DRIVE ON, BRAVE CHARIOT
by angeliska on August 1, 2012
Yesterday, I crossed a milestone that has been waiting for me for half my life. At the age of 33, I passed my driving test, and at long last – got my driver’s license. It’s an odd feeling: at once elated and unbelieving – that after so long, that invisible line in the sand has been crossed. I am all grown up now, and any last vestiges of anything but a self-reliant life have fallen away. Why did it take me so long? Why indeed. There are many reasons, none of them simple, none of them satisfying. I have examined them all in detail, used many as excuses, flagellated myself with others. When I was 16, it was money. My parents had none to get me a car, so what was the point? I lived way the hell out in the boonies, so I left home at 15 to live in the city. Later, I learned to ride a bike (another complicated late-blooming story) and I would ride 6 miles to and from my one-room shack in East Austin out to Westlake, the bourgeois district where my high school was located. After that, I lived in New Orleans for seven years, where owning a car usually proved more of a hassle than a boon, due to parking hassles, tourist traffic, and car thieves. Post-Katrina, after I came back to Austin, I had a rude awakening awaiting me – in the form of hills (a rarity in flat swamp-land Louisiana) and sprawl (most of the time, there was never a reason for me to leave the twenty block radius encompassing the Bywater and French Quarter.) I wasn’t spunky and 17 anymore. The hurricane had taken the wind out of my sails, and I no longer could show up to jobs punk-sneering and sweaty, red-faced and rumpled by my ride. I bought a car, the last of a series of at least five that I bought (the others I went in on with friends and lovers) but never really drove. Weird, isn’t it? To own vehicles, but not drive them? The earlier ones were trade outs from our ancient landlord, too rickety to learn on. Then a couple of vans in New Orleans we only ever took on shopping errands to Chalmette or out to the swamp. They had names like Carmelita, Snailarella, Es-Car-Go! A special white van named Spacial. And then Goblinetta, my jet-black Jetta. She got excellent gas mileage, and had a standard transmission. I managed to learn how to navigate the clutch more or less decently, but the stress of dealing with that learning curve, on top of trying to navigate the mysteries of the road proved to be too intimidating. I was afraid. Of other drivers, of darting animals and children, of myself. Afraid of propelling three tons of steel through space. Afraid of being distracted, of not acting quickly enough, of killing someone with my car. I’m still afraid of all that.
I let me fear keep me complacent, I let it keep me trapped. I begged rides off of friends, and constantly – from my partner. He drove me to and from work for years, drove me everywhere we went together, and eventually, his resentment towards me over that apparently drove him away from me. The pressure and stress that me not driving put on our relationship was no small thing, for either of us. How ironic and sad that now that I’ve finally figured it out, it appears to be too late. I had always imagined presenting my license to him in a little box, for his birthday, our anniversary, or Valentine’s. Those holidays came and went, and now I see that maybe it’s better this way – that I’ve done this as a gift to myself instead. A gift to everyone who knows me, as well – especially all of the countless kind people who picked my ass up and carted me around on errands, on adventures, across state lines. I am fully aware that my ride karma is maxed out, and that I could never manage to ever make a dent in that debt in one lifetime – though I will do my best to. No more of being the passenger, passive, staring out the window, noticing trees and pretty houses. It’s that last shred of non-autonomy that held a Peter Pan death-grip on me for so long. Perhaps it was a stubborn hold-out I clung to to make up for how fast I was forced to grow up, to become independent, responsible for too much, too young.
Now, in the wake of this strange victory – the enormous driving instructor with frosted hair handing me a xeroxed sheet that will serve as temporary license until the real one comes in the mail and I smile hugely, tears running down my cheeks, my head feeling like a big balloon that might float away any moment. What relief, to have passed that gauntlet. Now I just have to prove myself worthy of it by not getting into any accidents. Luckily, my chariot right now is a sturdy 1984 Volvo station wagon that I feel very safe in. It gives me license to take it slow, the witchy bumper stickers on the back alerting all to the fact that I am in no fucking hurry. I look forward to tootling along at a snail’s pace along the byways and backroads, singing at the top of my lungs, free as a bird.
Onward, brave chariot – my journey truly begins today.
The Chariot is a card and concept I’ve come to love and understand better than ever before this year. It’s a symbol and guide that I fully embrace as I move forward into this next phase of true independence. The Chariot is your vehicle, your triumphal car – it represents your motivation, your will, or in other words, your DRIVE. The road is your life, your path. We don’t have a lot of choice over where or how our journeys begin, but we are fully responsible for where we end up. The Chariot is all about taking that responsibility for yourself, for your life, for your direction. You hold the reins, you steer the wheel. Indeed, fate may throw roadblocks, detours, speedbumps or potholes into your path. Sometimes there are terrible accidents, weird hitch-hikers, stretches of bad road, long boring highways, traffic jams and speeding tickets. We can’t always predict this stuff, but we can be pretty guaranteed that we’re bound to encounter at least some of it. How we deal with it, however, is our choice. That’s where the autonomy, the strength of will, the power of choice that the Chariot represents comes into play. We control how fast we go, or how slow – whether we take a meandering scenic route, or the quickest path from point A to point B. Is the journey the destination, or just a series of hassles until you get to some unknowable point up ahead? Some people will encounter a roadblock and just stop, or turn around, defeated – never considering that they might have discovered something interesting or beautiful on that out of the way detour. Some will let go of the reins for a time, or try and get someone else to hold the wheel, or maybe they’re steering with their knees while they roll a joint. That usually doesn’t work out too well – they end up stuck in a ditch or wrapped around a tree. There are those who never left their driveway: ten years later, they’re still staring at the garage door, wondering what the hell happened to their lives. You can’t relinquish your responsibility to your journey, nor can you drive another’s Chariot for them (well, you can try – but it’ll end in tears.) Only you can get yourself into gear, put your foot on the gas (or the brakes) and get moving in the direction you were meant to go. To accept that responsibility joyfully, to relish the wind in your hair, to prepare for whatever the road may bring: that is the true victory of the charioteer. Whatever lies ahead, I hope to be ready for it – my eyes on the horizon, the road rising up to meet me.
A tiny bouquet for a broken-hearted day.
Next week, I embark on an epic road-trip with my dear friend Brett Caraway, to help him move from Austin to Toronto. Brett and I have been friends since I was 15 or so, and we’ve reconnected in a profound way this year, as we’ve both found ourselves in very similar devastating circumstances in our relationships. It’s an amazing gift to have a friend who knows exactly what you’re going through, and not only is there to listen and understand, but also to support and encourage. This trip is hugely symbolic for both of us, in many ways – but for me, it’s been my prime impetus to put a real deadline on getting my license, and sticking to it. This is the first road trip I’ve ever taken where I’ll be behind the wheel and not just counting cows and clouds and daydreaming.
Brett took me on daily driving lessons, and numerous trips to the Kafka-esque hell that is the DPS. He has helped me so much to believe in myself, and has patiently helped me learn how to steer my Chariot forward. This trip is going to be intense for both of us, as we leave behind pasts we have loved dearly. There is excitement and anticipation, and behind that there is regret, sadness, and a longing for lives we’ve both clung to, and can no longer have.
A reminder. There is beauty amidst the rubble & wreckage. The gifts I give myself.
Tonight is the full moon in Aquarius, the Sturgeon Moon, or Green Corn Moon – the first of two this month. Today is also Lammas, or Lughnasad, where we honor She of the Threshing Floor and ponder what we lost in the fire, and what can now grow to nourish us. What do you reap? What do you sow? What do you give tenderly to the flames? Bread in the shape of a child, a handful of photos of me and the man I’d hoped to spend my life with: kissing, making funny faces, happy. Maybe something new can spring up from those ashes, though right now my mouth is so full of cinders that I can barely speak. I let it all go. I surrender to this turning, heavy hearted.
School of the Seasons has an excellent article on this holiday:
“Lammas is a festival of regrets and farewells, of harvest and preserves. Reflect on these topics alone in the privacy of your journal or share them with others around a fire. Lughnasad is one of the great Celtic fire-festivals, so if at all possible, have your feast around a bonfire. While you’re sitting around the fire, you might want to tell stories.”
Speaking of chariots, check out my teacher Bob’s incredible 1939 Ford truck.
He rebuilt it and tricked it out himself, and it is glorious.
I feel super lucky to have gotten to have a lift in this beauty.
The car door interiors are made of old Texaco signs.
The seats are upholstered with Girlscout tent canvas.
A different kind of chariot: the Sky Princess Tricycle!
It’s been a summer of storms, which we’ve welcomed with open arms.
Dark days followed by rainbows. We can only hope.
It’s hard to explain the limitless giddiness I feel in doing something as simple as driving myself to my new favorite cafe for coffee & writing, or the pride in doing a damn fine parking job. It’s these little freedoms, these secret joys that keep me moving forward through the sorrow.
An evolution of my journey as a burgeoning charioteer told in New Wave music:
Full Moon in Capricorn
by angeliska on July 4, 2012
This month’s full moon falls into my own sign, Capricorn – and has brought with it a cornucopia of Saturnine horrors: disintegration, separation, and yet more loss. Once again, the rug has been pulled out from under me, and I’m forced to question everything I know about my life, about my vision for the future. The bright moon gets tangled in the gnarled fingers of an old oak before she makes her way over the hill to burn away all my fear, all my doubt. Well – some of it at least. What can I do but surrender? Doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt like a bitch. Oh, it really does. So, I’m not going to go into detail about what all is occurring in my life here, or how this cruel Capricorn moon has been manifesting for me personally, but instead try and relate what I’ve been attempting to put my focus on as I endeavor to endure all this upheaval: how to make it through each day in the best way possible. I’ve been thinking about the concept of self care a lot lately. It’s something I talk to my clients and friends about often, and yet, sometimes it’s tricky to remember your own advice. Perhaps by writing it out and sharing it here, I can resolve to listen to my own words, and take good care of myself.
I mean. It’s something I’ve been working on for awhile, actually – and I think I do alright for the most part, at least as far as the physical aspects go. The mental and emotional, maybe less so. It’s about the stories we tell ourselves: about how we are lost, ruined, destroyed. Even if it might feel true, we’re stronger than that, right? My teachers and mentors have been reminding me to be gentle and nurturing to myself. It’s something I’ve been trying to learn: to mother myself in lieu of the mother I lost. I feed myself a nice dinner, I brush my teeth, I put on pajamas, I read a bedtime story, I tuck myself into bed. No, it’s not the same, but it’s what I’ve got. It takes a lot of patience to nurture yourself like you would a young plant, or a small child. Would you reprimand that plant for not growing fast enough, or that child for not learning quickly enough? Would you be mean to a little baby for crying, for being weak? No. Yet we do this to ourselves all too often. I’ve been working on being better at crying, at letting it out when I feel it. It took me years to learn how to do this. One of my teachers always tells me, “Cry when you feel like crying. Don’t be afraid to let it out, to make a noise. Give your grief a sound.” I’ve been getting a lot of practice in, lately.
Something else I’ve been thinking about a lot: how many of my disappointments stem from a deep desire that erupted out of the trainwreck that was my childhood: to be taken care of. Certainly, I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself. I have been doing so for many years. But I’m realizing more and more that many of my problems and issues come from this place of internalized neglect – and from the hope that someone could swoop in and rescue me from my life, from my sadnesses. I’ve discovered quite often lately how fruitless and unfulfilling it is to make others responsible for your own happiness. That if they don’t do this, or say that, that somehow they don’t care, or that they could affect your ability to be happy and satisfied. I’m wrestling with the concept that no one can “make” you feel a certain way – that we choose how to respond to all of the various people in our lives and the things that they say (or don’t say), and do (or don’t do). I’m also struggling with the concept that happiness is a choice that we make for ourselves – despite whatever tragic and shitty things might be happening in our lives. It’s still our responsibility to create our own sense of happiness and wellbeing. So that’s what I’m working on right now, amidst all the smoke and rubble, to find little moments and places where things are okay, even for just a minute. Another one of my teachers has been really helping me learn how all this works. He reminds me often to return my attention to my physical form. He tells me about how pain and sadness and confusion all live in the mind, and that the only way to escape them is to place yourself back into your body, by being physical – taking a walk, or doing yoga, or just being outside. Yesterday I woke up at 7am and went to one of my favorite places. I swam in cool spring water, my body slicing and arcing under the surface, propelling me forward. I floated on my back under tall cypresses and stared up at the sky through the branches. For a little while, I chose not to focus on my unhappiness, and instead on the sensation of weightlessness, mud under my feet, maidenhair ferns casting diamond droplets into my hair. Water is healing for me. Mermaid therapy. Oh, and – this mermaid just joined a gym, for the first time ever.
Here’s some things that have been making things a bit brighter lately:
I dressed up as Cleopatra and modeled for Dr. Sketchy’s life drawing session for the first time. I forgot how much I enjoy being an art model. It’s harder work than you might imagine, if you take making and holding interesting poses for the artists seriously. And I do.
Homegrown cantaloupe, a blanket, a knife. Simple, good things been gettin’ me by.
Growing your own food and eating it feels pretty amazing. I highly recommend it.
Q: How many birds does it take to send a letter down the street?
A: Seven, plus Buckminster Fuller – if it’s a letter from my dear Francesca-la-la…
Friends who write you letters even though they live right down the road are the very best kind of friends.
She inscribed a very fitting poem on the back of the envelope:
“One who does what
the friend wants done
will never need a friend.
There’s a bankruptcy
that’s pure again.
The moon stays bright
when it doesn’t avoid the night.
A rose’s rarest essence
lives in the thorn.”
– Rumi
Lord Dunsany’s At The Edge of the World, a gift from dear friends whose wedding ceremony I officiated at recently.
Been immersing myself in loads of fantasy fiction lately. Escape, ahoy!
Mes parfums petits de L’Artisan – smelling good makes me feel good.
I picked a homegrown zinnia bouquet for bedside cheering morning and night.
Luckily, I also have the cutest animal friends ever, who constantly keep my spirits up with their absurd and adorable friendship. Grrizzles & Scampi are totally best friends forever.
Here are some things that I’ve been doing for myself that have helped:
Wore my favorite red corduroy dress my mama made.
Listened to songs sung by friends in a copse of trees
down in the valley under the bright full moon.
Ate some really good cookies.
Taken some good long baths.
Bought myself fancy amber perfume.
Procured good fruits and vegetables.
Sat under a waterfall.
Encouraged a child to be brave
(and swam with her into a cave behind said waterfall!
We did it! We were not eaten by cave goblins!)
What is your concept of self-care? How has this full moon been treating you?
For further reading:
Full Moon in Capricorn – by Molly Hall
Full Moon in Capricorn: Integrity or Bust – by Sherene Schostak
Full Moon in Capricorn on 3rd July 12 – Intense and practical, emotional and unpredictable – from Solaris Astrology
“The signal sent out by this particular Full Moon I think will be one of tough practical experiences, break ups and endings of cycles combined with deep emotion and lack of control brought about by unusual events that we were not expecting. It is asking us to take up a challenge, to act positively in the face of adversity and the big odds stacked against us. There is a positive slant though; the fact that this is a cardinal t-square, asking us to act and make the best of the situations we are facing.”
– from Solaris Astrology
I’ve been pretty impressed with Astrology Zone for accurate interpretations lately.
Here’s mine: Capricorn Horoscope for July 2012 – by Susan Miller
The Sabian Symbol for the Full Moon is: A Fire Worshipper Meditates On The Ultimate Realities Of Existence
Other names for the July Full Moon: Mead Moon, Blessing Moon, Full Hay Moon, Lightning Moon, Full Thunder Moon (big storms). Also known as the Full Buck Moon, since it’s when new antlers grow out on young bucks, with a coating of velvety fur.
TAROT: The 3 of swords followed by the Page of Cups.
Or, the 10 of Swords and the Ace of Cups.
Healing one’s self in the aftermath of great pain and loss.
Also: STARS + SHADOWS
SUMMER SOLSTICE – IF WISHES WERE HORSES
by angeliska on June 20, 2012
Another solstice snuck up behind me on soft little feet, all laughing and tinkling bells and teasing rain. For the last two days, storms have come and gone, and dropped nary a thimbleful on my garden. We had one of the most magical springs seen in a long, long time down here. Lots of sweet rain that brought hopes that this summer could be one of those lush, green affairs that so many people seem to have forgotten that Austin is capable of experiencing. I’m holding out for hope that the land will be rejuvenated, that the swimming holes will stay full and deep, that our gardens won’t wither. I’m wishing for rain again, but this year most of my wishes are for me, to help me grow stronger, be wiser, more patient, more kind. I’m saying yes more – doing things that scare me, finding ways to make myself happy. It’s not easy, but if it were it wouldn’t be worth as much, maybe. Hard won joy, in little snippets. All I’m asking is to be showered in those snippets like confetti – seems like a reasonable enough request to me! What are you wishing for today?
Merry Summer Solstice to you and yours, from me and mine.
If wishes were horses…
A summer solstice bouquet (some grown, some purloined on a neighborhood walk) – foxgloves, honeysuckle, verbena, salvia, coralvine, snapdragons, plumbago, bougainvillea, zinnia, basil, scullcap, and a sunflower. I’ve discovered recently that lots of people don’t know the names of flowers – I mean, not even their common names! Maybe they grew up in the city, or just were never curious – which is fine, but I just forget that someone wouldn’t just know. I realize that not everyone is interested in gardening or plants, but I find it extremely strange when I see people who don’t know what a poppy or a passionflower is. I don’t think of those things as obscure, but then – I grew up in a household where lots of what I would discover later was obscure knowledge was considered commonplace. I remember even when I didn’t care about growing my own things – but I did still know the names of things, even if I was still too prissy or consumed with other stuff to get my hands dirty. I can’t imagine not having a garden now – I’d be so miserable without all this verdure growing wild all around me!
My little tattered friend. He stayed on my finger, and then my shoulder for a long time. Lots of talk of butterflies and cocoons. Last summer, we had hardly any butterflies. This year, there are more. No swallowtail larvae or orange dogs, threatening us with their osmeterium, alas – we do so like to harrass them.
Tough guy butterfly eye.
From my studio window.
My own sweet hollyhocks – I’m so proud to have finally achieved my goal of growing hollyhocks taller than me!
If anyone wants seeds, I have loads – just holler, and I’ll mail you some.
Lilies and Louise in my kitchen.
In my sister’s kitchen in New York where I was a secret guest for a night, having snuck in to surprise her!
I’m so glad I got to be in the city in the springtime – and especially for cherry-blossom fantasyland! Few sights are more marvelous. I’d love to see them in D.C., and especially for the sakura festivals in Japan. One day!
I love blown-out exploded tulips. Something about seeing such prim flowers let loose and become so dissolute. It’s very, very sexy.
Speaking of, you know what’s better than roses on your piano?
I want this ice-cream truck to follow me aroud everywhere I go, blaring all my favorite summer jams, and giving free ice cream to everyone. That’s my other solstice wish. Maybe it could play this song, my favorite from Hello Lovers. I think it’s one of the most romantic songs ever. It makes me think of those long teenage summers when we’d sneak out at night to do drugs and make love on picnic tables in the Botanical Gardens. Also, of my sister’s birthday when she was so sad and then the entire band and then some filed into her tiny bedroom and serenaded her with that very song while she sat in bed with a chocolate cake. I’m not sure how everyone fit (there was a tuba player and everything!), but they did somehow, and it was one of the most magical things I’ve ever witnessed.
Hello Lovers – Public Garden
Another favorite. My mama used to sing me this lullaby when I was very, very small:
Nick Cave & Current 93 – All The Pretty Little Horses
Lau made another mix, and it is an excellent strange summer day soundtrack:
Summer solstices of yore:
SUMMER SOLSTICE – A LUSH GREEN WISH
SUMMER SOLSTICE – POPPYTIME
MIDSOMMERVISE FOR MIN FAR
MOONSHADOWS
by angeliska on May 23, 2012
A few days ago, I got to witness my first solar eclipse. A strangely gentle and peaceful experience, all over too soon. The sun set below the horizon before we could see it fully obscured, alas. The moon took bigger and bigger bites of the sun, turning it into a big glowing pac-man, and then into a fiery crescent, a moon twin.
I’m in love with these stunning photos from
There were also lots of wonderful photos going around from people capturing the moon shadows cast by this strange occurrence. I wish I’d seen that!
When the moon played with the sun by raccoon-00
We watched it in the street in front of our house – passing Colin’s welding hood back and forth between us. Neighbors came by and we let them check it out too. They thought I was crazy, standing in the street wearing a lemon yellow slip and a welding hood. I forget that slips are still considered underwear by some, often.
I suppose we made a strange sight to passersby unaware that an eclipse was happening…
Colin has eyes that can shoot fire and lasers.
When the sun set too low, we tried a ladder, and then hopped in the truck to try and watch it from higher ground – to no avail! It had sunk below the horizon. Did you see the eclipse? Have you ever seen one before? Tell me stories.
☾ Moons, Moons, They’re Everywhere. The Unexpected Shadows of the Solar Eclipse
☾ There Goes The Sun – More Eclipse Photos
QUEERBOMB IS COMING!
by angeliska on May 12, 2012
It’s almost that time again, y’all – time for Austin’s very own homegrown glittery juggernaut of a rogue queer pride parade takes to the streets and lets out a joyful noise! We’re planning and building and painting and working to get it all done to roll out June 2nd, and we only have a few days left to raise the last bit of money to make this beautiful monster of a parade and rally happen! We are SO close! If you’ve got anything to spare towards helping to create a true celebration of freedom in Austin, Texas – I can tell you, we would all be hugely grateful! Queerbomb is a non-profit, community organized event – by and for the people. It’s all free – always and forever, and all ages are welcome! If you don’t know already, here’s what it’s all about:
Going back over my photos from last year’s Queerbomb, I’m stepping back a bit and trying to forget for a moment that I am looking at pictures of my amazing friends who I love and admire, and just see them as faces, as people. I am struck most by how happy and comfortable in their own skin they all are – how truly filled with PRIDE they all are. Each and every person pictured here is proud to be who they are, proud to stand up for their rights, proud to dance in the streets of their city wearing sequins and fringe and fishnets and whatnot. Not one of these people carries fear or shame in their faces or in their bodies about who they are. I think that’s the most beautiful thing I could imagine – to picture a world where everyone felt free to whirl and twirl, to hold hands with the person they love in public, to not worry about standing out, or looking silly or odd, but to freely embrace all of that. These faces are strong, are indomitable, courageous, outrageous, creative, and so incredibly precious to me. They are my community. They are Queerbomb.
Raven
Monika
Stanley Roy as Fantasy
Caitlin
Tamicka
Jake
David
LZ Love
Paul
Sing it, sister!
Aaron Flynn
Margie
Angelica
Tamara + Maggie
Drew + Amelia
I really love these shots of the parade, by my friend Ariela Baragona (Skellesix Photo) – these last few are all hers:
Especially this one of Rusty and Johna and I dancing under the bridge.
UNF! GIT IT.
I love how many photos of people hugging during the parade Ariele captured. The love was everywhere.
This one just kills me. So much love and peace in these faces. This right here is what it’s all about.
Beth, proud Queerbomb warrior!
Let that freak flag fly, y’all!
If you’re in Austin, come be a part of it this year. Even if you’re not – spread the word, contribute, or start your own Queerbomb – wherever you are!
QUEERBOMB 2012
My posts from Queerbombs of yore:
QUEERBOMB 2011!
QUEERBOMB MAGIC 2010
QUEERBOMB!
FULL MOON IN SCORPIO
by angeliska on May 6, 2012
Tonight, as I wait for this epic Supermoon in Scorpio to rise above the treetops, I want to take a moment to write about some of the thoughts that have been buzzing around my head recently. Ever since I retuned from New York, I’ve been in the strangest funk. A deep funk as my friend Sienna would say – the kind of mood where motivation is elusive, and a weird pall seems to hang over everything, even though nothing in particular was really wrong. Or maybe it was, and I just haven’t been letting myself fully feel it. I’ve been feeling like going back to sleep as soon as I open my eyes, even though I’d gotten plenty of sleep the night before, and it seemed to take a monumental effort just to get the day going. I was staying busy, as always, but meanwhile – lots of extraneous stuff was piling up on the perimeter. Emails were stacking, piles of clothes left unfolded; the house started looking distinctly unloved. I knew that by attacking some of these small tasks, I would gain a clearer, or at least calmer state of mind – but I just couldn’t seem to make myself do it. I am not generally someone who suffers from random depression – I usually only find myself in that state in the depths of winter (even during the mostly pithy Texas winters we have here). So what was happening here? The deep funk had set in, and I had to figure out why.
I found myself thinking about the Death card in the Tarot: a card that I find myself explaining to my tarot clients often – always quickly explaining that Death in a tarot spread rarely (if ever) signifies an actual physical death. Death represents transition, transformation, an evolution of spirit from one form to another, greater incarnation. It’s pretty much always a change for the best, though the process can be very painful, both for ourselves and for the people around us. When someone dies, people always say, “Death is hardest for those who are left behind.” and I find that that can ring true often, as we go through an evolution that people in our lives may not be expecting or quite ready for. Maybe they won’t be able to accompany us in the new version of our lives. I’ve been thinking of the image of a shedding snake: staying very still in the corner of its tank while its skin sloughs off. There are things we leave behind, pieces of ourselves, parts of our lives that no longer serve us in what we want to become. I’ve been deep in the chrysalis: a cocoon made of books and writing and reading and being still – seemingly immobile, inactive – while within, strange changes have been taking place. To the outside observer, a caterpillar has done all its work by merely creating its pupa. It would seem that once it has tucked itself away from the world, that it can rest – simply sleep, and awaken only when the transformation is complete. This is not the case. Deep work is happening inside that little shroud, and for a creature to become something so radically different from its former self must be incredibly intense. I realized this once when I found a moth pupa in my garden. It looked so hard, so dead – I wasn’t sure if it has hatched already or not. I touched it, and was shocked when it wriggled! Something profound was occurring within, behind that leathery veil.
(That thing made of pine needles or splinter beneath the doorknob is a tiny cocoon. Unfortunately, I now know that it is a bag worm!)
Finding myself in this state of transition has been a bit unnerving. I’ve tried to be patient with myself, tried to give myself time to process, to brood, to reflect on the subtle changes occurring within – while externally things have been shifting, too. It’s a time of endings, of cutting loose old ways and old ties. I’m taking a break from several projects that have consumed much of my time and energy over the last year – namely, the two monthly events I do, Vintage Vivant and Exquisite Corpse. I’ll talk more about my reasons for that at some point soon, but for now let’s just say that it’s time to take a rest there, and focus on other things. Even though I feel ready, and in many ways relieved – it’s still hard. It represents a shift in identity for me, and even though it likely won’t be permanent, I feel a part of myself retreating inward. I’ve been feeling less inclined towards entertaining huge groups of revelers, and more drawn to connecting in a deeper way with some of the wonderful people I have in my life. I’m not very good with change, with endings, or with people leaving – I’ve also had some very dear friends move away this year, and just when I was shifting things around in my life to have more time for spending quality time with them. I feel like I’m living in an O. Henry story all of a sudden. Tiny deaths, and big ones – all at once.
I know that new things are on the horizon, and that when one door closes, another opens. I do believe that, I feel it in my bones – but I’m not there yet. It’s hard for me to contemplate the future, or begin working on new projects when I’m still processing what’s currently ending. I think of the butterfly, freshly emerged from the cocoon, with wings still sticky, still soft and fragile. It has to sit there on a leaf or twig and flap its wings for a bit until its ready to fly. How strange that must be, to hatch out of your hidey-hole and discover you’ve become something different entirely. Every day I get closer. My wish and intention for this full moon is to fully walk through this door, to process these endings with grace, and to be fully renewed and ready to take on what’s ahead. On to the next one, eh?
It’s only fitting that as I resumed writing this, a massive storm rolled in unexpectedly, and blew away all the stagnant, heavy air that had been dragging me down all day. It put on an incredible lightning show for us, and smashed down one of the loudest thunder strikes I’ve ever heard! Scorpio brings shifting energies, and passionate intensity. I always say, Scorpio is all about sex and death (no surprise then, that New Orleans is a below sea-level city ruled by Scorpio!) Scorpio is the water sign that represents the deep, completely submerged aspect of water. Even though the tarot card assigned to Scorpio, is of course – Death, I always think of Scorpio when explaining the Moon card. When the full moon rises, it beckons up peculiar creatures from the depths, and these things are not always pretty to behold. The moon calls on our primal, animal natures – the parts of our psyches that are wild, savage and strange. I think of deep sea fish, swimming up from the benthic depths, lured by the brightness of that white orb. Things with too many glowing teeth and little lights on their heads – amazing creepy things that have stories to tell us, messages about what they’ve seen down below. The lobster in pictured in the Moon card is a crustacean messenger, (in a way a kind of sea scorpion) – if you’d never seen one before, you might run from it, rather than think of eating it! The wolf and the dog gather together to howl at the moon – the tamed part of ourselves joining with the wild to share in an ancient form of communication. These animals are the bearers of important lessons, and they show them to us through dreams: even (and often especially) the frightening dreams and nightmares that we may initially not want to examine so closely. Up from the depths of our subconscious these bogeymen come floating, to teach us about what we fear, and what we desire. De profundis clamavi. If you’ve been having weird dreams lately, write them down! Pay attention to them, and try and find out what they’re trying to tell you. I know if I did a reading for myself right now, that I would pull both Death and The Moon. I’ve never really thought of them as being connected to each other until now. It’s so odd that I’ve been meditating on my experience with the Death card so much recently, only to find out yesterday that the full moon would fall in the sign of Scorpio – making it all about being challenged to get clear about what we really want and need in our lives, and to let go of things that have ceased to help us grow, or grow with us. At some point soon, I’ll write about the distinction between Death and The Tower, another card of intense change – but instead, a change that is made for us, usually when we refused to do it for ourselves. The Tower is what happens when we reject the natural process that Death brings us – but I’ll expound more on that card another day…
The astrologer Leah Whitehorse has some interesting thoughts about this intense full moon and its key themes:
“Challenge your inner saboteur. Stop poisoning yourself (metaphorically or physically). Be clear about what you want. Who or what is sucking the life out of you? Consider what you would want in your obituary. Imagine the world 100 or a 1000 years from now. Strive to forget if you can’t forgive. Forgive yourself. Redress the balance between the sexes. Redress the balance between your animus and anima. Yin and yang. Check where you have given away too much of yourself. Bring back your power. Autonomy.”
I bought this lunar calendar recently from Rendij Studio – (looks like they’re sold out at the moment, but hopefully they’ll make more soon!) in hopes of staying more in touch with what’s happening in the sky. We have a full moon potluck circle called the Be A Better Witch Full Moon Supper Club, where we meet to share a meal, and to make something of our full moon together – be it a wee ritual, or storytelling, or whatever the host has envisioned. I’m hosting this one, and am planning to make everything I’ve written about here the focus of this month’s gathering – to share stories about subtle deaths, talk about transitions, and discuss how best to work through them. If the wood’s not all wet, maybe we’ll have a last fire for the season – since it is Beltane and all. We can burn what we want to let go of. Oh, and I’m making goat cheese stuffed lychees (little full moons!), and Flower Moon pasta. It will be good to concentrate on hosting something small, something more intimate – with an intention to do this work, and pass through this turning. I’ve been hearing from so many people about their own transitions – so, for better or worse, I know I’m not alone in this. How is the Scorpio Supermoon treating you?
☾ From Ruby Slipper Astrology: Confrontation With The Scorpio Full Moon
☾ Full Moon in Scorpio Horoscopes
☾ 50 Beautiful Pictures Of The Supermoon From Around The World
FLORALIA
by angeliska on May 1, 2012
I am alas, not out a’Maying, drinking rose cordials in meadows or naked night-swimming under the moon. I am not laughing and dancing around a Maypole, or jumping over bonfires, like a fleet-footed fairy over the flames. Instead I am indoors, rusty and grizzled with deadlines and to-dos, which I am at the moment ignoring. Instead I have candles lit, looking at paintings of flower-strewn maidens and dreaming of lusty lads. Slit-eyed satyrs and fauns frolic in rosy clouds around my head. All day, I’ve had my nose in a book instead of pointed toward stars. But what can you do? I’ll tell you what. I’m in the process of rearranging my life to better accommodate the old ways, the holy days that used to matter. It’s a slow start, and writing long letters to my far-flung sisters and to all who read this here is a far cry from celebrating Beltane proper, with mead and deep kisses. I’ll tell you, I’d rather the latter. But no. Instead I salved my appalling mood with writing. I planted seeds: cup and saucer vines, and zinnias. I repotted my night-blooming cereus. I picked these bouquets for my Beltane altars:
I’ve been thinking of a painting that made a huge impression on me as a child: Spring, by Sir Lawrence Alma-Tadema. I suppose for a long time I didn’t even think of it as a painting necessarily. I had a postcard of little girls bearing flowers in a
procession. It had been my mother’s – sent to her by her dear friend Lenore, years before cancer made off with them both. I had only ever seen about this much of it, though cut lengthwise. I never knew there was any more than that.
That little window into the parade was all I needed:
The little blonde urchin leading the procession gazes directly at you as she lets drop a handful of lavender. Her friend with the basket of anemones is more coy, looking sidelong at someone unseen. The older maidens are resplendent, lush, bearing blooming boughs and branches.
Years ago, I went with my grandparents to the new Getty museum. They had always taken us to the old one, the lovely villa that I adored. The new one had just opened, and the lines were miles long. In the end we only had about an hour to dash through and try and see things. The only things I can remember are Edgar Allen Poe’s writing desk, his daguerrotype portrait, and Spring:
I had no idea that all those years, I had only been looking at a tiny detail of this marvelous painting:
I rounded a corner, and there she was – decked in a gilded frame, the entire procession. It brought tears to my eyes, the shock was so sudden. It was like seeing the girl you had a crush on in nursery school, grown into the most beautiful woman in the world. There was so much more to see! I had never imagined the rest of it – there was so much more depth, a worldliness, a wonder. I could’ve spent all day there, and in fact, I stayed rooted to the spot until they rounded everyone up and out.
Have you ever had an experience like that? I have a possessiveness with paintings I grew up with – I think that they belong to me somehow, are related to me in some oblique way. The little infanta in Las Meninas, by Velázquez: I thought she was me. My mother was Botticelli’s Venus. But then, I also thought Garrison Keillor was my uncle. Or at least a family friend.
For years, I thought that. My parents created an insular world for me in a way, where I pored over big art books and Little Nemo and Hop and Pop and made no distinction between all the fantastic images I was drinking in.
They were all there for me, and they all shaped me, enormously.
Garden of Hope – James Gurney
I’ve always adored this illustration from Gurney’s wonderful children’s book Dinotopia. It features scenes of a beautiful dinosaur parade, that I always thought I’d dreamed when I was a child. I have these very vivid memories of being in the little library in the tiny town where I grew up. I remember the dim green light in there. It always felt cool, underwatery. There was a book there that I loved, about a dinosaur parade. It also might have involved giant popcorn falling from the sky. Maybe I did dream it. Can anyone remember a book like that? I’d love to find it again. I thought it was Dinotopia, but that one wasn’t published until 1991, and I’m sure this must have been 1985 or so. Also, I’d just like to mention that people born in 1991 are now 21 years old. Isn’t that bizarre? You’re welcome. Cometh the Spring! Dance while ye may! Gather ye rosebuds, and all that. Did you celebrate Beltane, Floralia, Walpurgisnacht or any o’ that? If yes, I’d love to know how! Do tell.
The Progress of Spring (1905) – Charles Daniel Ward
“In a land of clear colours and stories,
In a region of shadowless hours,
Where earth has a garment of glories
And a murmur of musical flowers.”
– Algernon Swinburne, Dedication
Lusty Month of May – from Lerner & Loewe’s Camelot.
The Maypole Dance from The Wicker Man
Eastertimes
by angeliska on April 5, 2012
It’s almost time for our annual Easter Egg Hunt and Garden Party! I’ve always loved this holiday,
ever since I was little. I don’t think I ever absorbed the religious implications – I was raised Episcopalian
(aka. Catholic Lite) and even though my papa tried, I still can’t recall the significance of Palm Sunday or
Good Friday or any of that. My only real memory aside from the frantic, fevered egg-hunting (which for
me involved tripping and get grass stains on my white stockings and dress, always) was the procession of
children with baskets of flowers. We would go up to the altar where a chicken-wire covered cross would be
waiting. We’d all have gone out to our mother’s gardens, out to the fields and picked roses, daffodils, lilies,
bluebonnets and spiderwort. Humble wildflowers jammed in next to heirloom bulbs, until the cross was full
of the bounties of spring, completely covered with blossoms. I’m not a big lover of Christian cross symbolism,
but I have such vivid and beautiful memories of that time of year – I’d love to make a chicken-wire pagan egg
one year, and have all the kids come and add their flowers to it. Wouldn’t that be amazing? Next year!
So, I took all these photos from our party last year, but then got busy (as I do) and never really looked at
them or edited them since then. It’s funny to look at them now, a year later. I didn’t take any photos of all
the food, the decorations, the garden or the yard: just our beautiful friends, and their adorable children.
The full set is here: EASTERTIME 2011
And here are some of my favorites (though it was nearly impossible to choose!):
The lovely and always elegant Gail Chovan, lounging in the hammock.
Del Wieding, looking particularly dapper.
Gina + Kitty = basically the best people ever. I cannot handle their amazingness, honestly.
Miss Raven and her marvelous bunny-eared bonnet.
Sweet maidens!
Lovely Rowan.
Raven + Alisan.
Raven + Pearl kissing a tiny rooster!
Francesca made a friend.
Lali, flanked by wee widgets, Seth + Eliza.
Croquet! After the amount of sugar I know these children consumed that day, the focus
they’re all displaying here is truly remarkable. They were pretty serious about it!
Brian Daly and his boys, Mosey Anchor and Ulysses.
Pearl and Rowan – they are my young tarot students!
Sassy & John
Allyson + Greg
Allyson + Erika + easter lily!
Shari baby!
Wolfie
Adelle Rose
Felix
Katinka Pinka!
Sarahfina
A little chickybird!
& Jackie is another…
Scott Loy, purveyor of the wee rooster!
Dylan Blackthorn
Mlle. Lise
Sienna Alexandra O’Banion!
Frannie, working her trombone!
Ashley, beckoning from the doorway as dusk falls on Grackle Gardens…
What a lovely day it was!
And Easterness of yore:
♥ Eastertide
♥ Magic Windows #11
♥ Sketchy Bunnies!
♥ Bunnytown
♥ Easter Egg Hunt!
Springtime Scents
by angeliska on April 5, 2012
This springtime in Texas has been truly glorious – we’ve had a very mild winter with only one or two minor freezes,
and more rain than anyone’s seen in ages. It truly feels like an earthly benediction, after the brutal drought we had
this summer – the worst in Texas history. Everything has come back to life. Green tendrils unfurling gratefully, tiny
tree frogs frolicking under dewy leaves, everything opening, breathing again. The air is thick with flower smells:
grape-lilac sweet mountain laurel, woody iris, and bee-sweet honeysuckle – all these blow in through the open
window, wreathing around my head in a sugary nimbus. The sap rising in our sycamores, the soil rich and black
with rain, and everywhere is the wonderful smell of our garden falling in love again. How does your garden grow?
I’ve been meaning to finally write about my favorite springtime scents for ages, especially since I’ve managed to
write about what I like to wear most in summer, autumn and winter. I do tend to categorize scents by season, by
time of day, by color. I get a little funny about wearing certain perfumes out of context – it always feels a little
odd, a little wrong to wear something bright and summery on a dismal grey day. I’d almost rather embrace the
gloom instead of trying to combat it with an out of season scent. Same with wearing all my beloved, heavy
woods when the weather is warm – they’re too thick, too dark for spring days. But that’s kind of the tricky thing:
I love the idea of florals, but as far as actually wearing them goes, most are far too girly for me. I tend to prefer
men’s colognes, and scents that have a harder edge, more mystery, more depth. It’s been interesting to find
which florals I’ll go back to spring after spring – and I’ve found that there’s really only a handful. I’ve listed
a few of those below, along with others I’m curious about trying. What do you like to wear when spring comes on?
(Violetta’s Dead Baby Girl roses – these smell so marvelous!)
L’Ombre dans l’Eau
One of my very favorites from Diptyque. I think this one is the quintessential spring scent.
Imagine walking alone through a rain-wet wild English garden, tromping over muddy paths
down to a pond surrounded by black-currant thickets. You break a green and thorny cane
to swirl the shadows on the water, and crush pale lavender rose petals in your hands, letting
them float down to the surface, dancing around your reflection. The air is cold and very new.
Here’s a good review from Now Smell This: Diptyque L’Ombre dans L’Eau
I also adore CB I HATE PERFUME’s TEA/ROSE – it’s so simple and perfect:
just Indian Black Tea and Moroccan Rose Absolute that somehow smells so real, so fresh –
not like a powdered granny at all, but just like a true living rose pressed to your face. Magic.
I think Christopher Brosius understands and adores spring like few other souls –
thank goodness he happens to be a genius perfumer so he can translate his
perfect visions of these elusive florals into bottled fragrances. I love the idea
of New Yorkers wearing these underground, in the subways dank and dirty,
crammed full of harried city-dwellers who might catch a fleeting impression
of a wet field, a just-bloomed bulb, a dark purple bud warmed at the nape
of a stranger’s neck. Good perfume, real perfume, can be a secret love letter.
Here are a few I’m looking forward to exploring from CB I HATE PERFUME:
M2 BLACK MARCH
“A fresh clean scent composed of Rain Drops, Leaf Buds, Wet Twigs, Tree Sap, Bark, Mossy Earth and the faintest hint of Spring.”
M1 NARCISSUS
“The scent of narcissus, clean running water over mossy stones, the wind gently blowing through green leaves”
TO SEE A FLOWER
“Delicate spring flowers (hyacinth, daffodils, jonquils & crocuses), green shoots, wet dirt & a bit of moss.”
WILD PANSY
“Wild Pansy is actually the smell of wild violets growing in the forest – very crisp, grassy & casual.”
VIOLET EMPIRE
“Blended from CB Violet Empress, Elemi, Violet Leaf Absolute, Rosewood, Mahogany,
and Russian Leather. Violet EMPIRE is an unusual yet very elegant perfume.
The violet scent perpetually peeps out from behind a shining green veil.”
M4 A ROOM WITH A VIEW
“This perfume captures the scent of the hills above Florence – the vineyards, the wild grass,
the finocchio, the hot dusty Florentine earth. And of course a torrent of Violets…”
Titania calls the violets up from the winter’s frost.
I bought this clover perfume from a little Farmacia in Madrid when I was traveling there with my Grampa.
I’m cursing myself for not buying every bottle they had now, since it seems to be impossible to find now!
If you happen to come across this one ever, won’t you grab some for me pretty please? I miss it so.
I think it’s a very simple perfume – something a young girl would wear. A little coltish doe-child, all
long limbs and freckles on her knees. A sapling bending in a spring gale, laughing and laughing.
“Trebol is Spanish for clover, and at first the impression is of a light floral, a meadow of spring flowers.
The dry down is something quite different, an altogether headier blend of freesia, narcissus and jasmine,
long lasting and true. This is reputedly made to the original 1906 formulation, and displays an old-fashioned
craft in its surprising subtlety and balance. A good find at a very reasonable price, and charmingly packaged too.”
I’m obsessed with Ortigia’s packaging: it really is just flawless, and very dangerous, since it makes me want
to buy it all. “Florio is the scent of Sicilian spring flowers, a remarkable bouquet of Bougainvillea, Narcissus
and Passiflora.” Intriguing. I don’t think I’ve ever smelled a Bougainvillea perfumes, or really noticed that ours
had a scent. Passionflowers have a nice aroma, though. I do love paperwhites too, even though they drive me
crazy after awhile. Those and hyacinths – so heady, so powerful! Little flowers pack heavy punches.
I did relent and get this Fico d’India from Tail of the Yak in Berkeley, thinking it was a fig scent. I adore fig
perfumes, and it didn’t occur to me that this wasn’t one. Fico d’India is a prickly pear cactus! Indian Fig! Ha,
joke’s on this Texas girl – particularly as the things grow here like especially naughty weeds! Still good.
“A cactus which grows abundantly in Sicily, Fico d’India
is know to contain healing elements in its juice. A dry, almost
velvety scent, which mirrors the plant: dusky pale green with
explosions of remarkable orange flowers.”
– from the Book of the Thousand Nights and One Night
By E. P. Mathers
(I wonder where I can get some musked sherbets of my own? They sound very erotic, don’t they?)
It’s strange, but somewhere along the way, spring wooed me away from autumn,
which had been my favorite season for as long as I can remember. I guess it
happened when I found myself with a real garden, with a place where I could
plunge my hands into the earth, plants seeds and watch them grow year after year.
Springtime is renewal, hope, and the pleasure of seeing new things sprout up and
bloom – little surprises every day. This is only the beginning, verdant and lush.
Here’s a spring song that I’ve had stuck in my head every day for a month:
(I can’t stop listening to this whole album – Grimes is super magic!)
Grimes – Genesis
More musings on seasons and scents:
WINTER SOLSTICE – MESSE DE MINUIT
Autumnal Perfumes
ENDLESS SUMMER
Goodnight, Grampa
by angeliska on March 25, 2012
Tomorrow is my Grampa’s public memorial service. It’s been a month since he left this world, left his body and all of us behind. It’s hard to fathom, still. That vacancy, a lacuna where there was once such a big personality – the space he took up in the room, not just physically, but energetically, his big presence – even when he was fading away, his spirit was huge. Something about his wonderful voice, his perfect elocution and exacting enunciation – how he combined a sense of gravitas with a deep belly laugh.
I’ve been going back and finding the recordings I made of him telling stories from his life, and feeling a sense of loss realizing how few there are. You always think you have all the time in the world, and even when you know for a fact you don’t, I guess it’s easier to pretend there will be other days. Now so many things are lost, and unless someone reveals more recordings made, I will never hear another story, will never be able to ask another question, to share a film, a meal, a piece of music together. Never again to share a journey, a joke – or a plate of profiteroles, or tiny box seats at an ancient marionette theater in Brussels.
In 2003, Grampa came to visit me in New Orleans, just in time for Mardi Gras. It was the first Mardi Gras I knew to get going
early, to get super dressed up (although, in retrospect my ensemble that year was pretty tame.) We met up with the tattered
shreds of St. Anne around the corner from my old place on Esplanade, at the R Bar. I pushed Grampa in his wheelchair, and
we chased the revelers through the Quarter until we were both beat. All the ladies were mad about Grampa, flirting with him
and draping him with beads – much to his delight. The day was foggy, hazy like it is sometimes on spring mornings in Louisiana,
and everything felt strange and dreamy, (though I was not debauching in the least that day) as if the world had been spun inside
a silkworm’s cocoon. The noise and chaos baffled by the gray cotton drifting down from the balconies, obscuring the skyscrapers.
Wig made of Halloween spiderwebs by Miss Alisan and feather bedecked by me. A little emerald tatterdemalion.
Grampa loved Mardi Gras, loved New Orleans – the swirl of masked marauders, grotesque and gorgeous running wild and mad
through narrow streets, their heeled boots rapping the cobblestones, bird-like hoots echoing off the old brick and horsehair mortar. He thought it was all so marvelous – and I’m forever grateful that he got to see my city that way, that I was able to show it to him.
What words have I to convey such a boundless love?
Surely this photograph says it all.
We adored each other. We were so lucky.
I’ve been lighting candles for him, making offerings of candy, making coffee strong and black. It’s springtime, and the world is
more vital and robust than I’ve ever seen it. All the plants in our garden are growing wild and strong with so much rain, and it’s
almost as if all that powerful life force he had poured into the earth itself. The land is rejuvenated, coming back to into itself.
Every night I blow out the candles on his altar, blow him a kiss and say, “Goodnight, Grampa…”
Everywhere, the crane-flies, those long-legged gallinippers flit, ghost-like. The frogs chirp and chitter. It’s almost time for fireflies.
My grandfather the magician, showing my cousin Caleb and I a magic trick. When we were little, he took us to Magic Castle,
where we were totally captivated by the sleight of hand, portraits with moving eyes and my favorite – Invisible Irma, the piano
playing ghost who could play nearly any request. I think I asked her for “The Yellow Rose of Texas” and was duly impressed
when she played it. Aw, lil cowgirl. Grampa told me about how he became a lifetime member of Magic Castle once: one day
his friends Milt and Bill Larsen called him up and said, “We’ve bought this giant run-down Victorian mansion, and we’re gonna
turn it into a private club for magicians! Will you come help us clean it up?” From the Magic Castle site:
“In September of 1961, Milt and a crew of eternally generous friends and volunteers began the extraordinary task of returning this run-down apartment building to its glorious past. After months of scraping and sanding, the rich Victorian elegance began to resurface.”
Here were are falling in love with my cousin Molly when she was a baby.
Grampa enjoying his illicit chocolate cake on his 98th birthday.
Shortly before Grampa fell ill last year, he decided that he needed some new clothes, and asked us to take him shopping.
He was very fixated on the idea of going to a military supply store, and seemed to want something in camo print.
I’m still not sure where here got this notion, given that he was never in the military – far from it, working in radio
during the war (I think his poor eyesight kept him stateside). Maybe he wanted to impress a lady, maybe he wanted
to look tougher – whatever his reasons, we were happy to indulge him. I helped him pick out this urban tiger stripe
camouflage jacket and gray Greek fisherman’s cap. I hope I can find those among his things. I’d like to wear them as armor.
Ever since he died, I feel like I need it. I crave quiet, time to think, to write, to mourn. To learn how to be a bad-ass mofo like him.
Look at that man! Would you tamper with him in a dark alley? I think not. He’d hit you with his stick! I hope to be half as tough.
If you have some time, and want to hear some of my Charlie’s amazing stories about his wild life in the early days of television,
here are some little videos I made while he was in the hospital, and then later at his assisted living home a few months ago.
I wish I had made more, I wish I could remember more. I wish he was here, with me always. I wish he could still tell me stories.
Tomorrow, at his memorial, we’ll hear stories from all the folks he helped in AA – stories like this: Father of We Agnostics Dies.
I’ll meet other people who loved him, whose lives he saved. They’ll tell me his stories instead, stories I’ve not yet heard.
