Happier Times

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Update: Blogger is playing nasty, this afternoon. I am going to roll over and play dead. If you click on the link you can see the image.

(I trust that by now most people are noticing that clicking on some of the thumbnails here will not accomplish much. There is still a link to a larger version, but that link is in the text below the thumbnail. This new workflow is giving me headaches to get used to, as well; but when it comes to using images at the new website, it makes for a much smoother workflow.)

If you would prefer to skip the sad sack, personal, post below, link to the much more upbeat post at the new blog.

I haven't exactly been Miss Sunshine for the early days of 2012. The hard work on my new site paid off, I think. Before long, I will get to some more tweaking. But, I can live with it as is for now.  The bad cold I am fighting was almost certainly triggered by lack of sleep which came courtesy of the long hours working far outside my expertise as well as some losses and major disappointments that I haven't handled well. Another of those periods where life serves up lemons and it's up to us to make lemonade. Clearly, I have misplaced the sugar or I got rotten lemons, because the taste in my mouth is still sour.

One of the disappointments comes from having learned that someone in whom I had placed great faith and for whom I had enormous affection is a fraud. This is a person who has been living a lie for years, now, and I was one of the suckers. Only, I didn't have to be reeled in. Heck, I jumped into the net. 

This person I loved—from a relatively safe distance, granted—was deeply flawed from top to bottom and now I am reeling. Reeling from shock, disbelief, and that awful aftermath of betrayal.  This is one of life's most bitter lessons. Learning that we really know so few people. We are attracted to the public persona, to the personality these people perfect for the public. We have all known them and by the time you have lived many years, you have been taken in by a few. Still, it is never painless.

Like all of life's wounds, this one will scab over and eventually heal. It just takes time. I still have a lot of good memories thanks to this person and, soon, those memories will overpower this sour feeling. I am focusing on those good times, now, and waiting for the weight to shift.

Sweet Nectar and Nostalgia

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By now, a blind man could see that I am hopelessly ensnared by nostalgia. As I browsed old folders searching for the photo of the garden angel, I came across a picture of peaches, also taken in the backyard of our home in the San Fernando Valley. The peach tree, planted by previous owners, bore gushing, sinfully sweet and delicious fruit fit for gods. There is no way any mere photograph could do justice to such a fruit. Still, I decided that, at least, I might romanticize the photo a bit and convey some of my wistfulness by adding a couple of those Shadowhouse textures.

Did you ever taste a fruit so perfectly balanced with sweet and tart that you will never forget it's nectar? So delicious that you cannot resist licking the sticky juice off that finger? Any fruit is better, of course, if eaten immediately after having been plucked from the tree. Aiming for perfection, let us hope this experience was savored on a warm, sunny day with just a hint of breeze and you could tilt your head back slightly, close your eyes, and hear the leaves rustle as you counted your blessings.

Ahhhh, nostalgia. Digging into dusty boxes from the cellar or attic, perusing a tattered photo album, or searching through old folders on a hard disc—there isn't that much difference. Mostly, the memories are wrapped in the sweetness of time's healing and today's remembering softens the sharp edges of a time gone by.

More Simple Things

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I have always loved mums and daisies. I am taken with their simplicity and down-homeness. (I know there is no such word, but perhaps there should be.) These flowers never fail to make me smile. I love them in any color, but the white ones connote even more of a clean, almost spiritual goodness—like the feeling I got as a child seeing clean white sheets drying on the clothesline behind the little wood frame house where I grew up. Is there anything better than a gentle breeze transforming sparkling clean sheets into fluttering alabaster banners sailing jauntily over a sea of green grass? As I grew older, I thought so. Now, I know better.

Constants

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Last Friday was one of our “errands in Los Angeles” days. These days usually aren’t particularly entertaining—too much rushing from one point to another. too much traffic, and—on days like Friday— dull gray skies and haze that set a dismal tone. This time out we hit a particularly long string of sour notes. Almost every place we went to pick up something we can’t find in Tehachapi, the item was out of stock. With our tight schedule, we didn’t have time to chase around to branch stores. When the day was finally over, we came home with about half the errands on our list completed.

But, there was a bright spot. We stopped at our all-time favorite restaurant for lunch. "All- time favorite”. Are you picturing the posh place with a valet out front, designer décor, an exceptional wine list, fine linen napkins, extraordinarily expensive steaks, or fish cooked by an exotic chef with his own tv show?

No, you didn’t fall for that, did you? You have to know me better than that. Viva Fresh is a Mexican restaurant with décor that goes beyond cliché and, trust me, there is no valet. The parking lot is small and crowded—Beverly Hills this neighborhood is not. While it is a very nice neighborhood in one of the “horsey” parts of the San Fernando Valley, it isn’t where the uppercrust hang out for power lunches.

Viva sits just outside the fence of the Los Angeles Equestrian Center and the prime window seats in the main dining room face the Center along with the riding trail that encircles that facility. Since patrons often arrive at the restaurant on horseback rather than automobile, there are also tie rails or hitching posts in sight. (Nope. No valet to park your horse, either.) Unfortunately, that isn’t the end of the picture. The window seats also offer a fine view of the restaurant’s garbage bins. Never mind. You just focus on the horses and ignore the less scenic elements.

We first went there, years ago, because we had horses stabled a few hundred yards away at a stable called Din Cara. The stable was run by a wild man, named Will—a hard-boiled and opinionated British fellow who was one of those once-in-a-lifetime characters. Viva became a habit because it was perfectly located for a quick place to refuel after a few hours of tacking, then riding, followed by the dirty clean-up of horses and tack. Nothing much has changed. There are no formalities at Viva. Not surprisingly, dirty riding clothes, sweaty hats, and manure stained boots are a common sight in this eating establishment. We always knew that we could walk straight from the wash rack to Viva and all you had to clean up was your hands. The stained riding breeches and that nasty brown spot on your white shirt from when your horse snorted didn’t get a second glance from other equally untidy patrons.

Long after Din Cara was a distant memory, (obliterated for a housing development dubbed, Din Cara, to rub salt in our wounds), we continued eating at Viva. We kept going back, even though we had moved and no longer lived nearby, largely because the food has always been simple, but delicious. The refried beans (lard free), because they are so simple, rank at 95% as good as the pinto beans my mother cooked and, believe me, that is high praise. All the meat is fresh and tasty, the sauces are mouth-watering (how I miss those treats); and, while they serve a hot salsa that will scorch the roof of your mouth, it isn’t applied on your food for you. In the case of many, if not most, dishes, you get to be in charge of how spicy or mild you want your food. Perfect for me. On most evenings there is live music and the groups we have heard were made up of studio musicians. These folks are the top-notch professionals who play the scores for Hollywood movies. Good music. Good food. Tough to beat.

Even with the delicious food, one of the best things about going to Viva is that we often get to say “hello” to Joaquin. When we first began eating at Viva, Joaquin was a waiter there and after hundreds of meals at the place, we began to think of him as a friend. His brother worked at Din Cara mucking stalls and we were fans because they both worked hard and Joaquin, especially, always had a cheerful smile. One meal I will always remember was at the stable and not the restaurant. We came back from riding one evening to find Joaquin’s brother and his fellow workers cooking some beef over a hibachi. They generously invited us to sit with them and share their food. Naturally, we declined. We didn’t want to reduce the size of the meal for any of these fellows who had spent hours shoveling manure. But, they insisted. We finally gave in and they served us a couple of the best carne asada tacos we had every eaten.

Eventually, Joaquin partnered with one of his fellow workers and bought the restaurant. It was one of those stories that makes you feel proud and hopeful about life, as well as people, in general. By then, Viva was by far our favorite restaurant. On special occasions, we celebrated by going to Viva. When we were especially tired or needed cheering up, Mexican food always seemed to be the perfect choice. When we wanted to have a long, easy dinner with friends, we invited them to join us at Viva. We were regulars.

After we left Viva last Friday, I began thinking about how comforting it is to have some constants in our life. Almost nothing about our lives resembles the life we lived when we first decided, so long ago, that we should “check out the Mexican food down on Riverside”. We have moved household twice, and now only get to Burbank once every five or six weeks. The after-meal conversations are shorter—no time to linger, and we talk about very different matters these days. We only get there for lunch these days, so no music; but, not much has changed at Viva. The beans are still superb, the chips are still fresh, there are still plenty of dirty boots about, and sweaty people munch chips while they watch riders and horses passing by the windows. Folks tell me that the Margaritas are as good as ever (not something I will ever be able to vouch for, unless I am prepared to schedule a slot at the nearest emergency room). We still know most of the waiters working there. When we see Joaquin, he has the same quick smile. And, Viva still feels like home.

The Long Goodbye

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For the past year, The Husband and I have been immersed in this life change. We began looking at houses in Bear Valley Springs last October, and since then I have experienced the many stages of moving—the good, the bad, and the ugly. This past week escrow closed on our little house in Los Angeles—a few days early—and one day each week for the last two weeks we drove down to get the last of the things from the yard that had been left there to make an empty house look as though someone still cared for it. In other words, potted plants along with lawn furniture and ornaments that said, “No, this one isn’t abandoned, nor is is bank-owned.”

The people who bought our house are lovely, and I wish them many long years of love and happiness there. Still, my last hours walking around the yard—taking what was truly finally, One Last Look—the feelings of relief from shedding one mortgage from our monthly burden were mixed with sadness—the sadness of leaving an old friend. It was fitting that week before last I saw this crystal clear view of the mountains to the north. We didn’t see that view on a regular basis—it was often hazy. But, I remember well that when we first looked at the property (a little over twenty years ago, now) that view was what I first fell in love with. On a clear day in January, as I hobbled along the sidewalk to the front door—on crutches at that point, I turned to see this view and I was in love. I knew that unless the house was uninhabitable, I wanted to live there and heal while looking at those mountains.

It was a good house and a wonderful home. I won't forget it.

Filling Up Hard Drives and Tracing The Lines of My Face

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I have no intention of delving deep into this topic of why some of us feel compelled to take photographs. Certainly, the subject has been examined by people far wiser, more articulate, and with decades more experience than I. Still, while I may have nothing truly fresh or original to bring to the conversation, I have been musing lately on my personal need to accumulate all these folders filled with images most of which will be seen by no one other than myself and perhaps, The Husband. Ultimately, I decided that it was useful to organize my thoughts on the subject and profit by the clarification that the exercise would likely produce.

A side note: Due to a typo (or so I thought), I misspelled the word compelled in the first sentence of this post. When I re-read my post for editing, I discovered that rather than typing compelled, I had written completed. Well, that certainly set me thinking in even more directions. Nowadays, making pictures does make me feel more complete.

At any rate, I had been thinking about how taking photographs helps me to see my world more clearly and to be more conscious of the moment. I have always appreciated the mystery and splendor of nature, but I am looking much more closely now because of time spent with a camera in hand.

It seems to me that, for one thing, there is an honoring, acknowledgment, or salute that is taking place when I snap the shutter. When I point my lens at something around me I make the statement: this matters—perhaps only to me, but still, I have now stepped forward to become the one of those who paid attention. In the giant scheme of things, my act of acknowledgment certainly makes a leaf falling of cosmic importance in comparison.

Of course what does matter is that when I point my lens at a thing, while I am connected with what I see, I am also refining my understanding of who and what I am. (Here, I am decidedly less than original.) Paul Butzi, for one, has written about this in some depth and fairly recently, if I recall, even though I don't remember all the specific articles. Moreover, just a couple of weeks ago, Andrew Ilachinski posted a wonderful article on photography as a tool for self-discovery. Andrew included this marvelous quotation that I have repeated here:

“A man sets out to draw the world.

As the years go by, he peoples a space

with images of provinces,

kingdoms, mountains, bays, ships,

islands, fishes, rooms, instruments,

stars, horses, and individuals.

A short time before he dies,

he discovers that the patient labyrinth

of lines traces the lineaments
of his own face.”- JORGE LUIS BORGES

Recently, I had a little lesson in how my paying attention connects me to a subject and causes me to become, in a way, attached to something I have photographed. On my first trip to Techachapi, California in 2004, when I had gotten my first DSLR, the Canon Rebel-D, I was quite taken with the dilapidated train station in the middle of town. Later, I learned that the old depot, having been built in the late 1800’s by the Southern Pacific railroad, was a revered part of the small town’s history and that it was on the National Register of Historic Places.

At the end of last year, we decided to retire to Bear Valley Springs which is just a few miles outside Tehachapi and I was eagerly looking forward to spending many happy hours on Tehachapi Boulevard utilizing my latest camera acquisition for further exploration of the wonderful old depot. As we began to make trips to (mostly only through) Tehachapi, I discovered that the station was barricaded due to a massive renovation that had been undertaken by community volunteers. Indeed, the fellow from whom we bought our house up there told us he was proud to be participating in the renovation. I had my fingers crossed that the town’s committee for the project hadn’t elected to improve on the structure and make it more tourist-worthy—you know bigger, better, and shinier. I confess I was a little anxious about the outcome.

And then, mid-June, we went to Bear Valley for a couple of days and when I spotted a sign proclaiming an arts and crafts fair at Central Park in Tehachapi, I convinced The Husband that he would need a break from weed whacking and we should take advantage of the opportunity to meet some folks from town. It turned out that Central Park was just off Tehachapi Boulevard and as we made our way to the fair that Sunday, I knew that our route would take us right by the depot, so I thought about checking the latest progress on the renovation.

The sight we saw took our breath away. Where the over a hundred year old building with the peeling paint and years of rich history had stood, there was only a pile of charred rubble. We both were devastated. Later that day, we learned that the building had been destroyed in a fire that had broken out in the early hours of Friday, the 13th and that by the time the fire department arrived, the building couldn’t be saved. Arson was suspected and the latest news is that fireworks were involved. It turns out the sprinkler system was to have been installed on Friday followed, within days, by the grand re-opening of the town’s pride and joy. According to the people we talked to that Sunday, the city has plans to rebuild the historic site. But, it turns out I will have to wait a long time to reacquaint myself with the delightful old Southern Pacific depot.

SoFoBoMoaning

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On a day you have planned for some macro photography, you don’t want to fight 12 to 20 miles-per-hour wind gusts—and broken tree branches already on the deck warning you there may be more where that came from. Thankfully that seems to have finally passed.

On a day you have planned to accomplish anything creative, you don’t want to get by on three hours sleep. I am blessed, and deeply grateful, to be in exceptionally good health considering I am a woman of a certain age—you’ll get no more than that out of me in a public statement. Still, my body pulls a few dirty tricks now and again, and wrings me out good. As I chatted with my general practitioner yesterday about my CT scan, we came to some interesting conclusions about my digestive system. I was elated by the news that I passed the test. Who has time for a surgery now?!! However, since the mystery remains concerning my mysterious episodes, I submitted that my gall bladder evidently “takes a great picture, but just doesn’t work”. My doctor quipped, “You mean it’s pretty, but can’t act.” Perfect. And still one more demonstration that if you mention “The Industry” in Los Angeles, everyone knows you are talking about the film and television industry. Even our most serious-minded and professional doctors can converse in Hollywoodese.)

At any rate, with so many of today’s plans disintegrating, the strategy is obvious: scrap initial plans and rethink the day. Besides, it’s not as if I don’t have a to-do list longer than my arm, so it won’t be a wasted day. Although the end is in sight, the husband and I are still hip-deep in tax preparation. Furthermore, we are deeply immersed in negotiating the sale of one of our small businesses that my husband has operated for twenty-five years. Another education.

And, speaking of education, I am reviewing my well-marked copy of Robin Williams' book, “The Non-Designer’s Design Book” and I have just gotten into my latest acquisition, Pete Masterson’s “Book Design and Production”. (Thank you Paul Lester for the recommendation.) When I wrote my acting books many years ago, I relied pretty much exclusively on “The Self–Publishing Manual” by Dan Poynter for the basics of layout and design, and it is an excellent source. Still, when I got the Robin Williams book, I gave myself a tardy, but swift kick where it would do the most good. Now that I have the Pete Masterson book, I may have to repeat that exercise.

Mr. Masterson’s chapter on software tools is a good news-bad news story for me. The good news is that the author validates my perception that InDesign is more difficult to learn than Pagemaker. (That’s a relief. I didn’t think I had started losing it, since I learned Photoshop at the same time I tried and failed InDesign) The bad news is that he has convinced that if I want to get serious about producing books (and that’s an unanswered question at this point) I should upgrade to InDesign and learn to use the dastardly thing. In the software contest, Pagemaker 7, my current choice, ranks with the “professional quality” programs, but it doesn’t rank number one. That spot goes to the pricey, InDesign. Since I haven’t yet committed to investing another large chunk of cash in a 5th edition of the first acting book or the 2nd edition of the second book—unless they are classics, books get old and die without massive measures to resuscitate. And, we won’t get into the third book that never went beyond the successful, but neglected pilot version that was introduced, and well received, at teachers’ conferences. When you consider that I don’t know how much text I will want to do in future photo books, I am still not convinced that I need to send Adobe anymore of my life’s savings. For now, I will go with “professional quality”, just not the best.

The photo above reminds me that someday I just may want shoot a personal-project photo book in Bodie, California. I could easily spend a week there reveling in the opportunities.

Keeping Chickens in Oak Creek Canyon

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Early into the hike on the West Fork Trail, we encountered this wonderful old chicken coop. I loved the shape of it and its rough textures. I wished I could have spent more time exploring that part of the trail, but we had a great more to see. Maybe on the next trip.

The Early Settlers of Oak Creek Canyon

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With this picture, we're back in Oak Creek Canyon in Arizona again.

I never grow tired of photographing old building or tools. But, here's a guy who truly specializes in vacant and forsaken buildings: http://www.opacity.us/.