Jul 25, 2013

7.24.13

                                                                                 feather getter project 1

i made this for our wall today.  the stick is from a hike in the flatirons outside of boulder.  the beads are from africa (presents from my dad). the small hawk feather comes from the hills above baker beach in san francisco.  the raven feather comes from the forest outside last summers humboldt home.  the big hawk feather was rescued from the side of the road in santa barbara years ago.

 i have some creative ideas percolating in my brain right now.  here's the first one to be manifested.  more to come. xx

Jul 24, 2013

Jul 17, 2013

7.10.13

the moment the butter starts melting on the toast.

Jul 13, 2013

7.7.13

lately i've been trying to replicate the look of old color photos.  this one in particular takes me back to some of the prints in our photo albums from the 70's and early 80's. 

7.6.13

Jul 12, 2013

7.5.13

i wrote this almost a year ago when i was staying at the ranch alone, doing yoga in the mornings, writing all day, hiking in the mountains and catching fish for breakfast.  things have changed, things have stayed the same.  i love you.
 
"In a town always changing she called things by their old names.  The grocery store, no matter the new owner, would always be called Rose’s.   The Ah Haa School of the Arts lived in the old Depot.  It didn’t matter what restaurant was in the Sofio’s building; that place remained Sofio’s. That restaurant on the corner where Telluride Sports employed her mother back in the day always felt like Telluride Sports.  The big purple house on main street where she was born she still referred to as the “old pharmacists place”, how her father referred to it.
 It was men sitting on barstools talking in bars who taught her to speak.  These habits of naming and slang died hard and so even when the men got older, and the old timers disappeared from the small, ever-changing town, she called their places by the proper names.   
Most people around these days probably had no idea what she meant, but the old timers knew and their memory and the memory of the original place names kept the town alive for her.  The town from before - when it was small and sleepy and only a few lucky people even knew the name Telluride
These old men had lived through that evolution, the good old days into the prosperous days, into these days; when everyone knew the name Telluride and associated it with skiing, and celebrities and status.  This handful left knew it for something more, and knew each other for being a part of it and that passed for community to her so she clung to it.  She’d been moved around too much to carry on the conversations of community members at the far side of a long life in one spot.  She herself could never recall the evolution of a place and a life lived with a small group of people.  Her place memories were scattered and the people she’d shared them with diverse and varied.
That was all ok with her, but coming home still felt like home, especially if she ignored what changed the place to the best of her ability. The mountains remained the same and no matter the changes taking place in the town below, the mountains stood still in her heart; the first landmark in her life."

Jul 2, 2013

6.30.13

6.29.13

6.28.13

6.27.13

well, after all these years of rambling and living out of a backpack, or my car, or a tent, or a shanty, or a hotel, i'm finally settling into a place.  i knew that i wanted to eventually end up back in colorado and here i am, making a house a home an hour from my where my family lives and just on the other side of the mountains from where i was born and raised.  
as one who is used to either the hustle of trying to make it in a big city, or the opposite nothingness of enjoying the simplicity of life off the grid, this settling into the comfortable routine of a towney is a strange process.  i am enjoying the hell out of it.
the unpacking, cleaning, cooking, decorating, exploring, shopping, relaxing routine of simply being at home is something i have not really experienced for years.  in fact, i've never really experienced anything like this.  i'm buying houseplants.  it's crazy.
we also bought a patio table so we could eat outside while the weathers so nice.  i've been cooking gourmet meals to my hearts content and enjoying them in the fresh air, under the beautiful tree right outside our window.  
i haven't quite given up my hard-earned gypsy title though.... i still have belongings scattered across two states.  when i turn in the keys to my san francisco storage unit and park my stuff here i feel i will have officially ended that chapter.  for now though i'm just auditioning for the role of settler.  and of course the wandering will never end.. that's just who i am.  but i'm remembering what it feels like to have a home to come back to.
do you know what it's like to be a gypsy?  i know for certain some of you do.  that strange uprooted feeling of knowing you have no home?  you have no solid place on this earth where you can return.  instead you drift freely, making your home out of the scraps you assemble in each place you touch down in, scraps which are left behind and forgotten as soon as you drift on to the next temporary home.  i've loved this feeling.  i love this feeling.  i will always love this feeling.
but creeping into my heart, i think there might be room for it now, this feeling of home is growing on me.  it's starting root-like at the base of me and while my thoughts and dreams still wander over continents my emotions have a corner-stone.  a place to hide my valuables and long for when i'm sick.  a place to return to when the journey is done.