I have been so busy with work and challenging the creativity in others that I haven’t challenged my own creative channels. I explored my yard when the rains hit today, after they had been threatening for a couple days. It felt good to have my camera back in my hands.
of course…I found a heart.
the weekend before last i attended my first 24-hour endurance mountain bike race, 24-Hours in the Old Pueblo, which was a fantastic experience….a wee bit freezin’-me-buttocks-off-cold, but fun. i’m starting now to cull a team of friends to race next year. super duper cool shit.
The road into 24-hour town (the skinny white line in the distance) led us to a village of tents, trucks and r.v.’s .
Mark Mason is triumphant! We made it to the event location without losing my bike or his bike, which was fortunate because Mark was on a team with his brother. Mark, who is one of the nicest gents that I know, signed up for the crappiest shift – the 3am – 5am shift – during what had to be mid-20º temperatures. I didn’t hear him complain once…not once!
If you happen to see these two fellas coming your way, be forewarned that they are nothing but fun! Matt Gindlesparger (the husband of my work spouse Katie) and Brendan Collier (right), the owner and designer of Siren Bicycles, were my new best mates at the race. When Matt isn’t the spokes-model for the Siren clothing line (hence the hip 1980’s collar upturn), he’s working on the U of A’s entry into the Solar Decathlon….he’s kind of a smarty pants. Mix these two gentleman, toss in an espresso maker sans tamper, add a great pot of chili made by Katie and finish with wee shot of bourbon as racers speed by…and you’ve got a fine time on your hands!
The ever-lovely Mel Mason volunteered to d-jay for a six hour shift, keeping race fans rolling, despite temperatures that fell fast, fast! Mel has an amazing talent for music…she even played a song just for me! Brendan, Matt, Mark and myself were Mel’s support staff.
And I found a heart in the carpet inside the Siren Bicycle’s tent…a rugged heart.
I have a love affair with travel, flight to be precise. It must be connected to my nearly insatiable need to be in motion, in transit, leaving here, going there, moving forward – literally or figuratively. Blame it on my nomadic upbringing, but the curiosity of finding myself surrounded by unknowns is a challenge I seem to consistently be chasing.
I went home for the holidays this year. It had been two years since I was home last for Heidi and Jake’s wedding. It was a splendid and relaxing vacation. I played games invented on the spot by my older nephews, who also taught me how to play tennis on the aptly named Wii. I flirted with my younger two nephews who already have heart-breaker qualities and made it extremely easy for me to fall madly in love with them. My sisters and I had wonderful talks that I wish we could have more often, if only we lived closer to one another. I had great conversations with my mom that continue to play-back in my mind. How does a mother’s identity change after thirty years of active motherhood slowly moves a woman towards being the caretaker of one – herself?
When I do travel, I do my best to time my flights properly. It’s a science, really. I schedule outbound flights to correspond with the rising sun and I time the descent of returning flights with sunsets. I like the conceptual connection of the dawn of adventure as I depart from my hometown of the moment. I also embrace the abstract of my adventure coming to an end as the daylight descends into night.
On my flight home I found myself thinking about the “why” of my travels. What is it about leaving and returning that is so magical? Here are some pictures and some words I strung together during that return flight…landing at sunset, of course.
look with flight speed
way down and across
a curdled-milk contrail
diagonally cuts
the crossword quilt
sewn by her hands
to comfort the 4-year-old boy
crying in seat B, aisle 33
salt-watered tears
mimic erosion flows
imprecise, confused
direction(less)
into and over
their complicated neighbors
dense, red light
breaks snowed-starved mountains
into baby pink tips
sharpened, carved
by extreme extremes
paler, and paler pinks
as the aircraft falls
in tandem with the sun
I am anxious to reconnect
my feet with their walking path
because even from this distance
gated bedroom communities
have beauty.
p.s. When I fly into cities I know well, I also select which side of the aircraft I want to sit on (go ahead, call me neurotic, I don’t mind). When flying into Oakland, I sit on the right side of the plane so I can peer down into Yosemite National Park as we pass over (sadly, it was clouded over this trip). I sit on the left side when flying out so that I can peer down upon San Francisco, where I went to university. We also fly over Candlestick Park, where I cut my teeth as a young photographer covering 49er’s games back in the days of Steve Young, Jerry Rice and a young kid named Terrell Owens.
Another round of hearts “found” me on a recent hike with Gertie in Catalina State Park. It was her first time on the trail and she had an absolute blast and flirted with all the boys that we passed…or was that me? Hmmm….
I’ve been feeling solid and rooted in my life, which I think is represented in the “earthiness” of this latest round of “found hearts”. Enjoy!
his fingers
calloused
strong
trace intricate
delicate
designs across my palm
weaving himself
into my life line
- krista
I have joined an truly amazing group of local artists from nearly every creative discipline – writers, poets, dancers, designers, architects, arts advocates, educators, filmmakers, body workers – for a deeply collaborative project.
The Invisible City aims to explore the ways in which we – as people, as inhabitants – interact with the spaces that we live in. The project is focused on downtown Tucson’s growth, both stunted and rapid. The project is occurring completely in public spaces and we fully welcome participation from everyone and anyone.
Sessions are Fridays from 5-7 p.m. and on Sundays from 2-6 p.m., over the next four weekends and will take place at a wide variety of locations throughout downtown Tucson.
Click here to visit The Invisible City project blog.
Click here for locations and information on how to participate.
Click here to see images and to see video.
Click here to read the work of writers and poets.
At the end of the project, a performance will be held on Sunday, Nov. 16th at 5:30 pm, (Tickets: $10). Location is the top floor of Pennington Street Parking Garage.
I participated in a very fun, unexpectedly challenging, writing exercise yesterday at work. Steph (who is a poet) led the new 110º youth staff in a writing exercise designed to highlight the difference between concrete words/thoughts and abstract words/thoughts. (As readers and listeners, we tend to remember the fine details of a story more than the abstract concepts.)
I like writing, free-writes especially. I like the challenge of facing down a blank page and working through the process of filling the page. I am always surprised at what flows from my head and heart onto the page because it rarely is where I think I’ll end up. It is an interesting experiment that points me toward what issues I need to focus on.
I wanted to share part of the exercise with ya’ll. It was an interesting experience for me…but first, the fun part. Try it! It’s actually quite a bit of fun. (feel free to post your sentences as comments!)
Complete the following sentences using highly descriptive words, based upon personal experience:
Love tastes like…
Fear smells like…
Happiness feels like…
Anger sounds like…
Depression tastes like..
The first one totally stumped me. Love tastes like… I stared at that sentence fragment for the longest time, wanting to think of something red and romantic and sweet and passionate and…well, full of love.
Bitterness. That’s the word that spilled onto the page. Love tastes like bitterness.
Ouch! What kind of hopeless romantic am I…and what the hell does that say about my current thoughts on the subject of Love? I was stumped, totally blocked, so I moved on to the other sentences.
Fear smells like….acrid smoke blown from a cheap cigarette.
Happiness feels like….sun warmed cherry tomatoes eaten straight from the vine with my grandfather on a humid late-summer day.
Anger sounds like….silence.
Depression tastes like….a promising bright orange that, after the effort of peeling, is juice-less and devoid of flavor.
I had to fix that first sentence, so I stared at it…bouncing the words between my head and heart…love…taste…love…flavor…love…taste….
Love tastes like burnt coffee served by truck-stop Margie, who can’t be bothered to remove her cigarette from her lipstick smeared lips….
that’s sad.
Love tastes like olives…
I dislike olives. I’ve tried and tried to like them, but my taste buds say “nu-uh!”
Love tastes like printer toner on your fingers after you discover the last person to use to copier left a paper jam for you to solve…
come on, I can’t be this jaded! Try, try harder!…
Love tastes like Aunt Babe’s cheese and onion enchiladas after a day of canoeing down the Illinois River….YES!!! Breakthrough. There is hope for me after all (I do truly love Aunt Babe’s enchiladas)….keep going, yes…
Love tastes like homemade vanilla ice cream on a hot August night….
Love tastes like cheese…blue cheese…brie…gouda…extra sharp cheddar…yum.
Love tastes like a fuzzy summer peach that you have to eat bending over so the juice runs down your chin and onto the grass….
Love tastes like red velvet cake smothered in cream cheese frosting.
Sigh. Crisis averted. Red velvet cake smothered in cream cheese frosting…Red. Sweet. Romantic. Passionate. Ahh, the healing power of words (and food).
I find myself sick, for the second weekend in a row. Apparently last weekend was just a warm-up exercise because this weekend I’ve gone down hard. I don’t even had the benefits of a sexy radio voice. At this moment I am enjoying a hot cup of triple-dose echinacea tea. The tag attached to tea bag is printed with this motivational statement:
“Say it straight, simple and with a smile.”
Straight and simple wrapped in a smile. Maybe there is some truth to the old adage that bad news/uncomfortable situations are best delivered/endured with a smile. I have come to realize that I am an absolute pro at smiling my way through the litany of bizarre situations that life tosses my way…much too often, if you ask me. I provide the events of last Wednesday evening as an example. (I would have blogged about this that night, but my good friend Sean’s last words to me that night were “No drunk blogging!” which he cautioned is worse than drunk dialing and/or texting).
Last Wednesday evening I joined a handsome gentleman/local music aficionado and his fish-named-dog for dinner on 4th Ave. I’ve been curious about this particular gentleman since I met him many moons ago and dinner was a chance to actually talk before heading to a cd release party for the awesome local musical group Molehill Orkestrah. Dinner was good and the conversation swell and comfortable. Talk about connection points…it seems that this man and I share some crazy geographical connections – from small Ozark mountain towns to the east San Francisco Bay Area – our life paths have criss-crossed over the same small waypoints. It was fun to reminisce about the stomping grounds of my youth with someone who also stomped on the same lands.
We break after dinner – he to walk his dog home and me to run home to feed The Gertie before meeting him back at Plush for the show. On my way home, I dialed the number of my most recent romance (now defunct). I needed to stop by and pick up my things, having run out of saline solution that morning and having left a full bottle at his place. I didn’t think he’d be home, thought he’d still be working and I could slip in and out with the key that I still had on my key ring. “Yep, I’m home.”…”Is it okay if I stop by to pick up a few things?”….”Umm, sure.” he answers sounding distracted….”You’re positive?”…”Yeah. Sure…yeah.”…”Hey…are you alone?”…”Umm, no.”…”Who’s there?”…he answers with a girl’s name. Without really thinking, I say “Okay. Cool, I’ll be there in a few minutes.”
Obviously, I didn’t listen to that little voice called “Intuition”. In hindsight, that was my clue to just go to Walgreen’s. Shoulda, woulda, coulda…yadda, yadda, yadda.
The next 10 minutes are surreal and uncomfortable. Nothing like being the lone sober person walking into an already-started-party-for-two. So…we do what any normal people do in a situation like this – we make small talk like this is a completely normal every day situation. How-are-you’s? are exchanged while I’m gathering my toiletries. “Hey, I found a shirt of yours while doing laundry.”….”Thanks. I was looking for that this morning.”…”How is work going?”…”Good. Busy.”…I pause and put my things down for a moment. I slip his key off my ring and hold it out for him to take. He stares at it for a moment but makes no move to take it. I place it on his nightstand. “You want your keys back too?”…”Yes, eventually. Your grill is still at my house…”
I remind you, dear reader, that all this is happening with an audience. Yes…”The-return-of-the-key” ceremony had an audience, which is a first for me. I don’t really remember what I said as I departed. I just know that I flew out of there as fast as my wobbly legs would allow. I do remember getting into my car and saying out loud, “What the f*@% was that?!?!” before taking a deep, deep breath to ground myself before heading to Plush for the show (which was lovely, despite the beautiful belly dancer who’s be-charmed waist jingled-jangled two feet away from me and did not necessarily compliment the band’s performance).
My long-time friends know that I often find myself in some rather bizarre situations. All of these friends have agreed that this event has vaulted to the #1 spot. My mom said, “Your life is soooooo interesting!”…which I think she meant in a positive way. My sister just followed my lead and laughed at the absurdity of it all.
“Say it straight, simple and with a smile.“
If you hang around me long enough, you’ll learn that nothing in my life is straight, nor simple, but I certainly do know how to smile my way through it.
The inaugural Wine(y) Poetry Night finally happened…despite extreme bike crash injuries (Miz A is okay, but got stitches in her elbow this morning), timing misunderstandings and my sudden realization that my collection of Pablo Neruda is missing (gasp!). I’ve been wanting to get this event going for the longest time and I finally got off my duff and did it. I adore my friend Jill T., but now I love her even more for the fact that she brought a super thick collection of Neruda, from which she read…and I swooned. His Tierra series hits me every time. I have a special affinity for “Unity”.
I was thrilled to share my love of contemporary poet Stephen Dunn. A piece of his entitled ‘Optimism’ from his Pulitzer-Prize winning collection “Different Hours” is one that I keep on my nightstand and read on a regular basis. I was introduced to Dunn by my former Photo Editor back in Nebraska, Ted Kirk, and I am most thankful for the introduction. His work has such power. It is complex simplicity.
The Divine Miz M, sporting a bright red t-shift printed with: W.W.J.J.D.?, read from her hero, Joan Jett’s “I Love Rock and Roll”…hence the What Would Joan Jett Do?” t-shirt.
Tesa read a beautiful piece “And you held me” by Janet Marley (sp?) as well as a few exquisite pieces by Rumi. Miz A introduced me to the magic of Joy Harjo.
Wine(y) Poetry Night will be a standing affair, I’m glad to report. Stay tuned…
Wines sampled:
_________
Optimism – by Stephen Dunn
My friend the pessimist thinks I’m optimistic
because I seem to believe in the next good thing.
But I see rueful shadows almost everywhere.
When the sun rises I think of collisions and AK-47s.
It’s my mother’s fault, who praised and loved me,
sent me into the dreadful world as if
it would tell me a story I’d understand. The fact is
optimism is the enemy of happiness.
I’ve learned to live for the next good thing
because lifelong friends write good-bye lettres,
because regret follows every timidity.
I’m glad I konw that all great romances are fleshed
with failure. I’ll take a day of bitterness and rain
to placate the gods, to get it over with.
My mother told me I could be a great pianist
because I had long fingers. My fingers are small.
It’s my mother’s fault, every undeserved sweetness.
published in “Different Hours”
Last night, after a lovely dinner with my even more lovely friend Mel, I stopped at the market to pick up a bag of coffee. Three days earlier I had brewed the last of a truly fabulous roast that was a pleasure to wake up to every morning. Dark, sweet, a little spicy but very smooth.
I stood in the aisle, staring down all the varieties, trying to decide which I should choose. “Hmmmm…which country do I want to travel to each morning? France for French roast? Columbia? Sumatra? Hawaii? Do I want my coffee Bold? Balanced? Rich? Earthy? Full? Light?”
Sigh. None of these would be able to replace the pleasure and the depth of flavors in the coffee I had been enjoying for the past two months…the coffee that was brought back from Olympia, Washington as a gift and cannot be found locally (that I’m aware of).
In the end, I choose Sumatra. Earthy. Rich. Robust. Grand.
As I sip my cup of coffee this morning, it is none of those things. The flavor is bland, the aroma is boring. I miss the chartreuse green bag printed with two dancing goats that remind me of the Pan character from Tom Robbins’ book, ‘Jitterbug Perfume’. I miss the sweet smoothness and dark complexity of the coffee, and of the person who gave it to me.
Last night, in the market, I should have chosen a different coffee, a different set of adjectives…but there was not one that claimed to be “Dark. Sweet. Complex. Balanced.”, which is what I was really looking for.
 | oneshorething on Visual reconnections… |
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 | mcnamaramedia on Visual reconnections… |
 | Jan on Timing travel… |
 | Michael on 24 hours west of the Old … |
