Holiday in

To be in Falmouth awaiting the ferry - with ten zillion others on their way to some island for the summer. No. I am content (is this a pun?) with sitting here, miles and eons away from that concept of how to spend my beginning of summer vacation. But there is some thrill about boarding some large craft named The Island Queen. Wave to the folks!
Attended a show the other night at McCabe's in Santa Monica - first time there. The show? Neil Innes. Last time I breathed the same air with him was back in 1968 when the Bonzos opened for the Grateful Dead at the Ark in Boston. I got to sit immediate to Robert Wuhl - we even chatted a bit - and met Emo Phillips as we stood in line. And we were in the wrong line, as the line we stood in was for the toilets. That's entertainment.
Good show. See www.neilinnes.org for details on this tour. A bassist and drummer were performing with Neil, a perfect accompaniment to his strumming and piano licks. All in all, it was worth the price to see one of my favorite musicians perform in such the intimate space. Gwen, my neighbor (www.gwendolyn.net) has performed there, Seats 155. I watched as Robert Wuhl did the math with seat counting - and I told him that directly above us was the capacity rating - 155. He enjoyed that. My god, we bonded! As if.
The tour, if that is what it what it is, is entitled Ego Warriors. Much audience participation; a bit of history lesson also - all good stuff. Neil said that the show was traveling to Yosemite the next day - to play where? That's remote.
But what do I know? It is a languid day here - playing music from all sorts of places - right now I have on Barklee Henry's music given to me last year when his ex, the lovely Andrea Toral, visited from Chile and bestowed me with it. I guess this world-music edge is very Big Sur, which is Barklee's home and also where Andrea and I met back in 1975 - Tillie Gorts in Pacific Grove, to be more specific -- what the hell was she doing working there? She's a Whitney-Vanderbilt, fer Pete's sake. So's Barklee. This is complicated.
Anyhow, the music is lovely and perfect for such the afternoon.
Segue? Let's keep it ethereal.
Kalimba! I love kalimbas. Looked for one at McCabe's the other night, but it was too busy to really give a good once-over to the joint, although we did espy a washboard tie, shown to me by the gal with Emo. The perfect gift for someone, I would guess.
The sound quality at this place was superb - quite possibly the best I have encountered at any musical event - for real! Balanced and clear as a bell.
One odd bit was the bassist - looked very much like a young Mathew Filipowski; blond with scraggled beard. We're talking doppelganger here.
Just got my hummingbirds fed - and found that one of my orchids is in bloom! First time in about three years for this little chocolate fleur. Make my day!

Chiaroscuro

Phosphenes and patches of turquoise-infused light fill the chambers. Whew, and then some. I work in dim light. I cook in a dark kitchen. It makes others crazed to witness me at play. But it works for me. Most of the time.
This dark canvass that I need to finish is making me inept to some degree. A promised piece. "But I don't do this kind of stuff." Kid, ya opened yer trap and made a deal, so get on with it. And if I stay here long enough, chasing words around the screen, all will be okay and I'll feel like something was accomplished. More light at the end of this tunnel - next stop, Myopia!
A botanical print of fennel being done for a lawyer. Not the prettiest subject, but it is what it is - a tribute to a doggie of same name.
Does anyone know that the Italian for fennel is finnochio, a rather nasty derogatory term - like the nightclub in San Francisco ( http://www.queermusicheritage.com/oct2002f.html) with that very moniker? Seems that Prometheus also hid his purloined fire inside of a fennel plant. Odd.
Oh, Myth!
And back to the drawing board - or easel, as is this case.

The Human Barometer

Complaint Department now open. Mercy - can I deduce the weather? I thought I had pulled some soft, flabby muscles while doing an art intallation in a hallway here at home. Nope, it's a weather front.
Let me give a little clue to the whatevers of this magical ability:
Way back in the early '70s, I managed to break, fracture and dislocate my neck (C5-C6) while showing off doing gymnastics on a beach. This is the story of my life in many ways, as the 'rewards' of making it through this nightmare were of a nature that if seen in a movie, you'd have to say it was contrived and unbelievable. Oh well. Anyhow, I did survive this ordeal, but was told by my docs (magicians!) when I complained as to the cracking and weird boney stuff going on that "Wait 'til you're older!" with a nod and a laugh of sorts. Little did I know what they inferred - but as this is all about, if I was a bit more fine tuned to the sensation of atmospheres coming and going, I could nail a weather report like no meteorologist with Doppler and satellites giving the 411.
Stiffness followed by chance of more complaints.
Some day when I feel like going at it, I'll dive into this spinal tale and give a detailed report on the whole of it.
In a nutshell, I was injured in July and told to sit tight (I was in something called a reverse Trandelenberg position with a Crutchfield tong planted in my head to get the verts to realign before they could figure out what to do with me) -- yeah, sit tight, like get comfy for the holidays. Huh? Like Christmas? Yes, indeedy.
I managed to leave in 28 days after arriving - ten days after having the operation performed.
True story with more coming.

transubstantiation and grease paint

Clarabell the Clown is Dead. Icon - I can't. Let it go.
Had a brief dream with a former co-whatever-you'd-call-it from Red Devil Tattoo - although this was the Piercing Salon, which was connected but... you either know or don't care. But, I have this dream sequence/segment that is brief to the point of flavor only of this character.
Next day, I am shopping at the very nearby Army Navy store here in Silver Lake (it can be seen in the movie "Falling Down") and I bump into someone from years past, Darryl - he who performs as "Divinity Fudge" when in the right outfit. After some glib conversation, I ask as to the proprietess of said piercing studio and get the 411 that she is no longer... a "she." He is who he is now, name escapes and all that. I never felt anything that would've led me to think this was in the cards. Life is always ready to getcha in one way or another, ain't it?
So much for Dream Interpretation 1. Class dismissed.
And don't poke the dead clown on the way out.
It is summer once more in L.A.

It works!

Some time ago I witnesses some crafts/homey show on TV, and there was something said as to getting grease that had built up over time on such things as stuffed animals (clothy-anything textured is key here) by placing the object in salt crystals for some length of time - and Voila! - the schmutz would be manageable and ready to go. Well, there's this lovely little dragon kite that was a prime candidate for something to get it back or close to what it once was == this thing was covered in grime and dust and grease - not so pretty.
Well, today Branden mentioned something as to it, this bagful of stuff longing to be visible once more - the thing has been submerged in salt for not just months but maybe more than a year. A project ensued.
A hole was poked in the bottom of the grocery bag it was in and the salt poured out. We were left with a still-grimey looking pile of string and silk and feathers, challenge for the zen in anyone to undertake such -- and we did the whole of it rather well while sitting in the sun on the deck. Not too damaged, considering the possibilities, and when completed as best as we did, it looks damn good, which is very nice 'cuz she weren't cheap.
I am tingly with anticipation to get it hung properly again - that alone is a challenge.
Baby steps sometime do reward. Salt! Whoda thunk? Brilliant!

Art for art's sake

I am an artist. It's all I ever wanted to be, except for some prepubescent nonsense about wanting to be a monk, but even that is a hold-over from some past life ("You believe in that crap?"), bent over some desk, illustrating books, Bibles, lyrics... but, again - I am an artist; fine art, kiddo - and I love love love paper - work on paper. Collect same. Photos and then some.
May 5 has "Art School Confidential" opening here in L.A. - the reviews I read in www.imdb.com are somewhat okay, but I will see for myself.
And my point is? Well, I never got the luxury of formal art education, but somehow managed to get myself into some amazing situations nonetheless, such as walking into a major school or two and assuming a position teaching. Art History, anyone? I put together a rather good program miles away from the very usual and typical Jansen Art book used by schools throughout the land. Boring. Sort of okay for real grunt level basics, I suppose, but there is such a history of humanity told by doing this correctly, as I see artists as conduits for things due to civilization shortly after these interpretations through an artist's eye. It helps explain a lot of stuff that appears inane and distant from a sense of everyday life.
My one true hero in this life was Salvador Dali. Much like so many things that arrive on your plate just in time for your palette to manage, his whole take on life confused me and made me think way beyond what and where I was at the in a 7th grade level when I got a first taste that meant anything. An art teacher, Yvonne Bauduin, who was a singularity in my education, gave me this intro with his autobiography. What do I recall from that distant read? His going on as to his bowel movement every day. Hot poop.
Years later, someone I know would travel to his home in Spain to make a film of him, but Dali was too ill and that didn't happen. I have postcards on my wall of such sent to me by various and sundry persons from all over the globe (yes, a huge collection mounted on one wall) and Sam Christiansen's card from Spain. Sam is of the TV show MASH (casting director) and equally or more infamous as Sam Gage of gay porn fame - think Gage Bros. Sam was in Port Llegat to make this unmade film back in 1981 some time. I was running the infamous Nob Hill Cinema at the time.
Art. What IS art? What ain't art? Hi, I'm Art!
Lovely - I couldn't have done it this far without you, dear.

All is illusion

It is gray out. My window here has been denuded a bit, but that means that this window - a non-opening, large pane in the middle of two more openable nar-French windows (I'm sure there is a correct term for this), has been puttied up and sealed. There has been this gap on the topmost portion of the window for eons - a major highway for insect seeking a better world inside here with me. Will I miss my bugaboos? As much as they'll miss me.
Dear friend Albert, he who lives in Monterey, answered questions as to people from our shared past there oh so long ago for me. The first person asked for was Roger Wasson, whom I find has done himself in with a gun, all while talking with another friend, on the phone - at Roger's parent's home. Thank you Viet Nam for another late death brought on by your majesty. Roger was such the nice person - and nice persons finish last, I guess -- or first, as this appears to be. Sometimes it's better to be in the dark and not ask questions. Nah - this way, the correct thought can be directed, if that is even a tangible here. Yes, very tangible, as Roger is now very much in my thoughts.
There were more tales from the bay. Has it been 30 years since I lived there? Yup. I must be really old. That place is a small world.
"Uh, have you been asleep or something? Yes, you are very old." My worst suspicions confirmed. What were my parents up to when they were this same age? They felt old then too, I am sure. In fact, I think this year I outlive my father, if I succeed. That's a loaded statement in this place of momentary remembrances.
Change is the only constant.
Wow - did I think that up by myself? Deep, Chuck, deep.
All is illusion, anyhow. Count how many fingers I have raised.
What is this thing on my lower lip? A remnant of some hideous looking bit of 'who know what' that sat on my kisser for the duration of my last visit to Boston last October. What a thrill. Time wounds all heels....

May Day! May Day!

Well, flip my calendars - it's May.
As a kid this meant that by the end of the month, I would be the first person in Walden Pond for the season, that being Memorial Day opening day, and usually a pretty good sunburn from being wet and half naked while the sun shined.
Ah, Walden! Occasionaly called Polio Pond due to whatever it was that closed it for many a season. It's where I learned to swim, by golly. Without question, the happiest, most carefree moments of my life were in these waters.
I laugh thinking of those rock performers who have some wild idea of saving Walden and all that -- are they aware that the Concord Town Dump is directly across the street and probably giving a good leakage into these waters? Don't get me started. It'll survive just fine without some Hollwoodian take on being saviour to something they know nothing about. It ain't the same place I knew up to adulthood, but it is what it is.
May Day!