summer time

It’s been beautiful to be here in Tucson for so many days straight. My days follow the summer pattern; my favorite.

Miss Fish wakes me at sunrise. These days, that’s around 5 am. It will keep getting marginally earlier, until the Solstice (soul-sigh at the thought) when we pass the top of the rollercoaster of awesome and begin the dreadful slide into short days. Best not to think of it now, I’m still planning, plotting about that, how to be able to follow the long, soft days like a groupie.

I am thrilled by the soft kiss of the cat, a little meow, a nudge with her head; she wakes me and whumps down next to me, waiting somewhat patiently for me to stand up.

I get up, put music (and maybe a sundress) on, make coffee and feed and water all of the little creatures and the garden, and check the pool for casualties or rescues needed (two lizards lost this summer, both whiptails) and the yard for same (the cats seem to have given up bird-hunting, but the hawks have not) and then I settle in with my second Shock- mug of coffee, answer all of the email that came in since I signed off at 11 p.m., check the news, answer any comments left on the blog or Facebook.  And I write, and write, or not. Hopefully so.

Sax is Chris Wood; he toggles my Andy Mackay gland like the crazed Asteroid Capture business the NASA Administrater trotted around JPL this week. It toggles my Edward Teller Alarm; it’s like a little string I ran down into his virtual coffin so that when something outrages or excites him I can go see what it is. You think I’m just mouthing off, but I’m telling you, I keep an eye on him. It’s Justice League shit; Teller is on my list I got from some guy with epaulets. Or at least I think there were bars. Whatever they were, they were on his jacket. Or cape. Point being: just because ET passed this mortal coil doesn’t mean I’ve stopped watching him.

Truth be told, and somewhat humorously (because I had no relationship with him otherwise) it was to Carl Sagan I promised I would watch Teller; it was during the Hazards symposium at the UA in… 1990? when Teller spit out, thunderingly, “Zat man, SAGAN,” before delivering a blistering critique of Carl’s objection to Teller blowing up asteroids with nuclear weapons. It was a Reagan holdover, Star Wars crap, you had to be there. I accepted the charge of keeping an eye on the man with glee. Dave Grinspoon, another caped crusader in my division, was there too, but he didn’t fancy Teller like I did. I always saw ET as a tragic figure; a spokesman for the pain of regret; I could understand why things went the way that they did.

Like my father, he added up to a danger to society, and I would have stood in his way regarding almost his entire agenda, but I loved him for his genius. It was from this article in Science and Tech Review that I lifted the photo below, of Reagan introducing Teller to Gorbachev. The article was deliberately written to detail his contributions. not explore the controversy that surrounded him. I haven’t read this book, but it might be a good place to start if you are curious about his mixed reputation.

So now you know why I am all EDWARD TELLER this week; because the string has been yanked; I blame the Nasa Administrator, society, Carl Sagan, and the Space Pirates gathered mere miles from me. I will dress impeccably to observe them, and I will never look away. I can see them now, salivating at the thought of riding asteroids like spaceships, extracting their cursed latinum, and leaving the no doubt polluted and drained asteroid-corpses in the space that surrounds Earth.

As I mentioned yesterday, one of the reasons I am going to Rick Tumlinson’s talk tonight at Spacefest is to see what he has to say about this. He speaks for pirates; I want to hear what he says. If space mining is to happen, which of course it will if humans persist, I want them to do it Out There, not in the Earth-Moon spaceyard.

I always feel that you understand a system, you know, you can make very minor pricks in it, and the ripples from those pricks can disrupt structure. It is possible to make targeted hits, but only if you know what to watch for. And there are a few people I watch to know what to watch; Edward Teller (even though no longer technically alive) and Rick Tumlinson are decent barometers.

You know, I should add that I think it’s actually really badass that any portion of the biome would become sentient and develop asteroid-swatting technology. There is just so much I’d rather do first. As Bill says, dryly, “this is not science-driven.”

Me, I’d like to build international bases on the Moon and Mars, and I’d like to design and launch another Cassini-class mission with Voyager soul, I’d like to send out a thousand space-robots, to gather images and analyze samples, and I’d like to see what’s inside Europa.  I don’t mind mining asteroids as long as we do it responsibly; but as there is zero sign that we have ever mined anything responsibly, I hope it’s still a ways off.

Orangelina is smart as hell but she is nowhere near capturing an asteroid. But look at those beautiful hands.

Anyway. My day. After writing, which might be short or long (and whichever it is reflects almost not at all on how many good words I wrote) I swim, I garden, if it’s Saturday I get to listen to Wait Wait Don’t Tell Me. Today they were mean (Peter isn’t always … nice…) but Mo was there and he was unspeakably excellent.

I choose a different city to listen from every week (the beauty of Internet streaming radio) so I get varying local flavours. I stalk the lizards with my camera and delude myself that the cardinals are thrilled to see me. I love to work outside. There are always things to paint, garden beds to dig or improve, shade sails to move with the seasons, zones to spiff.

I think morning thoughts only in the mornings; I have to do dispassionate thinking when the air is still soft, any later and the patterns of my brain alter; if I am too hot I think about hot things, I have no perspective and terrible judgment. Abstract thinking requires in my case a (literally) cooler head. I haven’t turned the AC on here yet (it’s wasteful, I hate having the doors closed, it costs $150 a month to run) and my house no longer has its original evaporative cooler; it must have been removed by Violet, the woman who lived her for so long. Sad!  

So it’s been me and some fans and the heat; I strategize as people always have in hot climates, I plan my life to allow for a bit of torpor in the late afternoon; if my head will only be cool enough to make decisions from 5 am to 10, it pays to remember it. I still very much dream of a little light  helmet-cap, one that I can freeze. It would sit light as a feather on my hot head, cooling my brain enough to perform more reliable calculations.

When it gets too hot to work outside, I rinse off from the garden, refill the bird feeders (five times a day now, with so many babies in the yard) and swim again, as hard as I can. The water is cold cold cold still; 79F. I shiver when I get out, despite the heat of the air. One swim can keep me cool for at least an hour, sometimes more. Then I go inside, find food, and get back to work. Beading, writing, more email of course, as the rest of America wakes up. Miss Fish lays next to me and sleeps; I fill book orders, and put the envelopes and boxes on the porch; the mail carrier will take them for me later in the day.

Then, it’s time for photography. The light is utterly perfect here in the summer; when the sun is high in the sky, my entire bedroom is in warm shade, VERY warm shade (and I mean warm in terms of lumens) and the inside of my white photo tent-box is alive with light; I can almost see it dancing; the air quivers with colour and life. I bead, I shoot, I do what needs to be done, I Photoshop images (it’s best to do this in good light as well, and always at the same time of day lightwise) and I stay current online (this is a lot of work but essential to the forward motion of the book) and I get sleepy and hot; around 3 I walk into the pool, cool down, float, rinse off in the outdoor shower, and come inside to nap, ideally with Miss Fish.

By 5 pm, it’s starting to mellow out heatwise; I’m refreshed, I have another 6 hours to do whatever I want.

I love these days; I can work as hard as I want to; I can have the three morning hours that are denied to me in the sucking dark of winter, I am warm and vital and the world is full of life and flowers and everything is just fucking perfect.

It’s my birthday in five days; my birth sign, Gemini, is high in the sky in the early evening.

big skies, astronauts, and people I don’t agree with

When we get down to the shrink-wrap on my grave 
You know the nitty-gritty never looked so safe

Yesterday, I happened to be in the back yard for a few hours, because James was coming over to scoot the Coach, and James and I are friends; we talk about our children, our frustrations with how the world works (like me he is a natural systems engineer and sees weak links everywhere he looks) and we talk about about plants and trees and the ways of the world. James and I are and are not alike; he is a man, this matters. Neither of us are particularly sentimental but we love our small families and we can be relied on if things get tough. He doesn’t laugh at me when I know that the middle mesquite likes red things, he knows it too.

Anyway. I was back there for hours. And I saw Orangelina come trundling out of her hollow brick at the crack of ten, blinking in the light, slow and still cold. Over a two hour span, as the day warmed, she woke up, became animate, and by the time we were done back there she was on high alert, frisking around, eating ants, and I thought again that she and I are so alike. There is a point at which we are fully alive, and everything else is pale in comparison.

Yesterday, I wasted some time being disgusted about that fool at West Point who filmed female cadets in the bathroom and showers, and today I waste more time writing about him.

But I can’t get past something someone said to me, about how he is sick, and his illness is voyeurism, and that he needs treatment. This makes me tired from the ground up. There is nothing wrong with having a freak, and voyeurism is totally normal. His problem isn’t that he wants to watch cadets in the shower (this is quite ordinary) but that his very nature is dangerous and unreliable; even when presented with safe options for his freak, he chose to abuse others and disrespect his uniform and rank to get off.

The Internet is made of cats, and porn, and whatever a person’s freak is, there are metric tons of images and film available to satisfy it. Cadets in the shower? Can do! Girls using the bathroom? There must be a million trillion Free Pee-Cams for you. And if a person prefers to get their freak on in person, even better, there are people who share that freak and are of legal age and willing to play. They can’t wait to pee on you or your webcam.

Stupid fucks like Mr. West Point are in my mind, unfixable. He is an abuser and his judgment is unsound; I would never trust him, in any circumstance, and I would never allow him on my team, no matter how sorry he is, how many hours of community service and well-intentioned therapy he puts in. I can’t think of any place in society that would be appropriate for someone like him or any job or weapon I would trust him with. I’m finished with him.

I don’t have any freaks, which I find as puzzling as you might. I have preferences; I would never take a short paunchy gun-lovin Republican for a lover. It can be a real time-saver to decide that you aren’t going to waste time on shit that doesn’t do it for you.

One of my friends romanticizes the concept of intellectual greatness, and he believes that the true sign of possessing it is the ability to integrate all points of view, and synthesize them into some wise, informed stance. It’s like thinking that in every stream lies a diamond, or that a micron of gold dust may be found in every ounce of water. This is demonstrably not the case, but it’s a beautiful idea. I just look away, when I can, because I have a soft spot for the heroic personality. I suffer from it as well, as is known.

I admit that there are some topics I’m not going to discuss. I refuse to waste even seconds of my life listening to anyone explain why whites are a superior race, or that fracking or mountaintop removal is good business, or that it’s OK to get drunk and beat your kids, or how if everyone had a gun then no one would ever be shot with a gun, or that sociopaths just need someone to understand them, or that the Moon landing was a hoax, or that grassy golf courses in the desert are A-OK. I don’t feel that more debate will generate a new point of view for me; I get no new ideas listening to any of it.

Sometimes I’m surprised that I have even a single friend, but like every freak, happily I have a community, and we love each other, and we stand by each other, and we know that things might be hopelessly fucked, but still we march on, relying on animals, who are almost never sociopaths, and really never lie, and we find each other, and we write and we paint and we garden and we take pictures and we watch, watch, and watch, and we do what we can and get up early and stay up late, and we try, and mostly fail, and we move through life going from spark to sparkle, and we find like-minded people in every single place we go.

Anyway,  it’s so much simpler to go away from people you don’t like, and to get unreliable people off of your team. Me, I dislike blowhards; I prefer my scoundrels to be educated, engaging and well-spoken; give me Edward Teller over Rick Santorum any day.

Summer is in full swing now, and the Tucson sky is littered with glittery planets. Astronauts are thick on the ground. Everyone I know, no matter where they are, seems to be having breakfast or cocktails with one. I’ll do the same this weekend; Spacefest is happening, back in Tucson for the fifth year. I have many beloved friends in town; Carter Emmart and Carolyn Porco, for two, and my friend and role model Bill Hartmann is signing books and has paintings hanging in the art show.  I’m looking forward to seeing them.

Tomorrow night, as it happens, I’m going to see a talk from someone I don’t agree with and think is batshit crazy: Rick Tumlinson, madman, human supremacist, who thinks that dinosaurs didn’t do jack shit, that our species is the crown of creation and that we can and should infiltrate, mine, and pollute as much space with as much junk as we can possibly shoot, soar, and pilot. He may be crazy, but he isn’t stupid. Of course I am going to go listen to his nutty talk. After all, I oppose almost everything he wants to do. I’d better get current on his progress.

Maybe while I drive over there I’ll pop in a Bob Dylan or Van Morrison tape, and they will sing songs that will no doubt include lyrics I don’t agree with about a jealous God and/or deferring to my husband. Or maybe I’ll groove on some Beck, for some Scientology-flavored paranoia. Or swoon to some Ferry, a man who thinks wind farms are a blot on the landscape.

It’s confusing, but only a little bit.

summer is so fabulously awesomely excellent

Ahhh.

Summer continues warm and sunny, with big blue skies. The pool continues oddly cold; it still hasn’t broken 80F. This is hugely unusual; it’s like the pool is a full month behind normal, and even though it’s been in the 90s and 100s in the days and the 60s and 70s at night, the water hasn’t caught up.

There is something weatherwise about this summer that is simply inexplicable; we all feel it.

Whatever’s going on, it’s incredibly pleasant. To have the air be 100 and the pool be 78 is a treat. The water is a shock of cold at first, then so refreshing. I’ve never actually felt it like this, because, well, it’s never been like this.

James came over today and rigged a come-along off of the two mesquite trees along the south fence, and we winched the Barbie Coach another twelve feet into the yard.

When I brought the Coach in, the fence was new, the B40 had just been reclaimed from a weedy alleyway, it was just a big dirt space,and it was hard to know where/how it would fit. I really like it scooted forward; he moved it all of the way to the first mesquite. It’s very sociable now, and feels like a real part of the environment.

I plan to paint it this fall, so this will give me a better chance to study it.

Orangelina watched the whole thing intently. I was going to Photoshop the bird poop off of her back, but I figured, hey. If she doesn’t care, I don’t either.

Both she and Alexander love the holes in the block wall that were left when James and I sawed the gap out of it. I meant to finish the edges, but the lizards were like, “Noooooo!!” and what could I do?

Simon was also on the scene, and his beauty and grace inspired us to great heights of engineering.

Childhood photos re-created

I love this kind of project. And this is a rather nice soundtrack.

Photos taken from Irina Werning’s web site (her work is astonishing, and her photos are the ones with captions below) and a string of shots that get passed around the Internets, photographer(s) unknown to me.

Buttercups, daisies and most anything
They wither and fade
after blossom in spring

Time conquers innocence, pride takes a fall
in knowledge lies wisdom, that’s all

Everything changes, weather blows hot or cold
Through alchemy iron turns gold
Quicksilver baby, so hard to pin down

As destiny wills it, so seasons will change
Just like you

 

 

Naturally, I want to do a series of my own:

glorious florious!

It’s another mindbendingly fabulous day.

Lemons are lemoning.

Jasper texted me from St. Louis.

And Orangelina’s camouflage is excellent.

I’ve had a swim, done my shipping, folded my laundry, told at least one lizard I loved them, admired at least one cardinal baby, petted two cats, posted on the Book Blog, talked to my King, and I have time for a photo session (I’ve got two difficult and exciting pieces on the studio table) a nap, a draft of our Press Kit, another swim, and a spin at Electric Larryland. My kind of day.

This is one of the tailoring shots I put up this morning, showing how switching to smaller beads, taking darts, and decreasing Wings all make for a smaller bangle.

 

Monday

a Masked Bandit at the nectar feeder…

Monday… second only to Sunday at the bottom of the Days I Love ranking. Back to school, back to work- even though I manage to avoid having to go to either anymore, so many other people do that the whole air vibrates with it. Drivers are grumpy, rightly so, and I can feel them from Broadway. And as I found out to my horror, having children does sort of mean having to go back to school. Bill’s doing all of the heavy lifting now, as planned, but even so the academic schedules and academic performance of others command me from afar; I am responsible at whatever level. Of course I am. I care.

I dream about slipping through a hole in the floor and landing in another world, one in which I have no name, no possessions, and can live on air. Because I really don’t want to go to the brightly lit air conditioned store in the gas-burning car and buy food.

I’d be happy as hell to pick up a woven basket and walk down a cobbled street filled with civilised people also walking about and beautiful old buildings and houses and stop at an open-air market and have an espresso, and pet a dog, and buy fresh, real food from the people who grew it or made it.

I always feel this way at this point in the year… summer is so glorious that it opens all of the ports in my mind and suddenly I remember that I badly want to go to Paris, or Rome, or Barcelona, or London, or Madrid, or Manhattan. It’s funny how it just hits me, like a rock falling out of the sky.

I’m awfully glad I have plans to do so fairly soon. England, Bryan Ferry and Spain, I am pointed at you. Make ready.

The audio on the clip above is atrocious, I know, but will you just look at the people backing him? Luther Vandross, for one, and a young David Sanborn on the sax. Goddamn 1974! I was so young, I couldn’t go see ANY of it! I think I was ten when this show aired, when Roxy was rocking, when Zeppelin was huge. Sigh. I caught up later, but at this time… I was just catching edges of it, subscribing to Creem Magazine, ordering posters through the mail.

The birds and I had a meeting in the yard this weekend about the nectar feeders. I came prepared, and I showed them a photo of Wilford Brimley, and we talked about diahbeetus, and the danger of horking down sugar water all day long.

They seemed attentive but I could tell halfway through my presentation that we all look like Wilfred Brimley to them and the point about “you don’t want this to happen to YOU” was lost.

Sunday

And another perfect day of solitude in the glittering desert opens with warm sun, chittering finches, wheeling raptors, quail families.

On Sundays, Simon and I like to do the NYT crossword together, drink a lot of really good coffee, and watch the birds. He sits by the pool while I swim, but does not come in. I thank my lucky stars that no one is in charge of me, making me visit relatives (this might be why I hate sitting on couches, the second I sit on one I feel a valve open and my life starts draining out of it) or go to church.

There is no dinner to cook, nowhere I have to be. But still, just thinking of Sundays can piss me off, which is absurd, seeing as whatever dudgeon I have about all of that stolen time is fairly dusty- I’ve been free for over 30 years.

Apparently, it’s a permanent grudge. What a waste of energy.

 

No one has ever made Miss Fish visit anyone, or listen to bizarre, unpleasant, myth-based threats of fire and brimstone, of terrible End Times ™ and a jealous, petulant Creator who tortured nice people just to see if they went bad and pretended that you might have to kill your child to prove your love. Meh.

But of course I’m also still disgusted with the Tooth Fairy, Santa Claus, Jr. High, high school, college, corporate life, politics, religion, and just about every other organized societal structure. You see why I have to live alone, with lizards?

Just the slightest whiff of bullshit, and I’m done. Which doesn’t leave much, and frequently leaves me out as well.

 

It’s rude to go all paparazzi on someone’s little baby, so this is really the best I can do. But look! CARDINAL BABY!