ways on the entree. I get a chicken wrap, but he orders goat meat curry. "Goat meat. Yuck!" I say, reading the menu out loud while his eyes light up at the prospect of trying something new. That's the difference between us.

What I really love about the cafe is its decor: on one wall are gigantic mandalas; on the other an array of elaborate tankas, and along the ledge a row of small wooden prayer wheels. A Tibetan CD plays in the background and we bounce our heads in rhythm to the music, which is a combination of percussion, gongs, Indian raga, and some twangy instrument that gives it a cowboy feel.

On our way back to the car we stop at The Bone Room where dinosaur bones, human skulls, "Disturbing Doll Parts," "Doll Busts", "Tiny" and "Broken Heads," "Painted Doll Legs," "Gnomes," and "Miscellaneous" are for sale, not to mention lion vertebrae, catfish spines, iridescent butterflies and bulging beetles. But the most amazing display is the albino Burmese python, who is very much alive, curled up behind a heated window in the back of the store. He is huge, beautiful and scary, his skin intricately patterned in pale yellow and white.

Ironically, after we leave this circus of the dead, I see a sign that says, "Ban the Circus! Circuses Abuse Animals!" -- ironic since this town would have welcomed the circus with open arms only a century ago. But I support the sentiment.

One last stop for designer chocolate. Here there are chocolate Buddhas and fertility goddesses for sale as well as white chocolate skulls, but we settle for simple truffles, one apiece, lavender-flavored, with a lavender design embossed on top.

Veneer, American Style

Last night I watched Divorce, Italian Style on Netflix. I had seen multiple Marcello Mastroianni movies when I was young (or as we used to call him, Marcello Macaroni), but had never gotten around to this particular one. I knew it was a comedy about a man who wants to murder his wife so I supposed it was some sexist Italian thing that I would find offensive or that would bore me. I was mistaken. It was actually a very funny satire of Italian mores and morals and it entertained me all the way through. So, if you haven't seen it, I recommend it.

The first "grown-up" movie I ever saw was Fellini's La Dolce Vita -- starring Marcello, of course. It was one of a long-line of art house films that influenced my generation's outlook on the world. These European films were full of post-war cynicism. We who had studied Jean Paul Sartre and Albert Camus in high school were ripe for their messages about the empty veneer of society and the meaninglessness of it all. To us, European post-war decadence was glamorous, especially in contrast to our white bread American lives.

Marcello was sexy in his dark sunglasses and cool detached persona, but I didn't want to make love to him. I wanted to be him. We all did.

Weather

Even though it's officially winter, the weather here is like early spring, which makes me uneasy. I know much of the country is suffering under heavy snowfall and I'm thankful that we're not, but when it's warm here I worry that we'll have no more rain. No more rain means that we're still on drought alert. Besides, the plants all decide it's spring so the pollen level rises and my allergies have a field day.

I went to Berkeley Bowl again. This time, it wasn't as much fun. Even though the weather is warm, the produce has a tired, end-of-winter look. There's no good-looking fruit except for citrus and as much as I love Brussels sprouts, I'm tired of them. I long for decent-looking berries and lush tomatoes. I know we're spoiled in the Bay Area, but since the weather was warm enough to take off my sweater, it seemed weird to push my cart around aisles of root vegetables.

A Load of Bull

We went to San Francisco to see two short plays. The less said about them the better, but I will say that the first one concerned an ancient bull and the second, a modern one. Afterwards we went to a Japanese-Chinese restaurant where I ordered beef. The theme continued at home when we watched an episode of Inspector Maigret. The story concerned the murder of a butcher. There were vivid shots of cow carcasses hung on meat hooks.

I'm loathe to say the name of the plays since a friend wrote them. I wanted to like them, but didn't. It's difficult when you respect someone, but don't like their work. Your opinion is not always welcome.

But I will say this: the plays were in the form of one-woman monologues and therefore short on plot, characters, or action. Maybe I've watched too many murder mysteries, but I fidget through lengthy monologues. They're way too static. Besides, I've seen so many of them that I've become monologue-intolerant. In the high-rent Bay Area, theater spaces are usually tiny and it's too expensive to hire more than one actor, thus the deadly monologue.

Arcane Rituals

I love making collages. I savor the process of my self-imposed creation rituals -- so here they are for you to savor, too, or to yawn through as you choose:

First I find images that I like, then cut them out. Designing the card takes a long time. I sift through my picture box, obsessively arranging and re-arranging pieces until my inner jigsaw falls into place.

Next I apply Gesso to the cardboard square and let it dry. Then I choose a paint color that harmonizes with the image. Sometimes it takes several voluptuous layers before the card is properly covered. Occasionally, I brush a translucent color over the first one. It's iridescent and glistens when you hold it up to the light, subtly altering the original shade.

OK. the paint has dried. Time to rehearse so that I don't mess up the pieces when I actually glue them onto the board. The glueing process is always tricky (or shall I say "sticky'?).  Aha, it's done! Or almost. Now I have to paste the title on the back. (I find my titles from magazines and books. I choose phrases that are suggestive of the image but not too literal.)

Title's done. Wait for it to dry. Scan it. Show it on Facebook. Now for the last part: brushing the surface with transparent gloss to protect it.

And here it is, cradled in my hands, glowing and beautiful. I put it up on the mantle and revel in it. Ah. Satisfaction.

Time Travel

In the Bay Area, designer teas came into fashion at the same time as exotic cocktails. I don't drink so I'm clueless about the cocktails, but Deb and I often write at L'Amyx, an exotic tea bar in Piedmont. The prices are outrageous, but the atmosphere is serene. Besides, the place is fairly empty so it's a good spot to write. This time our subject was "Find Your Way in A City." We both went to town on that one.  Deb wrote about Arequipa, a city in Peru that she visited last year and I wrote about San Francisco:


Those were the days, when I used to walk from my flat in the upper Haight down to the lower Fillmore; then through the housing projects (I was only mugged once, but thankfully not hurt), and up Fillmore Street, up and up and up into Pacific Heights, at last to arrive at the San Francisco Art Institute where I walked through wide wooden doors to the open courtyard (Spanish style with a tiled fountain in the center) and up again -- via a flight of stairs -- to the flat concrete roof that overlooked the city -- as well as the bay dotted with sailboats, the Golden Gate Bridge, and the Pacific Ocean. What more could you ask for?

Collage Party

Collage party: Christina writes mysterious things in her notebook. Chris creates shields and magical talismans. Katherine makes seascapes and pagan palettes. I don't know what the hell Barbara's doing. Something with paint. I add a few pages to my little book, the one I've been working on for years. Christina laughs at my snail-like progress. Bob works in the other room while not napping. He produces a cunning miniature shadow box with a pine cone inside.

Everyone brings offerings to the Art Altar. Barbara donates a stack of neatly cut bookbinders' board. That stuff is great. Light yet sturdy, it holds up under paint, paste and varnish. She also donates a beautiful sheet of green and gold tissue paper decorated with Arabic script. Chris bequeaths us bottles of paint and assorted backing material. Everyone grabs the curved wood pieces shaped like artists' palettes and begins furiously working. Katherine furnishes us with a bowl of tangerines and some weird-looking rice cakes. Christina shows up with bags of black tea and pastel sugar candy. Bob organizes a giveaway desk filled with tschotskes. But I make the ultimate sacrifice, donating my own private stash of collage material to the group.

I do this out of remorse, to atone for the sin of throwing away material they wanted me to keep. Besides, since I'm stuck anyway, why not just surrender to a higher power?

The Island That Time Forgot

Going through the tunnel from Oakland to Alameda is like traveling back in time. But to which decade?  The downtown district has the atmosphere of a 1950's small town though most of its buildings are actually Art Deco. School kids hang out in bunches on the streets, in ice cream parlours and coffee houses, but the area feels safe since the police station, public library and City Hall are located nearby. Everything is in easy walking distance...so we took a lazy walk in the warm afternoon sun, a slow ramble round the block.

Just a few blocks from the business center you've wandered into the Victorian era. Great rambling houses with front porches, turrets, and port-holed windows give one the illusion of living in the 1880's -- if it weren't for the ratty apartment buildings stuck in between the houses, cheap concrete structures erected in the 60's to make a fast buck.

Go to the north of the island and you're in today's suburbia with look-alike condos, MacDonald's, and shopping malls. Along the beach you're in the 1970's: beachcomber apartments with grills and surfing boards parked on their balconies.

Huge Elizabethan mansions line the canal. Neighborhoods of Art Deco, Craftsman, and Mediterranean bungalows are sandwiched between the beaches and downtown. Abandoned Navy buildings disintegrate by the bay while factories turned into artist studios proliferate by the bridges.

Tarot As Muse

I've been trying to finish my current collage series. I call it The Square Deck because the cardboard cards are 5" by 5". I only have three more left to do, but I'm stuck. I've been stuck for months.

The tarot has become my inspiration - loosely, not literally. This group of collages is NOT a tarot deck, though it may be some kind of amorphous free-association something-or-other. The tarot is merely a way to structure my series, a road map if you like. I've used Egyptian symbols for the Major Arcana. There are only two left: The Hanged Man and The Tower, but I can't seem to make them work.

I worked on The Tower last night. I used the face of an eroded Sphinx against the background of burning buildings, but it didn't look right. The irony of Egypt's present day situation is not lost on me: towers and buildings literally burning in the background as truth speaks to power.

Pick A Card

My faithful followers know that I started a mystery blog last year, which I have since let lapse. But I'm committed to this one. My vow is to post something every day unless unforeseen circumstances intervene.

Lately, I've been thinking of starting yet another blog. It would be about the tarot. I'm not planning on doing daily entries, like this one. Maybe every few days or so. I'd probably choose one card per week to discuss. I would hope for input from my readers. I might do readings for friends, if requested -- or general readings for special occasions like the equinox or solstice.

After all, I did create an entire deck several years ago, as well as poems to go with it. My friend Bill not only helped me compose the poems; he gave me the idea in the first place. He also gave me invaluable feedback about the meanings of the cards. The creation of the deck turned out to be a collective enterprise, magical and mysterious in the way it unfolded. Perhaps my new blog will be, too.