Life of Wry

Because every road trip should start with a hot, steamy cafe au lait and the town’s best poppy seed muffin.

Last night’s wicked February north winds took a few prisoners.   Could have been worse, could have been a nice backyard, shade-giving tree, but no, it’s our long dead Moraine Ash that needed to come out anyway.  Here’s Jim,  lumberjacking away.

He left a few branches hanging on the power cable.   PG&E’s on the way.

And it REALLY could have been worse: could have been the lone Redwood in the neighbor’s front yard, about which I wrote yesterday.  That one’s swaying violently in the wind, as I write this.

It’s not like one of my two life’s fears isn’t about being crushed by a fallen tree.  Let me clarify that sentence full of double negatives: I have a huge fear of trees falling on houses.  Saw too many of them growing up on the mean, eucalyptus infested streets of Palos Verdes.  Via La Selva: by way of the JUNGLE.  My street.  Our neighborhood looked like monster tinker toys were strewn around after a storm.

Wind.  Trees.  Willies.

The other fear I live with is cabinets coming off the kitchen walls.  No idea where that comes from.

Anyway.

North wind in Davis.  No better time to leave town.

I’m fond of shooting trees right up their trunks, it would seem.  Something about it…

This giant lives next door.  And in spite of the fact she is a loner, most Redwoods, I’m told, grow best in groves because their roots connect underground and it makes them stronger.  So even though their roots are relatively shallow, Redwoods stand strong when they stand together.

Now there’s a metaphor.

[Unrelated photo.  Shot up into the air.  A gratuitous sky shot.  But, seriously, wouldn’t you?]

One month into my photo-a-day writing extravaganza, and ohmysweetfrickingod but I’m weary of my own voice.  Talk talk talk blah blah blah.    I am tiring of my writing style.  (Uh.. really?  I have a style?)

As I muster the stomach to read back on stuff I’ve written so far, I’m noticing some weird writing ticks.  [Note to self: do not read back on stuff you’ve written so far.]  I see that one of the things I do over and over is use a lot of words to drive a point. Here’s an example (taken from January 3, but really–as much as I don’t want to point this out–you’ll see this kind of thing all over this blog):

“Forever, it seemed, I looked at this scene from the other side–the working stiff side–and totally envied it.  To be that person, sitting with that other person, bent intently over mugs of frothy coffee, thoughtfully listening, talking eruditely, laughing, or gesticulating classily.

“Or really, I just envied having the time. Downtime, leisure time. Time to walk, talk, think, read, write, process, plan, and the time to carry out those plans.”

Holy verbosity, batman.

I’m a word rustler.. a word harvester.. a word collector.. a… wait, SEE?! I’M DOING IT AGAIN.   I have discovered that I am a lister.  (Hangs head.)  Hello, I’m Kari Peterson.  I am a lister.

Maybe I’m a lazy writer. Perhaps I just don’t have the vocabulary, the thesaurical depth to finely hone an idea, to present it in its simplest, most potent form. Maybe I’m a writer who trades elegance for spaghetti on the wall–throw as many words at a sentence as you can; something will stick, something, eventually, will carry home your damn point.

Maybe.

Or perhaps, it’s more a lack of confidence.  Not having the faith that my writing stands on its own, or is strong enough to convey what it has to convey.  Maybe, in my uncertainty and cautiousness, I feel a need to rally the troops, enlist the whole, friggin infantry, in order to conduct my battle effectively. (War metaphors?  Really?)

Well, anyway.

What I REALLY intended to do with today’s blog was to embrace my inner lister.  All I was gonna do, before I veered off into self flagellation, was to list a few things I really love.  I’m a lister?  Okay, well, then, I’m going to compile a list of things I love.

Why?  Because I saw someone do it once in her blog and it was sweet, spontaneous and interesting, and in the process revealed a lot about her.  It was a departure from thick and lofty prose, a simple list–easy on the eyes and mind.   And I just liked the idea.  I filed it away then, and thought I’d try it now.  But I guess not now.   This has gotten too long.

So… a blog for another day.. but soon.

A few things to know about this picture:  It’s shot through that curtain-of-water fountain over by the Mondavi Center.  That’s I-80 in the background.. if you could make out cars on the horizon.  The sky’s very spring-like and, at mid-morning, it’s about 66 degrees.  Air warm and breezy.  The trees don’t have leaves on them yet…but on this same walk, I took pictures of trees that are starting to bloom.

Like this.

So there.  Spring.  (Note the date.)

Perhaps the best cure for the fear of death is to reflect that life has a beginning as well as an end. There was a time when you were not: that gives us no concern. Why then should it trouble us that a time will come when we shall cease to be? To die is only to be as we were before we were born. -William Hazlitt, essayist (1778-1830)

I’m not in a mood.  Really.  I wasn’t thinking about death today.  I wasn’t even reflecting–choice of pictures notwithstanding.   I just came upon this quote and thought it was interesting.  And the creek was very still this morning making for some great photography, even for us non-photographer types.   So.. there it is.  I’m leaving the quote there–maudlin as it may be–for your reflecting pleasure.

No, if I were to reflect today, it might be on Peter’s piss and vinegar mood–that’s piss and vinegar in a good way.. mostly.  On this day, he was up early, made his own breakfast (happens .0023% of the time), and showered (that may actually be a pre-school first).  (And here you may picture me quietly observing from a distance, face furrowed in a slightly perplexed, if not dubious expression.) It’s a fun and funny age–this transition to manhood.  Or at least adolescence. He’s growing, darkening, deepening.  Moving into a space more his own, test driving some odd little personalities.  Plucky, cocky. Overall, I think he’s digging it… as he seems to be pretty full of himself lately.  He’s more private, too.. which is interesting to observe.  For the first time, I’m aware that Peter is living a good part of his life outside of our view.

Anyway…

Reflect as you will.  On death, adolescence, or something else of your choosing.  It’s a good day for it.

Glorious.

I know there’s going to be a lot of spring floweriness over the next few months so I need to pace myself.  And I know it’s very insensitive to post a shot like this when 60% of the country is experiencing a horrific winter storm and is buried under mountains of cold, wet snow.

But the quince are blooming.

I had a very sweet morning.

I met a friend for coffee.  This is someone I have known in a very limited context, so for the shy side of me, sitting down for coffee required a tiny bit of bravery. Not a lot, but a little.

We met playing tennis.  She’s a tennis instructor and I’ve been taking lessons on and off for a few years, trying to find my old game.  She’s an amazing player with a seriously impressive tennis resume, and really?, it’s wildly fun to hit the ball with her.

Over thousands of tennis balls and many short bursts of conversation, we found that we have a lot in common.  Besides tennis, we share an affinity for way super liberal politics, sailing and David Foster Wallace.  We are close in age, have similar world views, share raging disdain for a certain tea party, gun toting, self-promoter from Alaska, and both have little athletic sons who play tennis and baseball (well, hers not so little anymore).  Also, there’s this Scandinavian connection. (Funnily, our names both begin with Kari and end in son.)

For years we’ve shared small parts of our life’s experiences, but usually standing about 78 feet apart; never over coffee.

So, today we did that, and it was very nice.  And she gave me this Swedish crystal candle holder (the photo, above) as a belated birthday gift, which was so unexpected and so lovely.

Not a lot more to say about it all, but reflecting on how sweet life is sometimes.  And hoping it’s a friendship that continues.

[Photo, unrelated to comments below, celebrates the fogless early morning. Bright blue sky through a tangle of leafless branches.  YES!  Cold, but nothing like the midwest right now, which will experience a massive storm today and two feet of snow.  So no complaining coming out of me on a 36 degree morning. Nope.]

“Ah, good taste, what a dreadful thing! Taste is the enemy of creativeness.” -Pablo Picasso, painter and sculptor (1881-1973)

Wondering about that.

I work at good taste–in clothing, decor, wall art, serving bowls, purse selections, head bands, my choice of car.  Endless.  Artful, attractive–in my view, anyway–but generally within bounds.  I claim it as my personal aesthetic and consider it a fine way to be.  I like my taste. I like being in my personally decorated world.

But it’s a fine line, no?  Maybe it lacks passion, and abandon.  Oh yes, and RISK.  I love the idea of spontaneity and chance–mostly because I rarely act out of the bounds and safety of good taste.  I lean tasteful.  Careful, correct. But often lust after, you know, the other.

Good taste reflects in my actions, too (mostly).  Comes out as tact.  Tact and good taste sort of go hand in hand, I guess, and really, it’s the appropriate response most of the time (she said defensively).  Tact, diplomacy, “being impeccable with your word,” is important if others’ feelings are to be honored, taken into account.. all persons respected.  But.  Who doesn’t love the guy who just frickin speaks his mind? Or just wears his messy old heart on his sleeve.   It seems more real, more honest.  But, maybe not always in good taste.  Not always nice, not always dignified.  So, a fine line there, too.  Of course there is simple beauty in living life honestly, in clear, direct communication that does not hurt people around you.  Tact isn’t always dishonest or boring.  That level of human communication is a true art.

But I ramble.  Tactfully.

Good taste shows up in my writing as well.  Careful, measured.  Technical.  Uptight. Spiritless.  (It’s getting worse, isn’t it?)  But that’s another post.  (Actually, I already beat myself up on that one… way back September, I think.)

It’s a skill, I guess.  To trust enough and to be liberated enough to act colorfully, impulsively, sloppily.  To be unhinged and joyful. To release yourself into the world openly.  Or, as Pablo Picasso goads: creatively.

So, yeah… the Picasso quote, and others like it, always kind of hit a nerve… they challenge that self-conscious place of restrained expression–even if artful, tasteful and tactful.   I keep saying to myself: 30 years, babe.  There’s time left to reach.

Who’s to say it won’t also come out tastefully?