Too Many Spoons

Medicino. 2009. 

Just One Thing; And All Around It, The Rest

Chico. 2009.

Early spring when the sky is still grey but the air has warmed. Like today. Red moist dirt, weak green grass, buds that haven't even greened yet on the trees, if you look close. Water pounding through gorges and against rock, planning out new paths, grinding down new silt. New, everything new. Everything yes.

A dog, walking a trail it's seen a hundred times, excited because it's new, especially today.

The Fin

Zion. 2009.

Variety

Home. 2009.

I did my taxes last night, then went to yoga. Up at 6 to do more yoga, work at 8, evening meeting, home at 9. Yoga, work, and another evening meeting tomorrow. Bowling after work on Friday.

I'm so tired my eyes are blurry. I love being busy but hate not having time to myself. When did I stop reading books for big chunks of time? When did I start having to stay up late just to make time for myself?

In the midst of this, I find myself thriving. I love being busy--I'm so much more productive, on top of things, efficient. But effective? I'm not sure. I'm better at doing clear tasks, but do I have as many good ideas? I doubt it. Less time for day dreaming, dozing, doodling: I become less creative, more automatic, less considerate and deliberate and thorough. I notice less on my bike ride to work, and have a harder time telling someone what I'm working on. I just plow through.

Where is the balance? I always wanted a job that I liked so much, I wanted to take work home with me--but not necessarily to do so. I want to be engaged, firing on all pistons, but without the oil of downtime, it feels like I burn too hot and breakdown. Where is that fine line? How much motor oil do I need?

No Country For Old Desks

Camp. 2010.

"You can't stop what's coming. It ain't all waitin' on you. That's vanity."

To The South, Clouds

Home. 2010.

My first picture with my new lens. Too zoomed in, out of focus. Those blurry lights in the distance are downtown Oakland.

Ashes, Ashes, We All Fall Down

Home. 2010.

Red tulips for valentine's day. They were closed, and then suddenly exploded to the ground a few days later. Such large, voluptuous petals. Flowers you could stick your whole face into.

A long break, a silent time away. A time to reflect on how much I am a solar powered being. On how much sun; sunshine; blue skies; warm air; open flowers; the smell of drying earth; sunsets; hot cement; playful shadows; and squinted eyes mean to me, and to my ability to be a joyful presence in the world.

I love you, world. Now show me all you've got.

Off in the Distance

Catalina Island. 2007.

Atop a Grass Swell

A different farm. 2008.

The dry hills of the valley. Where barbed wire almost seems like a native species.

In A Green World

Collegeville, PA. 2007.

This is Maya, very focused on her croquet, on a vast green lawn. As I recall, this game disintegrated pretty fast into petty squabbles and grand gestures of croquetic nihilism. But a good time was had by all.

Staying Calm in Earthquake Country

L.A. 2007.

Simplicity soothes me down, gives me space to think. The books are more of a to-do list than a subset of options. I feel guilty for kicking Teddy out of bed, but silly for keeping her in. Still, the clean surface of the shelf is a place to put things, a place to lay out the immediate pieces of life, to examine and sort them. Then away they go, to make room for tomorrow's coins, lint, found objects, buttons, notes, earrings, bracelet, dollar bills, bus pass, stickers, hair clips, lists, headphones, tissues, flowers, floss, pens, chapstick, and all the other things than found their way into my pockets while I lived in LA.

When I wipe the grime of my stress and depression from my memories, I find that I loved LA, and I miss it. The warm evenings; the path down to the beach; the night rides across town; running along old--but soon to be reused--railroad tracks; views from a grassy cliff; rides in the steep canyons; the nearness of the desert.

The people on top and the plates beneath: both hold against each other with a fierce tension that everyone knows and everyone ignores. An earthquake; a riot. Then tension again. A dry, dessicated land, full of orange trees and lawns and immigrants, all hungry for water and their own small piece of earth. A land still so new that two years makes you a native.

I miss you.

Behind Them, The Ocean

Malibu. 2007.

These chairs are just waiting for people to come sit in them. Look at the one on the left--it's so bored it's lying back, drowsing in the sun. The hedge behind them is protecting them from the sharp wind that's chopping up the water out there. Huddled down in the lee, the chairs are warm, cozy even, in the early spring sun. But they're hungry for summer's gossip and lazy patterns of use. Thirsty for the sunscreen and sweat they'll drink up off of peoples' skin as they bake, sitting up or lying back, facing east or belly down, hot, hot, hot.

Sand Waves with Grass

Mojave Desert. 2009.

Flash

 

 

Mojave Desert. 2009.

Structure

Mojave Desert. 2009.

Making and Doing

At Home. 2009.

Night Lights

63rd Street, north Oakland. 2009.

Love how the light from the house's side windows is reflecting off of the other house, and the tree's shadow there. Love the stark white light against the dark brown shingle contrasting with the warm yellow on the far wall. Love the deep teal trim.

And the small green plant in the window.

Stars and Hexagons

Shelter Cover, CA. 2008.

Okay, so this is really the Lost Coast again. But what a wonderful place it is! I can't wait to go back--perhaps there will even be sunny weather for more than two hours.

The lighthouse mini-park was nicely designed, with the unchanged ragged beach still easy to climb down to. Families clambered along, calling out to each other. Even the sun didn't make it warm enough to take off your wind layer.

It's Nice To Know Where You Are

Lost Coast, CA. 2008.

This marker was hammered (cemented?) into the top of a large boulder on the black beach of the Lost Coast. Waves pound beneath it, and will one day swallow it whole. But for now it waits patiently.