In Ovo

This is not a place I want to find myself at the end of the year, but I do. Readers of Barker’s Imajica will know exactly what I mean! The In Ovo is that space between, where the unformed and malformed float in their maleficence, lost and lurking, waiting to attack and consume – waiting to find passage into the world, into our existence through rents in the fabric of our reality. Being in-between is treacherous.

How does one unravel a year and look at it as pieces of a whole and then reassemble it to gain perspective. To view it dispassionately and make rational assessments of progress or stagnation, of evolvement or devolvement, of good decisions and bad decisions and thus the choices we make along the way. I try to live my life without regret, but I’m the first to admit that it is more about the trying and not actually the succeeding. I know we do have to play the hand we are dealt, but it doesn’t mean we have to like it or that we shouldn’t endeavor to change it and learn from our mistakes.

2006 was not a wonderful year, full of mistakes and wrong turns; things for which I am responsible. It is those things, some foreseeable and predictable, that are regretful. It is those things that I can say with some amount of conviction that I never want to repeat, but being human I know that some form or version will come back around again.

There are choices and decisions that I’m grateful for though; like the decision to undergo surgery and patch the tears, the decision to pester the doc and to subject myself to tests to rule in or out things that have been nagging me for several years, the choice to start on the meds to combat SAD (seasonal affective disorder) BEFORE the rains of winter came, the decision to not put the house on the market in September and wait until spring, the choice to put time and money and effort into this house for resale, the choice to continue on here when it felt so often easier to just set the blog aside and the choice to pick up the guitar again to work on and record some old and some new pieces.

So, there were some good things to come out of ’06, but I’m still ready – way ready in fact – to kick the Six Bitch to the curb - to try and stay on course as I travel between Dominions and not get lost in the In Ovo. I hope ’07 is a good year for all of us!

More popcorn!

We actually flipped a coin to decide between Eragon on the big wrap around screen at the Cinerama or The Good Shepherd - The Good Shepherd won. It was a long movie, nearly 3 hours, but was well worth the serious case of fanny fatigue and subsequent numbness. It was a well done, though very cerebral, study into the intricacies of Cold War spydom. De Niro, Damon, Jolie and Turturro played their characters very convincingly. If you are looking for an action film, this is not it, but the story carries itself without the need of garnishment.

The film and the characters reminded me a lot of John le Carré’s books revolving around his main character George Smiley. The Good Shepherd is less about gunshots and gadgetry, but more about the psychology, social dilemmas and wrenching moral complexities that surround covert operations.

Have a wonderful weekend y’all! Eat popcorn!

Silly Buffle

...being his silly self!

Hope you all have a wonderful, happy and safe New Years!

Popcorn and Kleenex

There isn’t a lot on my mind tonight – mostly some sour drivel that doesn’t deserve any ink – so I’ll work with the smiley stuff.

Work has resumed on the house and the remnants of the surgery have dwindled to a few threads. I’m glad to be working again. We are also trying to rid the house of the seasonal clutter while leaving the decorations up until New Years.

There is a new pair of hummingbirds frequenting the feeder. The feeder had been quiet for too long, so this is a happy surprise. The squirrels have been very frustrated not being able to get into the other bird feeder; although, they aren’t starving since much of the feed hits the ground anyway. I’ve had to bring in the seed stash though, since the squirrels have gnawed through every container including a wooden milk box – greedy little shits.

We’ve yet to make it back out to the theater since we saw Casino Royale; which, btw, was an excellent Bond flick! Even with so many good movies out it has been a steady stream of DVDs at mi casa. The same day I picked up Mozart and the Whale I also picked up Mrs. Palfrey at the Claremont and it sat unnoticed until tonight; superseded by Miami Vice, An Inconvenient Truth, the latest Pirates of the Caribbean and several others that have escaped my memory banks – probably for good reason.

A thumb up for Mrs. Palfrey! Joan Plowright is an amazing actress and her facial expressions are classic! The movie was poignant in its portrayal of aging, memories and simple acts of kindness resulting in remarkable changes in people’s lives. It can be sentimental and predictable in places, but Plowright’s performance was worth the time.

I didn’t realize it until a search tonight revealed she is the widow of Sir Laurence Olivier. She also stared in Tea With Mussolini.

Sleep is still a struggle (note publication time) so I think I’ll leave you and go warp a few brain cells and watch another episode of Red Dwarf – I think I’m on season 7 now.

Nite all!

Post Christmas post

Have you ever eaten so much lobster and crab that you simply couldn’t stuff in another bite? What a way to cap off a good day! Taylor thinks lobster is wonderful, but turned up his nose at king crab – LOL! We had planned to go see a movie afterwards – “Night at the Museum” – at the IMAX, but we all were lucky to make it to the couch or the floor! The DVD player got the nod and we watched "Mozart and the Whale" - excellent movie - a story of two people with Asperger's Syndrome. Thumbs up!

Here are some pictures from around the casa Christmas Eve and Christmas Day.

The above pic is looking out the bath window - it lives there year round with seasonal changes in greenery. A whole lot better than blinds or curtains. :o)

The Buffledog was most impatient about pawing through his stocking!

HAPPY TUESDAY!

"The" card

Merry Christmas Everyone!

Every year after Labor Day she would sit at her drawing table and watch the activity in the yard. Hours would go by, sometimes days as she sought her inspiration for their Christmas card. She would stop and take care of the household, but would always return to her seat – sketching, tossing, ruminating and then the idea would hit. I would almost always get a phone call shortly afterward and she would share the idea, knowing I would stop in to see the work in progress. Usually by the time I would arrive she’d be busy with her Speedball pen and not far from her hand was the jar of Higgins India Ink. She tried a Rapidograph pen one year but the results just weren’t the same. This went on for nearly 30 years and I was always pleased to see that particular card arrive in the mail. The drawings were always pen and ink and always had one red element.

I was thinking about a Christmas post and almost decided to bag the notion and wait for inspiration later in the week. This card was on the top of the pile of keepers so I thought I’d share it with you. This was from sometime in the last decade.

Hope you all are having a wonderful day!

Radio lamps

We rounded the corner on our return trip from the theater and there it was, the house with a bazillion Christmas lights. They could be the sole supporters of the power company and I wondered if a 300 amp breaker box would support it all. This is the house that is probably used as a landmark from space during the season. Our thoughts then drifted over to all the unfortunate folks here who are still without power after last week’s wind storm. Too bad they can’t just beam all this decorative power over the lake to the foothills.

I remember as a child I always wanted to live in the house with the bazillion lights. The idea of that house was Christmas personified and now it all seems terribly excessive. I suppose I’m glad that someone is doing it. I suppose there has to be the “have you seen…” house in every neighborhood. Of course this wish was before we got our tree up and then Christmas was just fine at our house – splendid actually.

Mom loved Christmas more than anything and even in her later years she would decorate endlessly; no surface escaped – cats, plants, range hood, dad’s cello (it was in the dining room – fair game!), bird feeder and the antique Franklin press that lived in the corner opposite the cello.

Mom also used to try and bake something every day during the season, starting with Thanksgiving. She like the smells and we always knew goodies weren’t far behind. It was a tradition to make a batch of anise springerles; those square embossed biscuits that you loved to break your teeth on – they also made great street hockey pucks! Truth is no one loved them more than dad and later in life I acquired a taste for them as well. I realized this year that dad probably hadn’t had any since mom died a few years back, so I searched for the old recipe. I didn’t find it so a web search ensued and I finally found a reasonable facsimile. Dad was more than thrilled to get them in the mail and admitted to calling several bakeries for the cookies with no luck. We had to MacGyver the embossing since the springerle roller was packed away – a wooden meat tenderizer worked great and gave them texture – they kind of looked like thick Triscuits.

I began to think about our Christmas trees from when I was young and remembered the “production” that the light stringing was – it was dad’s decorating contribution. He had a pattern that he followed every year until their last Christmas tree in 2003. There was a set of lights that was my favorite and this was a set dad made from military surplus instrument panel sockets and bulbs. This was in the post war days when money was tight and invention ruled. The color coating that he used was clear and the lights sparkled where the frosted lamps didn’t. These were the magic in the tree for me. He lamented that he had wired them in series and when one went out they all went out. Many hours were spent chasing the offending bulb.

Christmas was a fun time in my youth; when magic was the norm. The house of a bazillion lights was not nearly as much fun as it was in our house, turning off every source of intruding light so the tree would stand alone and there we would sit for a while every evening – watching real magic.

Huh?

He sat and stared all throughout the meal. Did I remind him of someone or was it the simple act of embracing my daughter’s significant other? The eyes bored through me with an intensity rivaled only by an IRS agent many years ago. From across the room the eyes seemed black and malevolent – the four of us felt it! I met his gaze for a brief moment, is that hate I saw? I’ll never know and care only so far as realizing that malice exists.

The Buffledog turns 4 today!

IT'S THE BUFFLEDOG'S BIRTHDAY TODAY YA'LL!!!

It's Taylor's 4th birthday and I wouldn't trade a minute of any of the four years - unless we could do-over without the surgeries he's had; those we could have done without. His story is in the archives March & April '05 and another round from August-Nov '05. I'll just leave you with pics!

3 weeks (OMG!)

5 weeks (no recovery from this!)

8 weeks (home!)

9 weeks (rules the roost!)

6 months (we're talking serious "weed" factor here)

Handsome boy @ 3 1/2

It occurs to me that if we were to treat (or be treated by) our significant others with the same enthusiasm as this dog it would probably shake the earth...oh well, it's my post and I can daydream if I want! ;)

HAPPY MONDAY Y'ALL

... and the wind it is howling ...

UPDATE: It was a long night and little sleep, but fortunately we nerver lost power and the worrisome tree is still standing. Things are quiet now and other than the snow predicted for the mountains and foothills our weather has abated. Time to don a coat and take Taylor to survey (and pee on) the damage. :)

Standing by the fireplace I felt an icy breeze on the back of my leg. Shit! A breach in the chimney or the surrounding siding was the only plausible explanation. The winds are pounding the south side of the house and every gust brings visions of flying debris, loosened siding, peeling roofs, sailing shingles and falling trees. These are things I left in Florida I thought, they don’t belong here. Sustained winds of 30-40 mph and gusts between 50-60 mph. The coast is reporting gusts of 90+ mph. I worry for our eucalyptus tree – a 60 foot young tree with all of its leaves, since it’s not deciduous. I may have a real tree in the house after all! Well, at least the house will smell good! They said it would hit around midnight … and hit it did. It is 12:45am now and this is supposed to last until 5am. We’ve already heard 2 now 3 transformer explosions and earlier there was a powerful squall line at the leading edge of the cold front, dumping buckets of rain and a lightning show for grins.

I was out in the street talking to my crazy-as-me neighbor (perhaps shouting over the wind is more appropriate) as we watched the gigantic firs whip around in the park. If we don’t lose any of those it will be magic at work! The trees may as well be tall coastal grass the way the wind is pushing them around. I am also nervously watching the eucalyptus tree arcing back and forth between the houses. My cavalier and beer swilling neighbor is nervous about the big fir on the corner of his house as well – he was swaying as much as the fir tree!

It’ll be interesting to see what survives and what falls in the next few hours. The floating bridges across Lake Washington are taking a beating tonight as well and they’ve closed the 520 and opened the draw span to relieve the pressure as the waves are crashing over the roadway.

I came in to get the camera to get a long night shot of the violent trees, but it has started sheeting rain again and I’ve decided against putting the rain gear on the camera. I am reminded about the last time I was photographing in a violent storm. It had been building for hours to the west of the Grand Canyon and we met the wind portion of it as we returned from Tuba City on the Navaho Reservation. The rain and the lightning were on the North Rim, but the wind was gusting exactly like tonight. I kept watching the lightning strikes and was determined to capture it on film. Pulling into a lookout parking lot we had a front row seat to one of the most spectacular electric shows ever.

The wind was buffeting the truck and rocking it side to side and I knew the only way to shoot this was to use the heavy tripod and shoot from the viewpoint. Yes, I was questioning my sanity and in hindsight it was a really dangerous situation. B had to help me hold the tripod down because the wind was going to have its way with us and the exposures were really long – the above shot was over 5 minutes. It paid off with the “money shot” above. It was pitch black dark out and the light skies are from the lightning striking elsewhere while the shutter was open. Several shots were taken and I stopped because it was the end of the roll. We bolted back to the truck, drunk on adrenalin and made our way back to camp … to listen to the wind howl … just like tonight!

My favorite Buffledog series!

Who needs words today?

Happy Thursday!

Bum bahug!

I had a rant all planned to write and now I simply don’t care! Both ends of that posty spectrum are brought to you pharmacologically. Yes, I know, I thought I was through with them as well. Good days, bad days, take it as it comes.

So, it’s another midnight dance with the keyboard. Taylor’s “chasing rabbits”, fireplace is going, tree is up and it’s raining yet again! Since I’ve basically been down for the count I’ve had lots of time to read and well, read. There have been some necessary tasks that I’ve been able to accomplish - like trimming the webs between my fingers and toes and cleaning the mold and algae from my hair. I suppose if I were a sloth, algae would be appropriate holiday attire, but 1 sloth in the sphere is quite enough.

The last of the “snow persons” have disappeared from the park – just gone, leaving no forwarding address, no kiss-my-ass, no nothing! The park is now a mud bog covered in grass and even Taylor doesn’t like the goo beneath his paws. Why is it that ground that normally percolates pretty well just stops and becomes a bog right after a snow? Ok, I understand the “right after” part, but this is a week and a half after the snow covering the ground melted. Another mystery is why dogs just naturally want to pee on all the snow peeps – probably why they left.

The tree – there was neither interest nor stamina to bring in a real (dead) tree, so we decided to construct one. One pyramid garden trellis and a box of garland and voilà!

The pharmacology version!!

HAPPY HUMP DAY!

Walking up steps

The phone rang just as we were walking in from an office holiday party. I was too full of food and drink and babble to even feel coherent as I struggled to insert the key into the lock. The phone was insistent and the panic began to rise as the key missed the lock in the dark for the second or third time. Taylor was anxious as well and was wagging his whole body with his nose pressed against the very barrier that separated him from his already overdue dinner. His every move was countermanding every effort to unlock the door. The phone continued to ring and the panic was rising like acid in my throat. There is something about not being able to get to the phone that gives rise to dark thoughts, usually involving a father who is 90, a severely depressed brother and a suicidal cousin of B’s. The house phone so rarely rings, but it is probably the emergency number of record for us of anyone in the family since the cell landscape changes so rapidly. I made it to the phone just before it flipped to voice mail. It was my oldest daughter.

It was not a “bad” call, but it was a “sad” call. They had just returned home from their maternal step-grandfather’s funeral. He died last Thursday of an aggressive cancer only recently discovered. He was 68, survived by his wife (my girls’ Meme, their step-grandmother) - and 3 sons. My girls lost their maternal grandfather many years ago and their Meme never missed a beat as far as love and support go. I have had a wonderful relationship with her throughout the years despite my divorce from the girls’ mother. Their step-grandfather, whom they call Mr. J, had only been in the girls lives for maybe 15 years. He was a wonderful, salt-of-the-earth type of individual who was as unassuming and unpretentious as they come and he loved my girls. He will be sorely missed.

I listened to my oldest for the longest time, cradling the phone with my shoulder as I fed Taylor; offering little input since she just needed to talk. I settled into the chair finally and into the conversation and we talked about how much Mr. J had meant to both she and her sister. I listened to her talk about him in awe and with respect. She also talked of him with a sincere reverence and with an honest humor. There was sadness in her voice that told me she had gone through the gamut of emotions on the 7 hour ride home and had hit an emotional plateau for the night. I listened to her talk for a long time, interjecting little and we hung up as one of the boys was calling out for her from their bed.

I sat for a long time in front of the fireplace, ruminating on all that she had said and let the ruminations morph into thoughts about being a “step-anything”. Thoughts about the bonds formed outside of a biological connection and the importance and awesome responsibility of being a “step” in someone’s life. There were thoughts of the conflict that often arises while assuming the role of a step-parent as well as the undeniable rewards and terrible pitfalls of being in that position. I also thought of the relationship between steps even after the blood relative has either died or is no longer married to them. Sure, it goes badly sometimes or at least there comes a palpable indifference between them. I’m sure in a lot of cases that indifference is probably best. Having had a step-grandmother and being a step-parent I have had mostly positive experiences; although, the process had more than its share of challenges. Mostly I am in awe of step-ness and how traditional lines of family are stretched and reformed to accommodate changes and how the bloodlines blur.

I looked into the fireplace and remembered the effort that Mr. J put into cutting and splitting the wood to keep their fireplace going all winter and offered up a “thank you” and a “safe home Mr. J”.

Damn! That's huge!

I was standing at the kitchen window this afternoon, feeling a little sapped from a morning of errands and a medical appointment, and I saw this lumbering along. I then realized what I was looking at - “The Flying Pickle” as it is commonly known - an inflated 747 cargo plane. I’ve seen this plane a bunch resting on the tarmac at Boeing Field, but this is the first time I’ve seen it in the air. Any time the final approach to Boeing Field is from the north the base leg is just a little to the north of the house and this is where I saw the Pickle. It’s hard to imagine anything that large flying.

Happy Weekend!!!

Walking upright

So, I’m done with the drugs now - except to sleep. Upright and mobile once again and I’m tired of loafing. Besides, my coccyx is sore from sitting too much. Day 6 is the charm and things are returning to normal. Laughing is verboten and sneezing…O M G! I’ll do anything to not sneeze, including snorting water – don’t knock it, it works!!! I wonder how long that’s going to go on? Penguin walk…history! Taylor is VERY happy too and I even got out today ridding the yard of “Buffle Bombs”. Never has picking up dog shit felt so good! It’s the little things! No, I’m not going to go back at it hard and heavy, so no finger wagging.

The ink well is dry again

How many of you had the pleasure of having to actually use an ink well in school??? Mine was actually a hole in the desk to put my bottle of Sheaffer Blue Ink in. There was always the occasional mishap of having the top off and someone bumping the desk, usually resulting in some academic disaster of epic proportions – like the paper you were just finishing. Beyond the rudimentary exercises done in pencil I learned to write in cursive using a fountain pen and prefer a good fountain pen today over a ball point or roller ball. Archaic I know, but the pen and how it moves over the paper is just satisfying, an odd mixture of smoothness and friction. I did not like the fact that the old pens would leak and would wreck your shirt or books in a book bag. The old pens being the ones with a bladder and a lever on the side to pump the bladder while the simpler cartridge pens were much better. They called the ink washable blue – washable my ass! We were never allowed to have indelible or black ink; until 7th grade that is - probably just as well.

My mom gave me a special Waterman pen with a gold nib that belonged to her father and kept me supplied in black Waterman ink. It took a little while to wear the nib in to my hand, but what a wonderful writing instrument it was. It wasn’t until my last couple of years in grade school that we were allowed to use black ink so my homework up until then had to be with the crappy Parker pens and blue ink. I had hoped to find that pen when I was cleaning out her stuff but, alas, I did not find it. It always felt very large in my child-sized hands, but it felt powerful too. Today I have a Cross fountain pen that the girls gave me for Christmas years ago and that is what I use mainly to journal with – journaling with anything else seems demeaning to the pages.

No, those journal pages won’t ever be found here! :P

Speaking of “here”, do you find that you think differently when you are writing longhand or using a keyboard? I find both ways creative, but if similar pieces written via different methods are compared side by side it seems like they were written by different people. How is it for you? Does the instrument you write with or quality of paper affect your writing? Do you write better on a standard keyboard or laptop?

I guess the well wasn’t completely dry! :)

Frost

It was a dog sigh, that long exhalation of doggie expectation unrealized that woke me from dreams of those best forgotten. 5:37AM is much earlier than I had been rising in a long time, but how could such sweet insistence be denied. He has been worried for several days that things were not normal, but I felt strong enough to at least feed him and take him out for a chilly, pre-dawn walk. Normalcy revived in routine.

I’d forgotten how much I enjoyed these early morning walks with him. The time, distinct in its lack of city traffic and noise and the vague scent of the neighbor’s smoldering wood stoves, has an almost magical quality about it. A world of creatures rarely seen in the light of day is busy in these last moments before first light. We, participants in this dance by virtue of observation, are little more than intruders into a landscape reserved for the nocturnal and restless - the raccoon family returning to their home in the briar patch once called an alley, the stray cat who’s fed by the “accidental” leavings of the employees of the BBQ house, Mad Max smoking in his easy chair in his carport because his wife won’t let him smoke in the house and Caesar sweeping the front of McDonald’s in exchange for an Egg McMuffin and coffee. Gone though are the song birds at dawn and the aroma of summer onions that invade our lawns. Gone also are the street people that populate our park in the warmer, dryer months, leaving little in their wake to mark their passing.

He sniffs at the odd bit of news buried deep in the leaves and growls at the remaining snow people; mostly though he stays pasted to my side, my friend, my protector and lately my confidant. My thoughts drift far into the cosmos and I sit on the bus bench, weary from the exertion of the walk and breathing as though to expel the mental arabesque, stalled in execution - elegant, extravagant and unreachable. The passing paperboy and a nudge from my companion bring me back and I ruffle his fur and scratch his back. Looking up I see the bus stop sign and its schedule below; a schedule obviously in question with sentiments of dissatisfaction scrawled across the screen printed surface. I wrestle for a moment with the effort required to even get close to a schedule and the impatience of the wet and cold rider pacing the bit of pavement reserved for the queue – neither realizing that they would ever have a position on such banality.

He coaxes me off the bench and we proceed with our travels, his for juicy news and mine for peace. Together, yet separately, we break the frost and head for home.

Snow, play and clarity

For Jenny and Susanne … 'cause they asked! One of my favorite pics of the Buffledog! Think he likes snow????

So … I guess my “End of the year BLOWOUT sale!” was too … hmmm … obscure??? Well, for clarity’s sake, the surgery was for a triple hernia – and, no, I don’t know how they happened. I could name any one of a hundred activities over the years that could have been the culprit! Interestingly enough, the surgeon used to be a rock climber and he was being very sympathetic and said that there will be no reason that I cannot return to the sport after I’ve healed. Meanwhile I’m still zooming around on my percs and will be for a couple of days to come. I’m also being completely lazy since I’m not allowed to lift so much as a butter knife – one could get used to this I’m thinking! (you know that’s the drugs speaking – LOL).

In light of the recent confusion regarding the surgery and its necessity, I hereby pledge to be equally obscure in the future – besides, I don’t like the whine – bad vintage!