Angel LaCanfora: Blog

Here's a little video I compiled of footage from my new favorite place, Joshua Tree Nat'l Park, music courtesy Robyn Hitchcock...

I'm compelled to use up precious space in my blog to blab about the most thoroughly engaging book I've read in recent times (ok, aside from Jonathan Franzen's "Freedom"), Kurt Vonnegut's posthumously published collection of short stories, "While Mortals Sleep." These stories don't just draw you in, they grab and YOINK you in within the 1st couple of sentences. While I'm not finished reading it yet, I just had to blurt out to the world how incredible this collection is. At times darkly funny, at others, heart-wrenching, there have been, thus far, only a couple of stories that didn't either send a chill down my spine or make my eyes well up at the end. My favorite one so far is "Tango," Vonnegut's writing acerbic, crisp and wryly funny. Vonnegut has always been one of my favorite writers and this book reminds me why. I count myself lucky to have once caught a lecture he gave at UCI, sometime back in the early '90s. What a mind this man had!! Here's the Amazon link, just to make it all convenient like for you: http://www.amazon.com/While-Mortals-Sleep-Unpublished-Fiction/dp/0385343736/ref=sr_1_3?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1297147413&sr=1-3

...Tree, California, that is. There are so many things to love about this region I’m hard-pressed to know where to begin. There’s the obvious, the martian trees standing quiet sentinel throughout the desert. There’s the slightly less obvious, the artsy cultural offerings, of which, there is a rich well to draw from. But ultimately for me, it’s the geology. Before you go furiously trying to close this window in the attempt to thwart potential boredom, give me a chance to explain myself! I promise, this won’t hurt a bit!

 

Firstly, there are few things in life that make me feel as awestruck as the thought that the ground beneath my feet is alive. It is breathing and shifting, sighing and snoring, cracking and melting. In a state like Virginia, you’re less cognizant of this fact, as the land you tread on is older, more settled, less likely to pulsate beneath your toes, although it does on occasion, making natives snort “what, are we in California now?” But here in SoCal, it’s hard to forget you’re in an active quake zone. And the area of Joshua Tree, along with the whole Palm Springs/Morongo Valley/Indio region, is one of the most interesting geologic areas in the U.S., maybe even on the planet. It’s like this: everyone knows the San Andreas fault, one of the greatest of all fault systems anywhere, runs the length of California, south to north. But what I didn’t understand til recently (thanks to a great book I’m reading, “Finding Fault in California”) is just what mechanism makes this fault so particularly volatile. Yes, it runs north to south, but it’s not a straight, clean line, meaning that the plates are not sliding smoothly past one another. But they want to. There’s a kink, an area geologists refer to as the Big Bend, and this kink in the line is what makes these 2 tectonic plates, the North American and the Pacific, stick more than they would otherwise if there was a clean north/south fault. The Big Bend can be located on a map smack in the middle of the Joshua Tree/Morongo Valley/Indio region. When you stand at Key’s View overlook in Joshua Nat’l Park looking out on the San Andreas fault system, you’re also looking at the Big Bend, the knot in the string, the kink in the hair that the plates want to rub out. 

 

Take a look at this list of significant quakes in SoCal from the last 150 years:

 

	Date	Time	Location	Magnitude
1	01.09.1857	8:24 am	Fort Tejon	7.9
2	2.24.1892	11:20 pm	Laguna Salada	7.3
3	12.25.1899	4:25 am	San Jacinto/Hemet	6.7
4	04.21.1918	2:31 pm	San Jacinto	6.8
5	06.29.1925	7:42 am	Santa Barbara	6.8
6	11.04.1927	5:51 pm	Offshore Lompoc	7.1
7	03.10.1933	5:54 pm	Long Beach	6.4
8	05.18.1940	8:37 pm	Imperial Valley	6.9
9	04.10.1947	7:58 am	Manix	6.5
10	07.21.1952	3:52 am	Kern County	7.5
11	04.09.1968	6:29 pm	Borrego Mountain	6.6
12	02.09.1971	6:01 am	San Fernando	6.6
13	10.15.1979	4:16 pm	Imperial Valley	6.4
14	07.08.1986	2:21 am	North Palm Springs	5.7
15	10.01.1987	7:42 am	Whittier Narrows	5.9
16	11.24.1987	5:15 am	Superstition Hills	6.6
17	06.28.1991	7:43 am	Sierra Madre	5.8
18	04.22.1992	9:50 pm	Joshua Tree	6.1
19	06.28.1992	4:57 am	Landers	7.3
20	06.28.1992	8:05 am	Big Bear	6.3
21	01.17.1994	4:30 am	Northridge	6.7
22	10.16.1999	2:46 am	Hector Mine	7.1
23	12.22.2003	11:15 am	San Simeon	6.5
24	07.29.2008	11:42 am	Chino Hills	5.4

 

 

(source: http://www.earthquakecountry.info/roots/socal.html)

 

Anything pop out at you here? Hector Mine, Big Bear, Landers, Joshua Tree, North Palm Springs, etc? The largest quakes have originated on or near the Big Bend. And it’s the BB that is responsible for L.A.’s unique network of east/west faulting, which is why we’re prone to the Big One. Pretty interesting, huh? 

 

When I drive around this area, noting the incredible rock formations, the sudden peaks, the deep, swooping valleys, it’s all evidence that the land beneath me is alive and this fact makes me both giddy and breathless. Stasis is boring. It’s the natural order of the universe to keep moving, keep creating. And over time, perhaps millions of years, the Big Bend may not exist anymore, as the force of the plates will have succeeded in rubbing it clean out. 

 

See, now that didn’t hurt much, did it?

 

I was in Santa Monica the other evening to attend a show by the great singer/songwriter Peter Case. While it was an awesome show, that’s not what I’m here to write about. I’ve been back to Santa Monica a couple times now since my return last year from Virginia & have formulated some observations I’d like to share now with the viewing public.

 

In 1990 I resided in a beyond-iffy neighborhood in Venice Beach (right down the street from Dennis Hopper's corrugated steel gated compound) and worked at a cafe on 3rd Street Promenade in next door Santa Monica. I was a frightened bunny rabbit of a young girl, 20 years old, and pretty much chemically altered 24/7. I played guitar in a band and wrote songs with my boyfriend who I shared a tiny apartment with, spending my free time in dimly lit recording studios, nights in dodgy bars and weekdays doling out espressos to the landed gentry of Santa Monica. It’s interesting to compare notes, to see what’s new and different and what has stayed the same in my old stumbling grounds. For starters, the uniform of S.M. seems to not have changed very much in 20 years. For the ladies, low-slung, pricey, distressed jeans accessorized with a funky belt and a knit shirt that looks as though she wore it straight from yoga class. Chunky heels and a cheshire cat smile round out the look, a slight smile permanently affixed to the face that says “I’m just like everyone else, even though me and my husband pull in a quarter million dollars a year. ” For the men, the Hank Moody look still prevails. Black tshirts (tucked in at night for special occasions), jeans and funky little artsy glasses that say “I drive a Prius but in no way think I’m superior to you even though deep down I know I am.” The irony in S.M. is so thick as to be tangible. And for God's sake, don't say anything negative, not unless you're mocking something lowbrow. Only positive energy here, thank you very much. And please tread lightly and blithely 'round S.M.'s ubiquitous homeless people. And you want to what? Park your car here?? Hope you have an extra $15 on you. Ah, as I type this, I can even conjure up the peculiar aroma of S.M.; incense, urine and car exhaust.

 

Snarky observations aside, S.M. is a great fun place, rich in cultural offerings, music, art and a lovely beach. There are a lot of new developments down closer to 3rd Street: the mall is being revamped and some new buildings have sprung up in my absence. But I was happy to see that stretch of Pico Blvd near Centinela looking like it’s existed in a time warp since last I visited. Rae’s coffee shop, McCabe’s Guitar Shop and the Un-Urban coffee house all former haunts of mine. And now that I know these joints are still up & running, I know I’ll be hitting them up whenever I’m up that way, with camera and/or guitar in tow, no doubt. 

As promised, I've tacked on a gallery of what I think are some of my best photographs. Most of these featured here are fairly recent, taken within the last 2 years. Up til January 1st of this year, I was using a Canon Powershot SX100 but now I shoot with a Canon G12. The gallery can be found after the Mosaic section. Hope you enjoy peering at them as much as I enjoyed shooting them! Ciao for now...

Last night I attended the opening reception of "Centered on the Center," at the Huntington Beach art center. This salon-style exhibition is presently host to approximately 400 works of art, including 2 of my mosaics. I had a genuinely great time at this soiree, which was packed, a full house. The overall quality of the artworks on display was just stunning. It's an honor to have my work featured alongside such great talent. And I enjoyed hanging back and watching folks scrutinize my work. Out of all the artwork being shown, there are only a couple other mosaics, so my work is really a novelty at this exhibit and people were exceedingly complimentary to the point of gushing enthusiastically. Comments like those are just fuel for my mosaic grist mill! Here are some photos from the evening: http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=280078&id=361546493256&ref=mf

Seems that overnight I've become a professional photographer! See for yourself: http://artsmeme.com/2011/01/15/happy-birthday-captain-beefheart/  (the 2nd photo down of Terry Van Vliet you'll recognize from the post below). I've got a bunch of exciting opportunities pending, photo-wise, and will keep you posted when they (if they!) come to fruition. In the coming days, I plan to tack on a gallery of my photography here to this site. 

In other news, look for a slew of new suncatchers up for sale in my Etsy shop: http://www.etsy.com/shop/AngelTunes  I'll post photos of those to the gallery in the coming days. Meanwhile, here's one from the latest batch to whet your appetite...

Don Van Vliet aka Captain Beefheart was lovingly remembered in word and song form last night at the Echoplex nightclub in Los Angeles. There was a nice turn-out of adoring (mostly male) fans of all ages. As I settled into my front row seat, a man turned to me, did a double-take and queried, “YOU’RE a Beefheart fan?” I responded emphatically, “yes!” He giggled and said, “you don’t LOOK like a Beefheart fan!” I nodded and responded “I know. I get that a lot.” We chatted about our Beefheart love, then I got up to mill around. I found our host for the evening, the kind and gentle Gary Lucas, in the crowd and said my hello. I’d met him in 2003, when the Magic Band performed in Long Beach at All Tomorrow’s Parties and we’ve been in touch through the internet since. Gary greeted me warmly and introduced me to the man beside him as Don’s cousin Terry Van Vliet. We were joined by a woman, a pixie-ish redhead known to the world as that most famous of groupies, Pamela Des Barres. I wondered around and spotted my nattily attired friend, Richard “Midnight Hatsize” Snyder, one-time Magic Band guitarist/bassist. We said our hello’s and chatted a bit before I returned to my seat.

 

Gary took the stage and said a few words about the evening’s program, then stepped aside for the presentation of a few video clips of the Captain and his band in action: Don singing his first single “Diddy Wah Diddy” on Dick Clark’s show; “Electricity” live from Cannes; an extended “Trout Mask” era performance (“When Big Joan Sets Up,” “Woe is a Me Bop,” “Bellerin Plain”). Lastly, the video for “Ice Cream for Crow,” which Gary explained was rejected by MTV for being “too weird!” Next came a parade of speakers, figures from Don’s life or those with whom the Captain had made a big impact on. Some memorable moments: Pamela Des Barres reading an excerpt from her book “I’m with the Band,” of some of her Don encounters. Matt Groening (creator of “The Simpsons”) was hilarious with vivid, colorful remembrances of his association with Don (“I ran into him on the street and he took me to Arby’s for lunch. That was the one and only time I’ve eaten at Arby’s.”) Matt explained the process of the Beefheart “catechism,” which is the process by which most of fans agree we fell for his music. You buy “Trout Mask Replica,” listen to it bewildered and declare it a load of shite. In Matt’s case, this being the 70s, he was poor and young and it was one of ten albums he owned so he had no choice but to listen to it over and over. And with each listen, it grew on him, until one day he declared it the greatest album ever. This is exactly how it worked for me, after I bought “Trout Mask” back in ’94. Don’s music insinuates itself into your being. 

 

Up next was Don’s cousin Terry, who stated through a voice packed with emotion that he was touched by the big turn-out this evening. He reminisced about his legendary cousin (“Don once said “that we’re lucky we can tie our fucking shoe laces, what with how dysfunctional our family is!” ) and read a poem he’d composed in tribute to him. A special highlight was a pre-recorded message from director David Lynch doing a reading of Don’s piece, “Pena.” 

 

The Symposium concluded with a performance by Lucas of a couple pieces, including one of my absolute favorite Beefheart songs, “Sure Nuff N Yes I Do” (a video clip of that is here http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kLomJb_9Soo ) and the masterful “Evening Bell,” which Gary explained that Don had submitted to him to figure out from a cassette demo, on which Don had hammered out the notes on piano. Gary was assigned the task of dissecting it, breaking it down note-by-note to work out for electric guitar. He explained the piece uses all ten fingers and that he’d had to spend a couple hours a day just to get about five seconds down each day. Finally Gary went to Don once he’d worked it out but Don nixed it, saying Gary needed to apply his “Exploding Note Theory” (“play the notes like they have no relation to one another, like bombs bursting in the air.”). So Gary’d go back to working on it and would report back to Don. This time Don said, “fine, but you’re not done yet. Here’s more,” and gave Gary a cassette tape with another minute of music that he’d have to somehow tack onto the previous part and make it work. The result is an astounding piece, intricate and dissonant, a piece that, like “Trout Mask Replica,” when heard once only, makes no sense, but the more you hear it, the more the melody becomes apparent (research has shown that our brains strain to find patterns everywhere, even where none may be!).

 

After the show, the crowd thinned out and I found myself standing around chatting with the former Magic Band members, drummer Robert Williams (who played on another of my all-time favorite Beefheart recordings, “Bat Chain Puller”), Rick, Gary and a man Rick introduced to me as being Don’s one-time road manager, Paul Young. I enjoyed listening to the guys reminisce about the Captain. Rick’s lifelong buddy Ace Farren Ford told me the amusing story of his pretty much outright stalking the captain when he was a teenager. I really enjoyed being a fly on the wall, listening to their stories. 

 

And now a few personal thoughts about the Captain: I’ve always had a soft spot for enigmatic outsiders and the Captain was about as enigmatic and outsidery as they come. For me, he was more than just a wildly creative songwriter and performer. While it’s true he created astonishing music, with cacophonous twists and turns and ebbs and flows, to say nothing of his incomparable lyrics, he was, to me, a mentor of sorts, someone who lived his life like an art project. He exuded art, creativity seemed to emit from every pore of his being. He was also someone I couldn’t help but identify with: an only child born in Glendale, Ca (check), living a big chunk of his formative years in the California desert (check), you get the idea. How I badly wish I could’ve met him, given him a hug, looked him in his eyes and said “thank you” for profoundly shaping the direction of my life. Though he'd dropped out of music 30 years ago, it had always given me great comfort to know he was up there in his northern California home in Trinidad, turning out great art or just enjoying some peace amongst the redwoods. 

 

Don was a beautiful, irascible, gentle, complex, passionate, weird n wonderful genius who had a “take no prisoners” approach to life. He lived life on his terms, fought to have his artistic visions realized. He was by no means a saint and had a dark side that’s legendary. But that only makes him more real. He didn’t worry about being a “people pleaser,” it was all about the vision. Yes, he swore and drank and fought but he also created music that’s otherworldly, paintings raw and frenzied. And as a wonderful side benefit to being a staunch Beefheart fan going on 17 years now, I’ve gotten to know some brilliant people from his orbit, Beefheart satellites: be they former Magic Band members, people who just happened to know Don or are also huge fans. It’s like being a Deadhead, being a part of a tight-knit subculture that’s full of thoughtful, esoteric, genuine and interesting people. Yes, my life has been immeasurably enriched because of Don Van Vliet. Rest in peace, Don. You are loved.

 

“Across the light, across the night, you can hear the Captain’s cry...upon the my oh my.” - DVV

 

Angel LaCanfora

Huntington Beach, CA

1/14/2011

 

 

Former Magic Band members Robert Williams, Gary Lucas & Rick Snyder strike a "Lick My Decals" pose, a pose that Rick said Don named "the hand and toe investment."

 

Don's cousin, Terry Van Vliet

 

Matt Groening

I've added a batch of my latest suncatchers to my Etsy shop today. They're fun & different & won't break your bank account!

http://www.etsy.com/shop/AngelTunes

 

 

Now's your chance to scrutinize my work up close! Two of my mosaics, "Druid37" and "Joshua Tree Dawn," are going on display at the Huntington Beach Art Center, from January 21st - February 19th. Hope you get a chance to check 'em out!

http://www.huntingtonbeachartcenter.org/

Rummaging through a box, I came upon an old writing assignment from when I was 12 years-old. It's an amusing window into my childhood. I’ve decided to post some random excerpts from said report, so here we go...

 

************************************************************************************************

My Child Life - Excerpt One

My kindergarten through 2nd grade years were spent at Midway City School. Midway City School is a very old building and kind of small and gray.  I remember that my mom walked with me my first week of school. I really liked school then as there was no homework. All you did was cut and paste things (2011 me: I still like cutting & pasting things. Glass things!) 

 

When I was about 7 or 8 years old and was still living in Midway City (2011 update: now known as Little Saigon) a funny event occurred that I’ll always remember. One day I left our apartment to go to my friend’s house across the street. When I came back, I went inside and it was flooded with about 2 inches of water! The washing machine had decided to stop working again and water was pouring out of the top. Mom called the fire department to have them come drain out the water, in the meantime, my neighbors, friends, Mom and I bailed out the kitchen and living room with pots and pans. The firemen came and did the best they could to get the rest of the water out. For about a week or 2 afterwards we had to keep sheets on the carpet until it dried! (2011 me voice: Our apartment flooded a couple more times after that before my parents decided to give up on it completely).

After Midway City, our family moved to downtown Huntington Beach and I attended school at Kettler. My teacher there was Mrs Strange, a polite, tall blonde woman. When I was just getting used to our new location, we moved again, this time to Fountain Valley. I spent about 5 months attending Masuda School for the 4th grade. And just as I was doing well there, we moved back to Huntington Beach, only this time, further inland. Hope View School wasn’t the worst place to be but I liked Masuda and Kettler much better. My teacher in the 5th grade was Mrs Rich, who was one of the nicest teachers there. For 6th grade, I had Mrs Biddle, who was pregnant and a bit grouchy. 

 

Onto the 7th. That was a very rough year in the beginning. It’s strange because all those years were just rolling along smoothly then suddenly “BOOM!” here’s the 7th grade! I couldn’t believe all the homework. And to make matters worse, my allergies were acting up badly. But I got used to (well, sort of) the routine of things.

"Joshua Tree Dawn" 14"x7" smalti glass, various minerals & glass blobs on wood. Must admit I like how this turned out...

 

I'm in a video phase... who knows how long this will last or how far I will take it? This may last years...

Moody & misty, these photos I've shot of Virginia & DC are accompanied by my song, "The Finish Line"

 

The polar opposite of the above video, this one is light & frothy, a minute in my life, set to my song "Roslyn Heights Rag"

A compilation of images of my art & travels, set to my tune "Big Sun Looming"

"Shiny Beast Replica" 

14"x10"  

(For sale in my Etsy shop: http://www.etsy.com/listing/64710192/shiny-beast-replica-mosaic )

While I'm in a cranky mood from losing one of the most important influences on my life (see post below) I thought I'd take advantage and vent about a pet peeve of mine, that cringe-inducing phrase "no worries." When I moved back to my native SoCal from Virginia earlier in the year, I found this phrase endemic to the region, the latest in mindless word trends. Every time I hear it, and it seems like not a day goes by that I don't, I wince. Smug and dismissive, it implies the recipient is "worried," that the deliverer knows the internal emotional state of affairs of said recipient. The receiver is being commanded not to worry, usually by a complete stranger! My thought reaction is usually "who are you to tell me how to feel? And I wasn't worried to begin with. Maybe I *want* to worry, thank you very much!"

I realize that "no worries" is an extension of the hippy-era phrase "it's cool, man." But there's a big difference between saying "it's cool" and "no worries." "It's cool" means the situation is A-OK. "No worries" is a vaguely condescending command, a slight put-down. It implies the speaker knows the situation better than you do, has things under control and that you are a pathetic, little sniveling worry-wart. I'm exaggerating for effect here but where "it's cool" is a slight breeze, "no worries" are hailstones in the face.  Phrases like this emit from people who want to seem cool and controlled and also who don't want to take a moment to think up a more sincere response. Anyone who uses this phrase on me gets a demerit. 

I can hear it now: "Hey Angel, lighten up...don't take it so seriously." Words matter! Dole them out judiciously! Think! 

Hmph.

 

Upon the my oh my

I don't know how or why

you could leave us so 

for funeral hill.

The past sure is tense

without you.

Woe...

is a me bop.

I guess it's time 

for moonlight

in Vermont.

 

*********************

 

Big man.

Big voice.

Big lyrics.

Big courage.

Big talent.

Big art.

Big mind.

Big songs.

Big presence.

Big bold.

Big strange.

Big wonderful.

Big heart.

Beefheart.

 

 

In Memoriam

Don Van Vliet aka Captain Beefheart

 

January 15th, 1941 - December 17th, 2010

 

 

Goodbye Don. Thanks for shaping my life...

 

You can't love

the unlovable.

You can't touch

the untouchable.

You can't know

the unknowable.

You can't see

what's not there.

You can't hear

what's not being said.

You can't say

what you don't think.

You can't feel

when you're full of drink.

You can't fulfill

when you're restrained.

 

You can love

the lovable.

You can touch

the touchable.

You can know

the knowable.

You can see

what is there.

You can hear

what is being said.

You can say

what you think.

You can feel

when you're sober.

You can achieve

when you are free to be.

Yeah.

 

12/16/2010

When the day is dark and the sun doesn't shine

Tomorrow will be a better day.

When your ankle is twisted and your toes get numb

Tomorrow will be a better day.

When your love grows cold and there's no hope in sight

Tomorrow will be a better day.

When the dogs are bearing down and you're pinned to the wall

Tomorrow will be a better day.

When the fault lines have snapped and the land's engulfed you

Tomorrow will be a better day.

When the funds have run low and the cupboard is empty

Tomorrow will be a better day.

When the family you've got is angry and mean

Tomorrow will be a better day.

When the doctor's diagnosis leaves you full of despair

Tomorrow will be a better day.

When your tire's gone flat and you're a long way from home

Tomorrow will be a better day.

When the murderer's eyes look directly in yours

Tomorrow will be a better day.

Tomorrow will be a better day.

Tomorrow will be.

A. LaCanfora - 12/15/2010

There was a time, up til just recently, when I believed the meaning of life was the pursuit of happiness. I believed that if you pursued your dream(s), that it would bring fulfillment and peace-of-mind. But what I've now come to believe is that I had fallen prey to that deeply ingrained American construct, "the pursuit of happiness." It was Thomas Jefferson, who borrowed from George Mason, who in turn had borrowed from philosopher John Locke, who put forth the phrase "life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness" in the Declaration of Independence. Now "happiness" as an end is not a concept shared the world over, but it's a good one. It means we as individuals can pursue pleasure for pleasure's sake, which in Jefferson's era was a decidedly antithetical stance to the staunch Puritanism of early English colonists, a radical notion that would set the United States apart from the rest of the world.

What I've come to believe is that life is not about pleasure.That is not to say it's about pain, either. It's about being productive, about being the best *you* you can be. It's about giving back to your community. It's about the world being a little bit nicer because you existed. And if you can't or don't choose to give to your community or make a "mark," so to speak, at the very least, try not to leave a mess behind you when you go! Once I stopped believing I was somehow entitled to a nice life, I found that, oxymoronically, some of my pain, unhappiness and dissatisfaction was quashed. Suddenly I started accepting the fact that I have an incurable genetic disorder. And when bad things happen to me, I find them rolling off my back more. The "why me's" have given way to the "why not me?" Everyone has pain, everyone experiences disappointments. Little day-to-day disappointments (the friend cancels on you for lunch) and big disappointments ( oops, my shoulder's dislocated...). And we all have little day-to-day moments of pleasure ("mmm...this cup of coffee hits the spot") and moments of big pleasure ("yes, I'll marry you"). And now that I've stopped feeling that the meaning of life is the pursuit of happiness, but rather, to be as productive as I can and to lead as full a life as I possibly can, I feel like I can face whatever the future throws at me.

I'm going to die one day. Whether or not it'll be my EDS that gets me in the end, or cancer, heart disease or just plain old age, I have no way of knowing. But I *will* die. And so will you. In between this moment right here and mine/your death, we have the choice to view each moment of our lives in such a way as to give it depth and meaning. Maybe this shift in my thinking has come about as a natural consequence of getting older. Maybe this is the fabled "maturity" I've always heard about. Maybe it's come about from having gone through way too much tragedy for one life. Maybe it's come about as a result of living with illness, I don't know. Maybe my shift lay at the crux of a resilient life. People who've lived through unspeakable horrors, such as the Holocaust or being a P.O.W. probably eventually came to a similar, if not the same, conclusion as I did. Resilience is the ability to bounce back and I think my life has been defined by having to bounce back from incredible situations. For all intents and purposes, I should not be alive. Illness, a long evening in the captivity of a serial rapist/murderer, car accidents...you name it, seems I've been through it. Now I sit here writing, so appreciative of my peaceful, beautiful life right now, I could just weep. I'm a very fortunate woman.  

The Buddha said that the cause of suffering is desire. So maybe I'm more at peace than I've ever been because I've let go of a lot of desires. Of course there are some holes in my life, but they'll get filled in time. I still have stuff I long for, I'm only homo sapien! But when my hard-drive crashes or my shoulder hurts, I don't get a case of the "freak out's," I don't hold my breath and turn blue. I shrug. I am a shrugger.

 

13"x10" made with stained-glass, vitreous & ceramic tiles, millefiori & bits of mirror....now on sale at my Etsy shop...

Been a busy art bee as of late, trying to make up for all my lost time due to traveling. Here are photos of the latest batch...

These 3 below are from my pop art mosaic or P.A.M., series...

 

 

 

and a new suncatcher...

All of these are for sale online in my Etsy shop: http://www.etsy.com/shop/AngelTunes

Come & get your art...mosaics, suncatchers, mirrors.... 15% off across the board in my Etsy shop!!

http://www.etsy.com/shop/AngelTunes

Lounging on my couch, absorbed in Jonathan Franzen’s “Freedom,” I pause to come up for air and notice something not right out of the corner of my eye. I look up and see a reasonably large spider sprawled in the corner of my ceiling (large, that is for a living room, maybe not out in the wild). As I’ve been working on my arachnophobia, I have to work hard not to freak out, still, every cell in my body is squirming; I’m at Code Red.  I stare at it, trying to talk myself into a peaceful coexistence with the creepy beast. I tell myself that there is actually not much there there, if you really look at it: the body portion is tiny, it’s the legs that give him his fierce appearance. I realize that he isn’t moving, just hanging out. I think, “ok, I can live with this. You just stay put in here, guard your corner and don’t get any funny ideas.” So I go back to my book, but thoughts of the spider overhead gnaw at the back of my skull. I get a vision of him crawling directly overhead, then lowering himself down onto me, onto my head. He isn’t doing this, of course, he’s still sitting, motionless. But now that that idea has presented itself, I have to glance up at him every few minutes just to make sure he’s behaving. An hour goes by, two, three. He’s clearly settled in for awhile. I glance at him less and less, mentally patting myself on the back for letting myself coexist with a creature that makes me hyperventilate. I tell myself how ridiculous it is to be afraid of spiders. They don’t bother me nearly so much outdoors. It’s being cooped up in a room with them that really freaks me out, being sequestered, thinking they might crawl their way into my bed, or my ear. 

 

There was one time, a lifetime ago it seems, when I was working as a paralegal, and I left my home to go to the office and walked through a spider web, strung between two shrubs. I immediately did the “spider web freak-out dance,” patting myself all over and shuddering. So I went to work; it was just a normal day at the office. I go home, remove my clothes and to my horror, to my complete, utter disgust, find the remnants of a once rather substantial smushed spider in my bra! I nearly fainted. I’d obviously walked right into him that morning and he must’ve fallen straight into my blouse, then when I’d patted myself, I’d crushed him. I can laugh about it now. Almost. 

 

I had another interesting spider encounter when I was going to school in Cambridge, England, in ’95. I was hanging out on the Silver Street Bridge, an idyllic spot situated over the Cam River. I was on a break from my classes, sitting cross-legged on the low edge of this concrete bridge on a sunny day. Well I look down in my lap and see a spider crawling on my leg. So I commence my spider freak-out dance, I’m patting and flailing and mildly hyperventilating. Up to this point I’d been alone on the bridge, but I look up and see Professor Stephen Hawking on the bridge, on my side, with a female companion. He’s got that grin of his going, his eyes trained right on me (how could they not be, given the scene). I laugh and forget all about the spider, realizing how absurd all this must’ve looked to him. He’s grinning, I’m laughing and the spider vanishes. 

 

I’m writing this, still glancing at my new companion. He hasn’t moved a centimeter. It occurs to me that maybe on some level, I want him to move. Maybe that’s what’s really bothering me; it isn’t his good behavior, but his inertia. I’m expecting him to do something and he’s not doing anything. I mean, of course I’m happy he’s so well-behaved, but maybe on some level, I’d rather he be a little naughty, conform to my expectations. C’mon spider, show me what you got! Lets just have it out already! Maybe I’ll stop being so afraid of spiders if we go head-to-head and I see that you’re really a gentle beast. Maybe one day, I’ll grow to trust them, respect them, even, dare I say, love them? 

 

....of me tinkering with my Fender Strat last night. Since I've got a nasty cold, can't sing and was feeling musical, came up with a little improvised melody here.

I’d tried to sleep in but laid there in bed thinking that this was the last chance I’d have to poke around Memphis before catching my flight home later. Besides, a trip is no time for sleep, you can do that at home! So that’s why I found myself up at 6am, ready and raring to go. The plan was to find a diner or some place interesting for breakfast. I’d drive around and see what I’d come across; I was convinced there’d be something. This is when I discovered that Memphis is not exactly a town of early-risers. You had your Denny’s, your Starbucks, the ubiquitous Cracker Barrel. But nothing, and I mean, nothing else was open for business in downtown Memphis at this hour. After awhile I gave up and schlepped back to the hotel. I queried the desk clerk about any breakfast joints with character that might be open at this hour but she wrinkled her nose and shook her head in the negative, told me that if I was willing to wait til 8am, there’d be plenty. But I was famished so I gave up on this plan, grabbed a couple hard-boiled eggs there at the breakfast bar and went next door to Starbuck’s for a cappuccino. Back at the hotel I groomed myself and packed my bags, with the intention to squeeze in a tour at Sun Studio before making a mad dash to the airport. 

 

Sun Studio is a humble little brick building at a fork in the road, a large hollow-body electric guitar sculpture adorning its exterior. It was only 10am but the place was packed with tourists from the world over, most of them elderly. It looked like I was the youngest one in the tour by about 5 years. There were few surprises for me on the tour, as I’m pretty familiar with the legend of Sam Philips and the history of his fabulous studio, but it was cool to see the artifacts and to just bask in the presence of this shrine to early rock and roll. Some items on display; Elvis’s high school diploma and first music contract; the first microphone he’d used to record; early, monstrous recording equipment, etc. The apex was getting to stand in the actual studio, where some of the earliest rock and roll singles were recorded. I could’ve hung out there for hours, heck, I could’ve moved in...

 

Then it was on to Memphis Int’l; the ceremonial bequeathing of the rental car back to its agency, and a nasty salad for lunch in the terminal. But the story doesn’t end here. On my flight out of Memphis to catch my connection at Salt Lake City, I had an interesting seat mate, a 50-something year old man by the name of Joseph. Looking like a taller version of musician Levon Helm and sounding like him too, with his lazy Southern drawl, he told me he lived with his wife, a teacher, on 20 acres in Hattiesburg, Mississippi. He was taking this flight to visit his son, a smoke jumper for the forest service, out in Idaho. Clad in plaid-flannel and jeans, he had an easy-going, affable personality and really wanted to talk. I wasn’t especially happy about this initially as I was very tired and was looking at a long day of travel. I’d been hoping to sleep for the duration of this flight. But I eventually had no choice but to give up on the idea and we wound up having an interesting conversation, lasting nearly the entirety of the 3-hour flight, where we talked about nearly every topic under the sun. I learned his whole story: a high school drop-out, he’d gone into the Navy where he’d become an electrician. Once out, he’d married young and since he had kids to support he enrolled in a technical school and became an electrical engineer. The pay was good so he was able to buy land, and retire young. What made his job pay so well was the fact that he’d done long stints working in the oil fields of Saudi Arabia, Iraq and Dubai, a region of the world he came to loathe. While he appreciated the pay and being his own boss, he said that if you dared utter anything negative about the country you were in, you’d get your throat slit; that the level of violence day in, day out was unreal. Joseph and I discovered we both share a mutual love of documentaries, history and archaeology, so we had some common ground. We talked about movies, and he even asked for my view points on religion and God. I winced and thought “oh boy, here we go...things are going to start getting ugly now....” But while he was religious and I’m most certainly not, we were both delighted to find that we have a mutual respect for others believing how they wish. He was willing to hear me out and I was willing to hear him out and it was all very pleasant civil, even humorous, no hint of rancor or condescension on either of our parts. The plane landed and we said our goodbyes and wished each other well. I can’t remember when I last had such a great, thought-provoking, in-depth conversation and I’ll never forget gentle Joseph. 

 

Now I had a four-hour layover in Salt Lake City. If it’d been a little longer, I’d have left the airport to have a look around, but by the time I’d gotten off the plane and made my way to the gate, my time had already whittled down to 3 1/2 hours. So I used it to eat dinner (sushi), read and to type up some thoughts about my trip. So I’ll conclude the story of my Great Southern Excursion with my entry from SLC airport:

 

Here I am on a long layover at Salt Lake City, with a chance to collect my breath and thoughts. I had steeled myself for the fact that this might be a grueling trip. The word “travel” is derived from “travail,” after all. But overall my trip couldn't have gone smoother. There were some minor hiccups, the worse being an argument with my rental car provider, Avis. Otherwise, the trip went suspiciously well. Little went wrong and the things that did were relatively minor or things that could not have been helped (having to drive in stormy weather or missing an off-ramp, etc...). This was absolutely, unequivocally, one of the best trips of my life. It's funny, even though I traveled solo, I rarely felt alone. People (and by "people," I mean mostly men) gravitate towards me and chat away. Something about me makes me approachable. Maybe with my shiny hair, I'm like a lighthouse, a beacon in the night. Anyway, I shouldn't question it, whatever "it" is. Maybe it's that people pick up on the fact that I'm having a blast and want in on it. Even here at the airport, I managed to find a quiet corner, away from the obnoxious mounted tv's tuned to CNN, blasting Sarah Palin's borderline screech and people (uh, “men”)  are still drifting over to me, asking occasional questions or just smiling and saying “hi.” But I felt safe (most of the time), un-harassed, un-hurried (for the most part). I had wonderful luck with all my hotel rooms. Clean, functional, well-priced. The airline didn’t lose my luggage. I didn’t come down with any viruses. And I’ve never encountered so many genuinely kind people on one trip. I ran into only a couple of sourpusses (at Lee’s chapel, or the occasional a-hole who cuts you off on the road). I got to see some old friends before the start of the trip in Charlottesville (including my wonderful miracle kitty, Sigh, survivor of epilepsy). 

I think a good measure of a trip is whether or not it changes you, leaves an indelible print. And this one did. While on it, I had a major epiphany and realized that I’ve come to the end of this particular phase of my life and am now entering a new one. I have finally come to the end of my grief period that arose from my diagnosis in 2007. I’m excited, optimistic and hopeful for the future in a way I haven’t been in years. 

 

Back to now: I’ve been surprised and humbled at the number of hits this site gets and just wanted to say “thanks” for reading, for stopping by. Hope you’ve been entertained or have gotten something of value out of my ramblings. Til we meet again!

 

 

 

Salt Lake City as seen from the plane...