for my friends on the west coast

San Francisco

I used to think California was the Florida of the west coast,

but snowbirds don't flock there, your summers are cold.

Your city name christened Yerba Buena, (the good herb, what irony)

Or perhaps from Saint Francis of Assisi.

Are there stigmata in your hands? In your bridges? Have you ascended yet?

Or are you lost in the grime near the Victorian charm,

where the unique boutiques are really all the same,

but far enough from the trap of the barking on the wharf?

Can you find the piss scented jardín de zapatos, on top of Alamo Square?

Did you know my mother's kin is in the top room of City Lights,

the one with the chairs worn smooth from the bottoms of the beatniks?

"An individual spiderweb identifies a species," he wrote;

his audience heedless to his Identity in a tiny, seed studded town.

But you, your seeds are now in nassella pulchra, and in yellow poppies,

(I plucked one once, it closed in my slumber,)

in impossible heights; in points and hills:

Presidio, Portrero, Parnassus, Portsmouth.

At the north end of the Golden Gate, take the exit at Alexander Ave.

Apparently the colors are best in winter, high as redwoods, wide as the bay.

Cartier-Bresson, voyeurism, and Thiebaud's Three Wind Toys,

the print I thought wouldn't fit on the plane.

sometimes catharsis is a double standard.

boo

being something scary/bloody/gory for the first time beats dressing cute/funny/skanky.

zombiez

happy halloween punkins

love,

alex

the cat's pajamas

the cat's pajamas, colored pencil on paper, 9x12, 2010.

you told us there was nothing greater than a husband,

until you have children.

nothing greater than children, until you hold your first grandchild,

because your grandchildren are the cat's pajamas.

but grandma pauline, your crooked fingers,

that once delicately ran over white and black,

that studied at Juilliard, that taught, that held,

that mixed banana and mayonnaise behind an art deco countertop

amidst an olive green home, (a color i will never understand why was popular)

with the clothesline in the backyard,

in between the double beds in your room, beside the train set downstairs,

when it was always fall in Asheville,

exist more in my mind than you in your wheelchair

always waiting at your door, your abanico in hand,

the humility that has finally replaced your frustration

at being ninety three with early dementia after multiple strokes

and not being able to come over on sunday anymore.

i remember those things, that old musky scent

and the way you still smell like jergens lotion.

the way you tell us not to run through life holding umbrellas,

with much repetition, out of so much pride and joy.

you are the cat's pajamas.

my assignment for atx this week was to draw a person we love, and to write a corresponding poem. this is my grandmother pauline, who is 93, and who i am blessed to have still living so close to my family's home. "the cat's pajamas" remains one of her favorite (and most endearing) phrases.

found objects

fallen patterns, mixed media (watercolor, pencil, leaves, paper) 9x12, 2010.

my assignment this week in art therapy was to make a found object collage/painting.

a few weeks ago, while waiting outside the painting annex for class, i found this beautiful leaf that i've been keeping in my planner, a reminder that fall is right around the corner. today outside my house, i found another leaf about the same size (the yellow one) which i pasted into my sketchbook with part of a map of spain. the pattern and colors on the leaf are very similar to the mapping. i then sketched and painted with watercolor a pear that fell from our tree during last night's storm. i had forgotten how much i enjoyed painting with water color, and will probably be experimenting more with it soon. the negative space between the pear and the leaves and map is painted with very rushed strokes, which was cathartic for the stress i am dealing with right now. (three exams and a paper this week.)

but... here is to autumn, my favorite time of year.

scribble

scribble drawing, marker on paper, 18x24, 2010.

the scribble drawing, created (independently) by art therapists cane and winnecott, is a technique used to reduce inhibitions and liberate imagery from the unconscious. basically, you use a self made scribble as an visual beginning for an image.

in class, kharta and i made scribbles using blue and green markers. out of those chaotic, yet flowery lines, we found three very abstract figures. my favorite is the open mouthed figure on the right, mainly because the profile reminds me of picasso. the middle floating figure has its arms up in a apathetic gesture, and the bottom left seems to be throwing up. we couldn't resist coloring in a tongue. kharta and i were able to keep a similar rhythm flowing in our lines, working together to mirror the design and direction. i love this class.

learning to be still

i miss the simplicity of a life full of intricate plans, never time to think too hard, to read between lines that don't exist. i miss spain, all of its adventures, its corners, its people, its golden late night glows. even though my spirit was so wilted. i miss tallahassee. everyone there.

we're all in this dance.

i need my song to change.

i am not without hope, only throwing my mountains & giants into the sea. i know what comes out of times like these. these are my streams in the desert.