SF Flower and Garden Show

Yes, the enthusiasm continues;

unexpected surprises keep bubbling up. My good Morro Bay friend Genevieve traveled north for the SF Garden and Flower Show. Apparently, this is one of the

shows in the country to see the latest in landscaping design, and

also to find the rarest of heirloom tomato plants, which you can cultivate for this spring’s growth. Gen found a Sunny Gold variety ($8.75 for a 1 ½” cube of dirt and a seedling) that will thrive in the overcast days of that Central Coast town. The gardens were all built within 4 days, be they from totally recycled materials, or house an actual outdoor fireplace. – dragons crafted of daclit, walls made of emptied water bottles, concrete that is highly porous so water can be recycled back into the garden. This must be something simple, but expensive, of course, and I don’t understand the physics too much. There were weeping cedars, that had been bonsaied into S configurations, vertical gardens, mural boxes planted with small succulent designs. And it was all so green. These photos are primarily press photos. My camera isn't high tech and there were swarms of people!

There was an exhibition of ‘Hot Plants’, not ones intended to grow in a hothouse, -gee that term is definitely from the 50’s- rather a showcase for the latest in hybrids. Gen knows a lot about the different varieties, and can eyeball one that looks so new to my uneducated eye, and connect to another variety. Bonsais abounded. Orchids I have never encountered, all glorious, Japanese maples, lilies, bulbs, seeds and countless 2-4” plants. Obviously, this is where the vendors were paying off their stall space. (ie Gen’s Sunny Gold cube.) And last photos of all were the succulents.

This really reminds me of my Morro Bay garden. Thanks Patricia for the years of garden beauty there.

And pix to the right is one of the many Oakland establishments happy to accommodate your green medicinal needs!!

Creator's Project Part Two

Behind the birds is a 360 degree muslin screen, which seems to rotate. Random black lashes are painted on it, but you can't see that from the top left pix. A chorus ('Streetwise Opera) sings a song from the 13^th century, which the Vatican kept secret for hundreds of years. I figure if it has that much godliness in it, I better tune it in. The screen turns, the voices are randomly mixed, with an occasional hip hop blip, it is a 7 minute meditation that keeps me intrigued for at least 20.

In another venue is a screen that begins with some VanDyke and Rubens. The artist has figured some code to analyze the figures and their faces, various sections of their bodies morph into geometric shapes and colors of cream and brown and rouge. I know I saw an art exhibit in Chicago, and there have been the consequent emails, of Mona Lisa morphing into Modigliani, into Picasso and Renoir,etc.

The middle illuminated cage 'Origin' invites its audience inside. There is a score by composer 'Scanner' - hunh? - that gives me the illusion I am controlling sounds by my movements, but apparently it is all on some sort of tracked loop.

I missed the reworking of David Bowie 'Life on Mars'. The line was way too long, but as much as I miss my friends, I am so loving all this stuff to do! . . . PS Before my Saturday Eiko & Koma performance, I was at the SF Civic Center watching the Saint Paddy's Day Parade- Potato and spinach knish and an Irish population to rival NYC. Erin Go Brach all month long.

Pictures from this exhibition - Pixel art, jigsaw do-it-yourself, top left. Top right - Treachery of Sanctuary - there is a pool of water behind the screen to keep participants away from the actual screen. Left, participant extends her arms to create WINGS!

Sunday the sun shines and I am encouraged to venture out for some other art. This trek to Fort Mason features the Creator’s Project, a free exhibition that has traveled the world -Paris, Sao Paulo, Beijing, NYC - sponsored by Intel and some other digital company. There are the expected video games, which strikes me as an engineer’s game, way out of an artistic realm. (They did have a link to Luminosity, which occasionally I play to keep my brain oiled. And there was a huge puzzle with multi colored pixels to arrange on a board.) Or did Michelangelo feel as challenged to learn how to apply gesso or sculpt a piece of marble? Maybe I am just showing my age.

Then at the back of the warehouse are three huge screens, with shadows of flocks of black birds randomly flying down and to the top of the screen. The far screen shows a huge blackbird, fanning its wing. Upon further investigation, the birds’ flight is triggered by three interactive folk moving their hands and arms behind the screen. A camera catches their movements and triggers the various bird formations.) A giant sized version of angry birds, I wonder?? I am aware of the game, but have never seen it.

End of Part One - Because I have more pictures. . . We all like pictures

Pix of 'New Art'

Top right photo by Elaine Constantine, "Mosh" actually have 'models' as the subjects. Hmmmm. This woman, it says, is a fashion photographer.

To the right is Mark Bradford's "Ark' collaged together from found pieces.


Below is Andreas Gursky (sorry about mislabeling him in the previous post) photo --- Massive mural. I guess if you can create a photograph that large, you're an artist!

So do we feel insignificant yet?

New Art

New Art. I decided to immerse myself. In all this time- NYC –LA-Tokyo-San Francisco- I had never been to a performance piece. I have watched Laurie Anderson on PBS before, but that’s about it. So the Kronos Quartet was collaborating in a dance performance/installation performance at the Yerba Buena Arts Center and I thought it a perfect opportunity to hear Kronos live and expose myself. Eiko and Koma, dancers from Japan, dancers of ‘delicious slow movement’ were the artists in ‘Fragile’. Their previous art installation, they performed for a month, every hour the museum was open! Lights were muted, moving, creating shadows. The staging area was tented in distressed muslin. Slits allowed the audience to peek in as they entered the venue. Huge swaths of material, kimonos, hung high on the periphery of the outer area, snapshots recounting the forty year history of the duo. Slow delicious movement in a pool of water, lots of sensual moments ground-level.

Kronos was seated in an arc around the center stage – a netted area filled with dirt and feathers. Lying in the dirt were Eiko and Koma. Were they babies nearing birth? Were they dead, waiting for resurrection? Kronos improvised sometimes, other times there were orchestrations. Interspersed were some voiceovers –the dropping of the atom bomb, references to World War II. Eiko would roll one wrist, with a slow wave whispered from her fingers. Koma’s foot might readjust. Did I mention they were naked?? They started doing this gig in the 70s, – same age as I – and I would love to look so good rolled in feathers and dirt. The performance was 4 hours long with one 20 minute intermission. Kronos’ leader said he cried when he saw their previous piece, and he wanted to be a part. Eiko said they really didn’t need music. Hmmm . . . Well, two hours was good for me. My rear end was getting sore and my hip was ready for a respite from the meditation.

The rest of the gallery was open, so I ambled through for some ‘cutting edge’ art. The art guard on the second floor said his own painting work made him a dinosaur. “Video, digital, that’s what art is about these days. And this is the best show since they opened two years ago. These guys are known. Mark Bradford, Al Gretsky.” Mark had a sculpture collage of an ark, and one side of the wall countless signs ‘Do not disturb FEMA” spray painted red. Leftovers from Katrina. Exhibition was ‘The Audience as Subject’. Gretsky had huge photographed murals of stadium crowds. Other videos – multiple takes of different countries during the Arab Spring, another video of post soccer game sport – a rave? No - young men encircling two women in an attempt to sexually assault them. Talk about a downer. The angst of being young.

I am hard pressed to think of this as art. I know the young are impassioned, disillusioned, but are there none with any hope or humanity. Such isolation. Are we so old???

BART Blog Part 2

Students take my afternoon train, many mixed couples, considering Occupy, or perhaps the Kixeye advertisement that seems to be papered all over Bart. (Reminds me of Hunger Games, that I just read in one day!) A ferocious wolf/canine with his teeth bared invites you to join the many opportunities of working for Kixeye. Finally found out Kixeye is a gaming business. The approach is horrifying to me, but asking some other younger riders, they assure me ‘it’s cool.”

Then, there’s an ad for some law firm. Back in the day my mom called them ‘ambulance chasers’; today, it is a way of life. A sweet little chipmunk says ‘I'm still the 99%. But my settlement check is taking me to Cabo." I am sooooo out of touch with this world. ‘Lost’, the ‘Biggest Loser’, the ‘Hoarders’. 60 seconds of fame is more like 60 seconds of shame.

Bart’s expensive so there isn’t a lot of graffiti or the usual folk one associates with public transit. Of course my notion of that is 98% New York City based. Coming out of the Bart station however, there are similarities that abound. I find myself donating a dollar here, fifty cents there. In particular there’s one sad sack of a homeless guy. I am sure he should be in one of my DD (developmentally disabled) homes, but instead there he is every morning, strange limp, one of his eyes doesn’t seem to track, looks my age, but probably is younger. “Help out a brother?” I give him 50 cents and tell him to get a coffee. That’s a joke. He’ll need at least a two more softies to score a coffee at Burger King. Probably he’s just looking for a drink.

But the gem of the week was the brother who guilted me in to buying his cd. “It’s jazz, man.” He touched my arm, his dreads in my face, and invaded my personal space more than I was comfortable. But it was jazz; he was a musician. “All I can spare is a dollar,” I told him and took the cd. Although my budget is tight, I can justify that expense if I park on the street and save the dollar on the second level parking lot, which is closer to Bart.

When I get home, I have some paranoia, wondering if there is a virus on it. But it’s a cd Delilah, not a dvd to download to your computer. I wonder if when I play it, it will be blank. But wrong on all accounts. There’s music. Trance-dance music, for a rave, the kind I first heard back in NYC days, when poppers and coke were the dance drugs of choice. But the lyrics:

Let's smoke this weed/ So I can get high

I 'm gonna Roll up my beeler/ So I can get high

I got my swisher and

Got my bag of grapes
Of phony? I wanna get high

There are 16 trax, the theme the same, over and over . Is it any wonder I yearn for Cole Porter and Stephen Sondheim? . . . Of course, there was a time back in those disco years, I remember singing ‘Push, push in the Bush” Not to mention a moment of passion where I thought I would like to engage in some video porn. Ah my lost youth!

The Bart Blog Part One

Into BART LAND I Go! (From 12th St City Hall)

Sweet - not my favorite catch phrase, but making the transition from Colma to Daly City, the connecting point to Hayward, today’s destination in the field, is right on the money. Colma - 7:20, Daly City - 7:22, walk across the platform to pick up my connecting train 1 minute and 41 seconds later. Factor in the rain, and I am more than glad not to fight the hour’s drive in this season’s late, but welcome rainstorm. . . . . I suspect my brother will be off for one of his only ski trips this weekend.

Instead of reading the Chronicle, or doing a crossword, I have the luxury of my laptop, and I can journal life on the Bart. Early morning is always my favorite time to write. This East Bay, way East Bound train, is peopled with a different mix than my original Rockridge clientele. In Rockridge, everyone was beautifully groomed, primarily upscale, middle-class (a non existent oxymoron perhaps) and there were lots of suits, - women too, not just men. Some were older business types, but mostly they were yuppies, ear budded into ipads, iphones, kindles and such. An occasional tablet, not too many laptops like mine.

Fremont bound folk are much more blue collar, an occasional suited gent, 50% playing games on their iphones and the others sleeping, reading the occasional paperback or newspaper, or stilling their minds as the tunnel transport whines away. Some earbuds, but also fellows who sometimes sport ‘cans’ for their outdated headphones. Afternoons folks always chatter away. Spanish workers making their way home from their labor, laughing carrying on. I had to ask the young Hispanic about the huge ‘Minnesota Fats’ framed poster he had.

“Hunh? . . . Jackie Gleason.”

“No, Minnesota Fats from the movie the “Hustler” They remade it with Paul Newman as the Jackie Gleason character. Tom Cruise –“The Color of Money”.”

“Oh, cool. I just got it for my friend. It reminded me of that Twilight Zone.”

“Tell your friend. He’ll want to see that movie. The definitive pool flick.”

“Thanks.”

Next fellow was soliciting for a petition, the millionaire’s tax, meant to save California schools.

“I’d sign, but I’m not registered in San Francisco yet. I moved from the Central Coast. . . .And I was a teacher – laid off.”

“Oh, I can help you with that, too.” So Joe, or whoever the heck this young kid is – a musician, a drummer, - very Anglo, short modified flat top, day-old growth of beard, cute- who plays tablas, who’s into dance music and wants to learn the sitar – is ‘going my way’ and hops on the train to get me signed up to vote in San Francisco. I am an easy mark and he has probably 10 petitions he wants me to sign. Millionaire’s tax, and Jerry Browne’s tax (“But that’ll split the vote if there’s that many issues on the ballot,” I tell him. “One tax initiative is good enough for me.”) another to get rid of GMO foods (“That was the original reason I started doing this.”he tells me. “I Think I signed this one last week,” I say, and “I’ve probably signed all of these online too.” “That’s okay, this’ll really get them on the ballot!”) make Marijuana legal, (“No, that one’s full.”)get rid of the three strikes law, (“Hey I worked at the prison. You should’ve showed me that one first.”)put the state government on a 2 year budget deal. Being my bleeding heart liberal self, he gets me to sign four or five of them. (“You got your quota with me,” I tell him. He’s made $5 in 10 minutes - $30 an hour beats what he can make playing tablas. As soon as he’s scored my signatures, he hops off at the next stop

Oakland Pix

So above are the two twin towers of Oakland, I call them, at sunset. The Federal Buildings, just two doors down from me in the State of California Building where I work. Very new and beautiful
.
This is the main entrance.

Below is that Clorox building with its rounded side, followed by the tradition of the Tribune tower and City Hall, 12 Street City Center Station, where I exit from Bart.

Directly below is more of the Clorox Building, the 6th tallest skyscraper in Oaklnd. More to follow . . . .

A Kaleidoscope Oakland

Haven't figured right way to do pics. Tribune Tower Atop. Marriott Flatiron Next, Followed by City Center Jewels and then . . .


This is the City Hall building that I see each day exiting Bart. Note the Clock on top! (Frank Ogaza Plaza) The two new towers above are part of the Federal Building and to the right is the eating area/park of the Oakland City Center. There's so much and it is so diversified. No more Whitebread SLO stuff for me!

There are those who think that Oakland is a dangerous place, the ghetto, but I am dazzled by its diversity and the architecture. In particular the area where I work, which has been undergoing major renovations since the 1980s. I lived in San Francisco in the mid 70s, but never ventured to the East Bay. I was fearful too. 'Let me deal with the prostitutes and the gay clientele of SF,' I reasoned. I had lived in NYC for the previous 3 years and having been a fledgling actress/singer, this was my comfort zone.
Forty years after the fact I find myself in a brand new job - social services - smack dab in the heart of Oakland's City Center. As I take the escalator up from my Bart station, (Oakland City Center 12 Street Station) I see a glistening white City Hall, ornate, with a clock that tells me I am 15 minutes early! (Those who know me are incredulous.) Generally, the 7:45 sunlight welcomes me, along with the numerous homeless brothers and sisters, who continue to 'Occupy Oakland' or at least Frank Ogawa Plaza.
They are alive. After freezing their rear ends all night, they're animated, laughing, carrying on. One or two might still be cocooned in their sleeping bags with the top zipped tight, shopping bags with a few personal items. The guy who owns the Sankofa Cafe/Gallery always has his little white Honda parked outside his shop in the plaza, under a cemented in tree. This is a plaza and his is the only car I ever see here. He seems to host political meetings later in the afternoon, and there are many signs on his shop "Tax Wall Street" and "We are the 99%". I told him I wanted his parking pass and he laughed.
The police have cleaned out Ogawa Plaza several times since I began in December. It seems to happen on the weekends, and I have yet to get into a true 60's mode. Occasionally, on my way home, there are rallies going on that I lend an ear to. Miniature purple teepees erected on the ground- about 6 inches tall - are the other reminder of Occupy's summer-fall presence.
Two guys are rinsing down the pavement, and they have little motorized carts for transporting the trash to parts unknown. This pathway leads me to the State of California Building, sister to the jewel of the Federal Building. 1515 Clay Street is the address where I work. The building is glass and steel, like all of the renovations here. As you can see, this is not what comes to mind when someone says 'Oakland'. Until you look across the street at the parking garage, which surely was erected in 1960.
I have a mandated hour for lunch. Since I have to stay til 5 pm, and I bring my lunch, I like to walk during the noontime hour. Yesterday, as I toodled around, I looked up and saw what appeared to be an illusion. It was a tall modern building, rather one side of a building, with windows, just waiting for another three sides to materialize. The wall reflected sunlit circles from the taller building standing next to it. So, I walked over to 11th and Broadway to find the Oakland Convention Center at the bottom of this structure, which did have three other sides and was - a Marriott Hotel. Well, being a Marriott was a bit of a disappointment, but I suppose it can't be any worse than another architectural marvel being - the Clorox Building. How had I never noticed this new age flatiron? None of the people at my office seemed to be aware of it either. As I looked for pictures to do justice to my vision, I found there is a pool underneath. That piques my interest and I wonder if there is a way for me to crash it during a summertime lunch hour?
Can't seem to upload the Marriot image in this spot. It's the first one atop ---


What is so very fascinating about Oakland is the older buildings in the midst of all this. The Chronicle is a beautiful building, ornate and old, but vacant. There is the Tribune building, equally symbolic of another era. I am not sure that either of these papers exist anymore. These older ones remind me of my hometown Dayton, Ohio. Even though I haven't been to Dayton in years, and it suffers the same economic blight as Detroit, these remnants could be living there now. That makes it feel comfortable.
And one last pix the Clorox Building

This is the Westmoor Pool Story

Yes, so here it is - the pool where I will be twisting, turning and moving my kundalini in about 30 minutes. (I do have that knack of writing before I am about to swim.)

This picture was taken on a slow day- Sunday, when there are not so many lessons going on. The pool is most interesting because of the clientele. I could say it is Asian, but it is more than that. There are so many dialects that happen in the locker room Tuesday and Thursday evenings, when the majority of lessons occur. I recognize some of the Chinese dialect because of the different pitches and intonations. No doubt some of these darlings are Korean, others Filipino. I keep thinking there might be Japanese, but I never recognize it during my locker room time. And after my time in Japan, I can recognize Japanese.

On Saturdays I can zero in on the Chinese because the ones not swimming are doing homework in their workbooks filled with Chinese characters. They are all beautiful little girls with jet black hair and lovely almond eyes. Sometimes a grandmother helps them change; they have a tendency toward being fish wives, so it sound. Other times moms are there, urging their girls to move. That translates in any mother's tongue. And 90% of them are wearing the pre-requisite hot pink for girls in clothing, in bathing suits, in towels, in swimming bags. Disney Princesses for the most part - I gag when I think what a commodity it has become- thank you Walmart - compared to its precious-ness (A Madame Alexander Sleeping Beauty doll for Easter one year) in my day. So it is either Disney or Dora, a few Pokeman or Spongebobs, but mostly those are for the little boys that make it into the woman's locker room with mama.

They eye me suspiciously, because I am- well - my age, with bluish veins in my legs, more flab than I care to acknowledge and a chicken neck. Fortunately, the girl who punches my card doesn't ask if I am coming for aqua aerobics anymore. But the little ones and the middle aged ones, no older than 11 I think, are scared to see what lurks underneath my bathing suit. Or am I the one who is scared? Yes, I am! But the little girls are so very modest. Learned behavior already. Even the tiniest ones are cordoned off with a towel between two lockers so no one will see their 'privates'. And now, after all of my years of "I gave birth. I don't care if anyone sees me," I am becoming modest too.

I avoid the mirror when my legs are bare. The cellulite and the veins look too much like my grandmother's legs. Damnit. They don't hurt, but they look like an old woman's. And I am so much younger than these legs look. Oy vey.

So it will have to be my 'Life is Good' attitude, a song to sing at some unexpected interval, and my boisterous laugh to lance the appearance of my sagging flesh. I am quite young for a gal my age. Onward.

Swimming History and the new Hx at the Westmoor Pool

I have always been a swimmer. Our first home in Dayton, Ohio had close to an Olympic size pool - with a diving board, annual Memorial Day parties to paint the pool, and my mom who was the lifeguard. One of my first memories was Little Dee Dee frantically paddling her way up to the top of the pool where Margie Haas, my mother's best friend, reached down and yanked me out. Later that year I swam atop Joel Mink's back to the same deep end; he dove deep into the pool and miraculously, this time I was swimming on my own. Before I turned five, I stood at the corner of the pool wiping wet strands of hair out of my face and a neighbor kid rushed by, accidentally knocking me into the deep end of the pool. I lost my two front teeth and had 16 stitches in my lip.

In spite of the traumatic history, perhaps this ability to survive bonded me to the water. Summer days - 8 hours long I spent playing with others, but also by myself underwater deep in a 12 foot pool. More than anything I loved the sound of being underwater. A cushioned quiet with only the sensation of your own breathing, barely audible. I wonder if it is the sound of being in the womb? I never competed. I just loved to swim. It was a place where I felt graceful, 20 pounds lighter and at peace.

In my twenties I migrated to California from NYC. Walking was the New York way of life, to work, from work, late nights, the 72nd Street Boat Basin, sometimes Central Park - drugs, of course, and my good buddy Michael. New York is best explored on foot. On the West Coast that is not the case. In California one must drive and then walk. But . . . living in paradise affords a year round pleasure of swimming and that underwater escape. My little blue volkswagen purchased for $900 from UCB (United California Bank - long ago swallowed by some corporate monstrosity) transported me from apartment to pool.

I swam where-ever I could find a pool - a friend's apartment, sometimes my own apartment - the few that had a pool - the Y, public pools, the motels where the band would stay during Holiday Inn gigs, other motels with unlocked gates. In LA I used to frequent (sneak into) the Hollywood Roosevelt pool, where Desi Arnez' band played poolside gigs in the 'I Love Lucy' series. I got tan, I was exercising and life was always good after 30 minutes of laps. And I learned how to swim the butterfly stroke. To this day I swim regularly.

About ten years ago I remember showering after a swim and changing at the Santa Clarita Swimclub. There were always little ones who would come for lessons after lapswim times. Boldly, I would towel off, naked in the locker room. Little ones would look on and I always mused - "I've had children. Who cares? I don't have hang ups about my body. And that's how it will always be." I shrugged off any curious stares.

But now, I am 62. I don't have a lover. (My passion for performing I think has kept that at bay.) Now I have a new job, in a new city. I am not much interested in dieting. - I enjoy evening wine, beer or vodka, whatever, and my body, although not obese, is certainly not svelte. Although my visage is 'handsome', my grandmother's legs certainly are not. My suit holds in some notion of a full figure, but I am grateful for the beach towel's camouflage before I take a plunge. Still I swim.

And that brings me to my new public pool. High atop of the hill in Daly City is the Westmoor Pool. It was totally redone a year ago and it is quite lovely.