#uncoffeed...

Last year was a crazy-productive one for me and also one of my all-time lows. I found inspiration in the words of Peter Kidd when he sent them to me priority mail .  "See what happens," he said.  A lot happened. And I kept going. I started a series of sunflower paintings , and started a series of crows. I mailed art to an exhibit at Woman Made Gallery (both the exhibit and mailing art were firsts for me) and had a solo exhibit at Beanetics Coffee Roasters near my home-base . At the same time as all this awesomeness, and perhaps exacerbated by it, I smashed head-on into a couple of my strongest demons - accepting too much workload from others and bullying - and gained assistance from my doctor instead of self-medicating. We put me on SSRIs for a few months. "See what happens," she said, not verbatim. I stopped taking the meds when my bloodwork showed stress on my liver, and I've kept working. I compiled two chapbooks of poetry and submitt...

  Phil seemed to be getting used to my existence; he started showing up with accordion case in hand rather than going back out to the car for it. I have to assume he stopped by occasionally when I was out, but maybe not. Maybe he really was the perfect accompanist, knowing precisely when to come in. I got used to Phil’s existence, too; I was being more like myself, which means starting mid-discussion on random topics, assuming he’d know something about them. He didn’t talk much, sometimes punctuating my monologue with accordion riffs and then laughing at his own musical jokes. This only prompted me to come up with more random topics, like a challenge. I was not wrong – he possessed a wide range of knowledge and could advance the discussion when he felt like it. I sometimes identified his accompaniment as a familiar bit of jazz; sometimes I really think he was playing K-Pop. If I yelled out titles, usually bluegrass, he'd know at least a recognizable bar or two. Once in a w...

owned & shot by Bill Goodell Everyone in Lo-Cal waits all year for that one week of rain. It usually tapers into a drizzle by afternoon but every morning is a downpour, like when I jumped out of the airport shuttle with my bag at 10:50 AM. I was drenched immediately - no reason to run, then. I strolled to the patio, relishing the magic - living in the desert taught me how precious rain is, and I’ve never forgotten. As I turned the key, I looked around me. I could see the next door neighbors standing on their small patio, beatific, holding their tiny twin babies up to see the rain. Upon entering, I found Ian’s acoustic guitar in the living room, smashed to freaking bits. Splintered, in a pile just outside the hallway. Like someone had jumped up and down on it. That beautiful Seagull Phil never touches. I couldn’t figure out what could have happened to the guitar unless Ian did it himself. And I couldn’t figure out what would cause him to do it. The Seagull was a high-end inst...

I cannot tell a lie. I mean this literally. I can fib once, but all will come out under the least scrutiny. In my eyes there was nothing suspicious about my arrangement with Ian and his place; therefore, I was completely unprepared to make my case. “Well, I’m not living here, properly. I’m just minding the place while he travels. I come to town for my business and…” “If there’s nobody here, then there isn’t anything to mind, is there?” Claudia ended on an overly-perky upbeat. “What is your business, Libby?” The way she said my name dropped like five pounds of bread dough to the floor. Splatted, with a thud: Libby . “I’m an artist and writer; I have clients on the East Coast, and here…” I paused, expecting her to interrupt me again. “Ah, yes. William also writes. You probably call him…Ian, yes? Don’t you?” Again with that terrifying perkiness. “Do you also perform music?” “No, I don’t,” I replied sheepishly. “I mostly edit other people’s books, write poetry, paint. I’m wor...

Ian’s place has a washer and dryer but I don’t use them. I’m paranoid about breaking anything; also, I’ve gotten used to my laundry routine. This neighborhood is perfect for my laundry routine:  the ‘mat is only four blocks away, there’s a bar adjacent with good booze, and a tamale lady comes in on Wednesdays. I’ve made tamales before (singular tamal ) - it's a simpl-ish process that takes years of practice to master. I don't have years of practice. They came out well exactly once, and then I found my efforts were better placed in finding out where the tamale ladies (sometimes guys) set up shop. You can often find a route between laundromats and grocery store parking lots, depending on how well the city polices vendors. Often the vendors are suspicious and you might not get to make a purchase until you’re well established as a neighbor. It took several weeks of doing laundry at the same place and approaching regulars with necesito tamales before I got the nod – a literal ...

The Zorya - debora Ewing - detail It's much more interesting to find quirky travel mementos on Craigslist than to buy them at souvenir shops. You get a story, a connection. I’d collected a bunch of succulent cuttings, a stainless steel whistling tea kettle, and a large plaster vase which looked smaller in the picture. A nice man who lived a few blocks away drove it over in his car. The vase looked perfect on the patio, but so far I only leave kitchen items at Ian’s place. I packed up the succulents inside the tea kettle and tucked that into my checked bag. My vase was 16 inches high and weighed about that many pounds - it would have to travel as my one personal item in the cabin. At every checkpoint through LAX I had to explain: No, this is coming with me. It got its own plastic bin to go through the x-ray, and every nearby TSA agent watched to see if anything was revealed. I have to admit I was curious, too, but it was solid plaster, no contraband. As I boarded my plane, the ...

Bi-coastal stuff makes me a little crazy sometimes. The lifestyle suits me, but I do occasionally wake up not remembering where I am, like that time I woke up to a voice message from Ian:  "I don't need you to be here if you can't treat my place with respect. Just leave the keys inside next time you're out here. This arrangement is terminated."  It took me a minute to realize I was at home, my home, East Coast, and even so I had no idea what he was talking about. Preparing to email him with just that message and a promise to leave the keys - I never stay where I'm not welcome - I found he'd also emailed, with a bit more detail: "There are cigarette burns on the arm of the loveseat. It's not worth having it repaired, but frankly I'm disappointed."  I wondered how disappointed he'd be when he found the octopus under the rug. A parting gift of artwork. Maybe the octopus had been smoking. Okay, I was salty. I took my time and ...