still breathing

I apologise for the decreasing frequency

or

perhaps that is

increasing infrequency

of postings here.

blogger makes it tricky to interact with the readership, you see.

I can't respond to your questions, the platform simply won't allow it.

but I can still tell a few stories.

 

it's been an extraordinary year

(they all are, really) with wanderings that have included exhibitions in one of the busiest locations in the UK, as well as one of the more remote (but seemingly with lots of lovely visitors).

a day after 'leafpoems :: treeclooties from here and (t)here' concluded at the Inverewe Gardens in Scotland,   'incomplete journeys' opened at the Festival of Quilts in Birmingham ... truly two extremes!

and presently I have work in 'borderline' at Fabrik, in South Australia,
as well as a chapter on my work in a beautiful new book

'True Colors'
by
Keith Recker

most of next year's workshops are up on my website

and I am very happy to say that the 

School of Nomad Arts

is blooming beautifully.

thanks for hanging in here.

if you have something that needs an answer, drop me a line.

there's a wee icon at the foot of my website

that will let you send me a message.

cheerie,

India

a collaboration

life seems to be steaming by like Niagara Falls.
blink and another month goes by.

since my last offering here I have become a grandmother.
other grandmothers will be smiling quietly to themselves as I confess that I have totally fallen in love with the tiny buglet.

In between cuddling the wee one (and making silly hats for her) I have made another course for the School of Nomad Arts - this time it's an offering for February. It starts now (four months ahead of time) so that participants can prepare by doing a bit of preservation dyeing.

And then (on my way to Maiwa in Vancouver) I've been in New Orleans for a week or so, working on   a piece of cloth and a short film, to which local guitar legend John Fohl has kindly added a soundtrack.

Wanna see it? click here 

a clean sweep

I had been with my former website host since 2004 or 5, but things were getting awfully clunky. It became tedious to try and upload images as the site would crash or simply freeze, so eventually I gave up.

Goodbye, Mr.Site.com - I'm sorry, but you just made it too hard.

Hello squarespace.com - along with a new address.

find me at

www.indiaflint.net

I'm still learning my way around, so there's bit of tweaking going on, but it feels fresh and clean and I love it.

Now I just need to get my house and workroom feeling the same way!

september one, lived twice

the journey begins oddly

filled with portents and signs

all too curious to mention

and best not taken seriously

(but they'll be in my novel)

even the man whose eyes tear up

because i remind him of his mother 

which i think may just have been

the effect of too much inflight firewater

otherwise it makes me old

and possibly also dead

after thirteen or so hours aloft

we reach the California coast

blanketed in fog except for

one significant hill above Pescadero

the sight of which always kicks my heart into gear

leaving SFO the taxi driver asks me if i have had any

terrifying experiences in the air

nothing too awful i say

which is his cue to launch into a litany

of gut-wrenching near disasters   

negotiating my release i 

take my encumbrances to the welcome center

where for a financial consideration they 

relieve me of my physical burdens for the day

outside the pavements swell and

roll under my feet - fortunately it is

not the earth, quaking, but my body

set to vibrate mode by the hours of fettered 

rumbling, strapped to a seat

in the flying sardine can

i have things to collect today

some materials for class

a large bag of unruly thoughts 

a ring, and some made-to-measure workboots.

the latter have turned out rather too small

or maybe it is just me, too big for my boots

which could be another sign.
maybe next time cos
good things take time

further up the same street at Macchiarini's

the doorbell won't ring, no pun intended 

but the ring i have come to receive

is truly beautiful with a moonstone

like a drop of Bay water balancing on

a beaten band that looks as though it has been 

pulled from the rubble of a burning building

and so is exactly what i had hoped for.

i do the usual round of favourite places

get my coffee at Trieste, sit awhile on Russian Hill

wander to the park above Fort Mason

snack on cheese under the gum trees there

then walk back to collect my luggage

and drag it across town, giggling inwardly at

the comments that passers-by feel entitled to articulate,

of which the loudest and most critical, oddly enough,

are made by those who share my first language.

they have no idea they are so generously

giving me laughter therapy

and i resist the temptation to say

"schönen Tag, noch!" 

train stations are no longer the romantic places

depicted in Brief Encounter

or in films about Anna Karenina

the temporary transBay terminal is a holding room

for souls desperate to be elsewhere and

the station at Emeryville even more so

where the vending machines make wild promises

but will only sullenly disgorge diet pepsi

filthy stuff that is strictly for cleaning copper

though, once used for that purpose, has impressive 

mordant qualities

i find a tourist map and mark my day on it in thick black pencil

eventually the train pulls in and we fall aboard

i tip myself gratefully into my tiny sleeping closet 

and give myself up to Morpheus for what seems like days

though only a few hours later i awake as we are 

passing through mist-covered desert spiked with piñon and juniper

and wonder if i'm in the right state

then water on which sunlight flashes and blinks

perhaps the merpeople have forgotten to turn their twinkle lights off

somewhere else a broken umbrella hangs batlike

from a bush on the side of a cutting

in Portland i look up and down river as we cross the Willamette

looking for the iron bridge...then realise we are on it

except for the garbled announcements over the tannoy

(there is a special training centre for railway announcers,

run by somebody who teaches them how to 

make announcements in a Turkish accent. 

the same school also supplies the people for 

the Flinders Street Station in Melbourne, Australia)

the Seattle train station is like stepping through 

a time machine into another era

or like stepping deep inside an angel-food cake 

for a white wedding with all the trimmings

i choose the easy way out

and though a braver woman might have 

tackled further public transport

rain is imminent and so i take a taxi.

the driver is old-fashioned and reassures himself 

as to our destination by the simple means of leafing 

through an actual street directory, though i have explained that 

i am heading for a helltell overlooking the ferry dock just

across from Whidbey Island. kindly (and perhaps unusually)

he only switches on the meter after he has closed his book

72 hours give or take a quarter after leaving home 

i enter a room that is not moving and discover to my delight 

that not only does it overlook water, but the doors can actually

be opened wide to the whirled outside

i drift off to the crash of waves and wake at dawn to flat calm

in the distance a ferry hovers in a silver cloud

seabirds stitch their songs across the place where the sealine might be

if it were clear

it's only September 3 but i feel as though i have lived a week 

since the month began

had September 1 twice

and will lose the equinox to the international dateline

but that

will be another story

because now i am here

re-reading a marvellous book i bought at Shakerag in 2010

and soon i shall be 'being (t)here'

but on Whidbey Island, and with slightly longer hair

+      

if you've managed to reach the bottom of the page and would like to read something more important

then you could go here

sorry, but it seems i'm beyond help.

correspondence sometimes comes in drifts, like snow

there's the seasonal influx of requests for assistance with school studies.
i try to respond kindly, even when the questions seem silly.

"why do you do art?" is a frequent flyer.
sometimes it is temping to write "because i am otherwise unemployable"
though it's pretty close to the truth.

i don't mind answering a well thought-out selection of questions, but only if you can't find the answers by googling.

towards the end of the northern college year there's generally a bunch of emails from people who would like to come and stay to "assist me in the studio" in return for one-on-one teaching.
a working holiday in the sunny south.

from my point of view this means i would be fully responsible for a person i have never met before, providing meals, a bed, entertainment and transport so that i can explain to them exactly how i want a bundle put together, or a dress stitched, or?

it's far less stressful just to do the work myself. besides, i enjoy what i do. i love the spontaneity that is possible when i am alone (well, with only canine and feline company) wielding scissors and needles and dancing in the leaflitter that carpets the floor of my studio.

and perhaps it is a psychological disability but i feel utter and overwhelming claustrophobia at the mere thought of having to share a month or more of days (and evenings) with another adult whom i may not have actually met prior to their arrival.

in recent years i have been finding increasingly beautiful areas in which to hold workshops and as a consequence the volume of inquiries from people wanting to take a gratis class in return for stoking the fires and gathering plant matter has escalated. i could have filled the upcoming class at Scott's Head entirely with such volunteers :: which could have been hilarious...
a dozen people all stoking the fire and gathering leaves, which would probably look like a splendid pagan ritual but won't pay the electricity bill.

there have been suggestions that i should increase workshop fees so that i can offer scholarship places. i don't see how that would be at all fair to paying participants. it's not going to happen.

and then there are the truly cheeky requests from people who live close to a workshop location and "just want to drop in for a day to see what it's all about". hmm.

some tell me they left well-paid positions in order to pursue their dream career. i applaud their bravery but that is their choice, and not my responsibility. i was an unemployed sole parent (of three) at the time that i returned to plant dyeing. it took me over fifteen years to achieve financial independence and be solely supported by this work. i suppose it's just as well i didn't have a comfy job because i'm not that brave and i might have clung to it and my life would have turned out awfully dull as a result.

but the long and the short of it is, please don't ask me if you can come and stay with me so that i can feed you and house you and teach you everything i know.

because the answer will be

thank you so much for your kind offer, 
but i regret i cannot accept.

on the other hand, if you sign up for a workshop, i will do my best to share my knowledge and skills. because that's my job. and my life. and i love doing it.

2016 and a bit of unleashing

the funny thing about having all my DNA from northern bloodstreams is that even though i live in the deep south where it is presently summer, in December my mind often goes into winter mode, especially in the days between the Solstice and the New Year

i haven't been able to fire up the dye cauldron : it's too dry and windy to risk it in the studio (for fear of the odd spark) and too hot to bring it all inside. i wouldn't mind but there are others in the house who will. so bundles are sitting soaking in a cauldron full of leaves, water and a bit of black iron dust i found when i was cleaning the gutters. i'll have to do something with it soon though because it's beginning to bubble and looking more than a little Shakespearian.

which brings me to the subject of writing, dressmaking and other sedentary pursuits...all of which have contributed in recent years to my stacking on rather a lot of chubb. it was all very well for my Grandfather to say that women shouldn't have corners and i don't mind being slightly insulated but presently i am feeling like a sausage roll. in case you don't know what that it, in Australia it is a short thick handful of disgusting meat offcuts that have been ground into an unrecognisable pulp, padded by 50% of the weight in sawdust and wrapped in a thick layer of greasy pastry. not pretty.

there are a number of contributing factors. due to invasive sheep, free-ranging chickens, extensive travelling and the ongoing/increasing dryness of our region, i no longer tend a garden. in its heyday it was glorious and i spent hours in it digging and weeding and marvelling at my collection of Bourbon roses. gardening is so much more fun than going to the gym. but now it's a dustbowl and it's all i can do to keep the lemon tree alive with washing up water.

writing...of books and subsequently in various social media doesn't burn up much energy either. it requires sitting down, though in its defence it also requires walking, as walking is the best thinking time and clears the mind allowing ideas to float in. writing also requires one to read, another sedentary occupation.

the book i devoured yesterday, "The Wicked Wit of Winston Churchill" not only gave me the required daily six minutes of laughter for good health but also the following lines from the man himself, in regard to his only novel 'Savrola'
"i have consistently urged my friends to abstain from reading it"
as some of you know i have been writing and rewriting a work of fiction for some years.

these recent days of reflection have helped me realise that sometimes writing should just be regarded as therapy and maybe my "novel writing" has served that very purpose and could now be let go. a good painter knows when to stop. a good writer should, too. as Colin Firth's character in Love Actually said "it's not bloody Shakespeare!" again, i'm waiting for good burning weather.

i'm also rethinking how much "hand-making for anonymous selling" i'm going to do in future. i love making work for exhibitions where i can create an environment and tell a story by setting a scene.  but sitting for hours hand-making dresses and stuffing them into boxes and sending them off across the whirled and never knowing on whom they are going to finish up is feeling increasingly unsatisfactory, so that is something that may change too. although there WILL be a one-night exhibition of work for sale offered at Maiwa in September this year, on the evening when i shall give a talk prior to class. i'm looking forward to that because i love being able to share in people's reactions to the work (the link will take you to their mailing list sign up page) and to be able to assure them that they have permission to modify, mend, overdye and so on

and now back to that chubb. i decided to begin to deal with it by acquiring a water-rower and setting it up in my bedroom. it's an exercise machine that makes a satisfactory swishing noise because the resistance is provided by a tank of water. i can row (while Kubbi continues her beauty sleep on my bed and my cat Martha watches me with unblinking disapproval) and if i close my eyes i can imagine rowing on a river somewhere, or on a beautiful pond. this morning i rowed halfway up Lake Morey in my mind with no risk at all of turning an ankle on our gravel road, something that has been happening with increasing frequency when i go running. yesterday i was rowing on the Tay, at slackwater of course. tomorrow i might row in the Louisiana swamps. the good thing is i won't have to watch out for alligators. i think i may just have found the perfect Sagittarian meditation practice.

wishing you all insights and clarity as you step into this new year...which i'm thinking of as a '9' year cos
2+0+1+6=9
and i do like the number 9!

what are you letting go, what are your aspirations?



PS i'm sorry i cannot recall who took the photo above, some time in 2010 or 2011 i think. drop me a line if it's yours and i shall add the photo credit pronto

the need to know

unless you know what it is, it's legal and it isn't going to make you sick.

during a class last week at the Beautiful Silks Botanical Studio somebody asked the question

"what does oleander do?"

which reminded me that when i pootled across the ranges to Rockford in the Barossa Valley earlier in the month to pick up bottles of assorted nectars (with which to enhance the lunches at Mansfield) i drove past a group of young gentlemen assiduously stripping flowers from a huge Oleander (Nerium oleander). it occurred to me about a 100 metres later that they had bare hands. 

so i did the grandmotherly thing, made a u-turn and went back. 

poor things, they thought i'd come to give them a talking-to for stealing flowers. not so. but i DID give them a talking-to about health and safety.

they had no idea of the name of the plant, or that it was poisonous.

so i told them. 

i also suggested they would want to wash their hands before consuming their next meal (or rubbing their eyes)

their plan was to scatter the flowers at a wedding...but if i were the bride i wouldn't want bushels of  toxic plant matter tossed at me.

i'd also be concerned about small children picking up the flowers and putting them in their mouths. as small children so often do.

i tell my students time and time again "identify the plant, at very least by genus, before gathering". because it's just common sense.

somebody told me in the USA years ago how she and a friend had been hospitalized with anaphylaxis after lifting the lid on a pot full of boiling poison ivy. the genus name Toxicodendron tells me to stay well away from that one. i was so stunned by the story that

i completely forgot to ask "and what colour did it dye?"

so what DOES oleander do? i have no idea. and i don't plan to put it in a dyepot because even the smoke from burning oleander is poisonous.

while i'm on the subject

there have been a spate of images of "ecoprints" from castor oil plant leaves floating about the internet. call me old Mrs Unadventurous if you like, but i would be a bit nervous about bundling leaves from the plant whose derivative was used to kill Georgi Markov. admittedly using it in a dye bundle may not get the stuff into your bloodstream (which is where it is most effective) but there's very little research about the effects of inhaling steam from boiling such bundles.

once cloth is rinsed and dried it won't be a longterm poisoning device (unless you were to soak it in a poison before offering it for use, not a pleasant thought).

so given about 80% of ornamentals in suburban gardens are poisonous in one way or another, i recommend caution.

simple errors like confusing colchicums for crocus and hemlock for angelica have led to tears before bedtime in the past.

i'm not scare-mongering, i just think it's important to know what you're dealing with.

one of the reasons that green became the colour of bad luck in the theatre was that actors who regularly wore green costumes became sick and eventually died...if the colour green in the cloth was dependent on the presence of orpiment (arsenic trisulphide)

they may not have known why, just that you became ill if you wore green.

but that's another story.

ps thank you everybody who offered a word (or two) in response to the previous post...i'll be working with those words and shall hope to find them some friends soon

a confession - with a postscript

i've been feeling very bad 

on the last day of my class in Vancouver I was given a card from my students

i put it away to read later because my attention was being called to something in the next room

thought i had gathered it up with the papers from the clothesline 

and have been looking for it ever since

so if there was something in it that i haven't responded to

it's not because i am ignoring you

it's because i've lost it

and i'm sorry

that's all. 

not quite all

am delighted to say that as i was packing for the Mansfield workshop series...the card magically appeared (from a place i had looked in before) and so all is well. i could have deleted this post but hey i figured it might as well stay

+
 

music to my ears

two trees entwined

moss hat

sweet meadow

one of the 490 varieties of hypericum

beautiful Austria

campanulas

on the way from Scotland to France i spent almost exactly 90 hours immersed in my first language and emerged somewhat astonished at how very much being surrounded by the sounds of my childhood/adolescence/family life affected me (in a good way).

don't get me wrong. i was born in Australia and love it dearly but when push comes to shove there is no denying that all of my DNA (including the dash of Kazakh that gave me my brown skin) is northern in origin.

so when the steward on the Lufthansa flight to Paris asked me whether i was German or American (darf ich fragen, sind Sie Deutsche oder Amerikanerin) it was with a wee chuckle that i replied "weder, noch" (neither)

i rather like being a citizen of the whirled and being able to meld into various cultures as required (even if only as a walking replica of the local compost heap). whether my rusty French will allow me to do so for the next week or so is a matter for speculation.

guess i'll report in due course.

sniffing the wind

it's been an interesting month or two. life's bowled me a few wobblies including the unexpected passing of an old friend - i shan't bore you with the rest of them other than to speculate that i suppose it's the whirled's way of keeping us on our toes. in theory i should already be at the Observatory, cataloging the Solace pennants ready for installation but there are just a few more things to sort out here and then we can be off to the North in a couple of days.

in the meantime, for the first time in a very long time, i have actually cooked something from a recipe (as opposed to hurling various ingredients together and hoping they will be friends).

the formula for Lemon Delicious was kindly supplied by Mary after i tasted her fabulous pudding at dinner last week. i will confess to browning the butter in advance (remember I'm half Latvian) and to only having panela in the pantry (the recipe calls for white sugar) which threw the colour of the mix a bit but it tasted a good deal better than it looked. 

i served it with lemon butter, a translucent smear of marmalade (thank you Mary), a sprig of lemon verbena and a dob of sour cream. unfortunately when plating I wobbled with the spoon and covered the whole thing with sauce thus accidentally obscuring the lovely brown crust. it's not quite so light as the original but you know the old line about getting to Carnegie Hall...practice.

this week i also visited Treasure Ships, an enormous exhibition at the AGSA. after my recent foray into curating i was doubly awed by the work that has gone into deciding what should go where. happily for the curators, the makers of the works are long passed and thus unlikely to query the display of their work... some of the exquisite block-printed and mordant-painted cloths are affixed to the walls at well over head height and so cannot be clearly seen at all. 

but that's a small quibble. 

 

rather than paraphrasing the media release...i'll paste a bit of it in.

" The works reveal how the international trade in spices and other exotic commodities inspired dialogue between Asian and European artists, a centuries old conversation whose heritage is the aesthetic globalism we know today.

[...]

The exhibition commences with the small country of Portugal. Located on the periphery of Europe, Portugal re-mapped the West’s view of the world and created a mercantile spice empire stretching halfway around the globe during the fifteenth-sixteenth century. In 1498 Vasco Da Gama’s small fleet became the first European ships to reach India and landed with the famous words, ‘we come in search of Christians and spices’.  Within a decade the Portuguese soldier –aristocrat Francisco de Almeida (1450-1510) had ruthlessly seized control of the Indian Ocean spice trade and established Portugal’s permanent presence in Asia which was to last four hundred years.

Treasure Ships also presents the story of exploration and trade, discovery and shipwrecks, as well as illustrating the astonishing beauty of Chinese porcelain, known as ‘white gold’, and vibrant Indian textiles created for export around the world."

there's a particularly amusing Japanese painting of a group of Portuguese in which each one of the men depicted has the same enormous nose (as my companion pointed out with a small giggle). clearly the artist was fascinated by a prominently protruding Portuguese proboscis and painted it onto each face. practice makes perfect.

the relics above were retrieved from the wreck of the Batavia. the gunpowder canister at the top is made from copper and i can cheerfully envisage bundling cloth and leaves around it. happily it is under glass and therefore safe.

while we're talking of voyaging and wanderment i'm delighted to say the itinerary for the long-dreamed of wandering to New Mexico has been confirmed. i've been corresponding with Arts and Cultural Travel for some time now and it's looking as though some kind of adventure (but not necessarily the same story each time) with them may become an annual event. i certainly hope so.

here's the link to the very first one. (i'm told one eager soul has already signed up so that leaves 11 places)

and finally, for your amusement and because i've been getting the usual seasonal requests for internship (please let me come and stay with you so you can teach me everything you know during my summer break) and last month had rather a lot from students frantically trying to put together a conclusive body of work (i want to print leaves on my final collection, will you tell me how) and a couple along the lines of "i'm starting a fashion business please tell me which fabrics to use and what dyes and mordants you would recommend for them" (no, i'm not joking) i have been having to compose kind-but-firm letters in response.

as some of you know i do respond, albeit briefly, to questions where possible, but sometimes there just aren't enough hours in the day. Austin Kleon has gathered an amusing collection of letters composed by famous people facing far greater deluges of correspondence.

thinks

Twenty years from now you will
be more disappointed by the
things you didn’t do than by the
ones you did do.  So throw off the
bowlines.  Sail away from the safe
harbor.  Catch the trade winds in
your sails.
Explore. Dream. Discover.” 

 

the quote above is rumoured to have been authored by Mark Twain but (as you'll see if you click on that link) that may be apocryphal. Whoever penned that, it's a gem.

I wish I had read and taken it to heart forty years ago. 

Fingers crossed I get another chance, am not reincarnated as a cockroach and have the good sense to take the plunge!

however if Mae West is right

there's only one go at it.

guess I'd better get cracking!

argentina

image borrowed from : http://www.gondwana.geologia.ufrj.br/

the idea of Argentina has been on my mind for a while

every now and then an email drifts in across the oceans

asking if i will come. 

yesterday i decided to put a ring around some weeks in the calendar

thinking maybe the last week in November, first week of December 2016 

i would need to teach four lots of three day classes to make the trip work financially

(the fee for one class wouldn't even cover the airfare across the big puddle)

but it will be exciting to meet the flora on the other side

and to expore the Gondwana connections between our countries

and though there is interest in the basics of ecoprinting

i'd love to offer a 'being (t)here' class too

so

if you are in Argentina

(or would like to come from elsewhere to meet me there)

and if you are interested in taking a class

please either let me know in the comments below

or better still (because then i will have an email address to write back)

please drop me a line via my

contact page

and perhaps tell me what you would most like to learn?

 

 

blue notes and life lessons

life lessons. 

learn to expect the unexpected. 

you'd think that by now i would have that firmly tattooed inside my left eyelid. 

I have to confess I was humbled by the indigo vat last week...which for the first time since 1991 (the year I first dabbled in the blues) decided to behave like a bit of princess and consequently was a little slow to reveal the magic. 

pale blue instead of brilliant blue.

With the wisdom of hindsight I should have put the freshly prepared vat to bed overnight wrapped in quilts and blankets but foolishly (possibly thinking hey, it's summer) left it out under the stars overnight. 

An extra 24 hours and a bit more warmth yielded truly lovely results, sadly too late for my forgiving students (and me) who had already dispersed with the four winds - but very happily for Judy (see blue hand below). It certainly reinforced the rules of indigo, which likes to be warm and wellfed, just like the rest of us. Didn't do a great deal for my self-esteem, but I'm sure the Dogs Above had their reasons. I sure hope they did. The inner bear took a bit of a pummelling.

At least all present were very happy with their metalwork (guided by Roz Hawker), received the magic of string (learned originally from Nalda Searles), loved the fabulous food (thank you Chloe Keylock), revelled in the gorgeous surroundings (thank you Michael and Judy Keylock) and enjoyed the dog therapy provided by the ever joyful Molly.

photo by Michael Keylock

I'm taking my lesson in the spirit of the wisdom below 

(thank you Michael for bringing it to my attention)

and have come home to more wise words from another Michael 

(image borrowed from the Michael Leunig appreciation page)

the teapot of constancy is filled with Lady Grey tea, 

the dog of sanity (who slept on my bed last night) is by my side. 

Admittedly the armchair of philosophy needs serious re-upholstering and the rug of constancy could do with a vacuum and possibly a good beating but the vase of tranquility is full of jasmine

and happily every day is a new beginning.

 

AWOL

on Thursday last week i filled a cauldron with bundles

set a fire underneath

and promptly absconded. 

i was in need of friend, dog and ocean therapy. 

happily i was blessed with all of the above. 

(that dress has special pockets for my Sabahs) 

and now back at home i have a cauldron full of bundles to unroll...

but i think i might give them another night's sleep.

Sigh

"Leaving San Francisco is like saying goodbye to an old sweetheart. You want to linger as long as possible."

- Walter Cronkite

once again I'm faced with leaving this beloved place, though I only landed here yesterday lunchtime and feel that I've hardly arrived

cherry blossoms abound

dogwoods

and roses. 

Though it is peony season I've only found them at second hand

I've roamed my traditional 490 acre territory (I'll explain that when I'm not typing with on finger on the batfone) 

Reading telegraph pole poetry with my fingers

it's written in Braille after all

Checked that things are as they should be

The tailors dummy is still in the window on Columbus 

the only addition at some point in the last 38 years has been this 

a British style guide dated 1987

A favourite tree doing very nicely thank you

and in Sterling park on Russian Hill, the heart I left there last year

still in place on the tree

The gorgeous gardens on the Filbert steps are still buzzing with bumblebees

Up on T hill

the store that I daydream about occupying as a studio for a while

is changing hands yet again. It has fabulous views of the Bay and Coit tower and across to Russian Hill

I pick up some saxophone reeds at Union Music

and some carving tools at the Japanese hardware store

and then follow my nose into Susan Vanasco-Howell's tiny but luscious bead store at 1900A Fillmore, emerging twenty minutes later with a string of blue beads, a red rose (given to me by said Susan) and the discovery that Susan and I have birthdays on consecutive days and agree on a lot of things

and that was only the tip of the iceberg of what I did in San Francisco.

I even bumped into my auntie. Well, not her physical self as we lost her two years ago, but evidence that she is around. I was thinking about her and how she loved this city too and then I glanced at my feet and saw this sign

it was her stock response whenever any one of us told her we loved her (our standard sign off on the telephone).

There she was. Large as life. 

now it's pumpkin time and I have to be at the airport early tomorrow 

so I shall consign myself to bed and the lullaby of the foghorns

leaving y'all in the hands of one of the local saints

See...there is truly a saint for every occasion. And I'm gonna be missing Saint Frank.