dana zed

Oakland Artist loft fire kills 9, or is it 40?

| betweenstops

I’m the type who might build a staircase out of discarded wood palettes. After all, when I want to change the color of my eyeglasses, I paint the frames. With nail polish. Looks great; can’t even tell. I know because people say “I like your glasses” and I say “Thanks”.
I can’t buy eyeglasses in a store for $500 to $800. At Kaiser they consider my glasses a luxury (dispite the fact that I can’t read or drive without them). I think hard before I pay out of pocket for the eye exam, much less the glasses. So, I understand an artist loft in a bad neighborhood and a house full of what not that burns easily.

Truth is, in the Bay Area (home of all things tech)  housing has moved from a right to a privilege; soon to be a luxury. There are some nice tents under the freeways. I even understand the appeal. The freedom. Still, it’s not a way to live.

Nowadays when I see a picture of Obama, I get teary eyed. He’s an intelligent, graceful man. A cool guy even. There was such hope! And now all my people are stunned and afraid of apocalyptic things with a madman at the helm.

These days I feel I could I could burst into tears over any number of situations in my country and in the world at large. But I don’t cry, I sing instead. I sing because neuroscience has shown: a person can not sing and be negative at the same time. The Ah, O and E sounds work best. So I sing because I choose happiness because with that I may be able to do something. 

This morning I went into my copy shop to make the gouache painting I did last night into a holiday card. This shop is close to my house and small. It is owned by an Arab man. He and his son work there. As I am waiting for him to finish my job I look around the shop. Usually I look at the artwork hung on the walls as it changes monthly because the shop is across the street from an art school. Today I am further back in the shop. I am looking at the posters on the walls. They are from “Amnesty International” and “Greenpeace” and “Doctors without Borders”. I say “Hey, we donate to the same places!” and he says back, “They need us now more than ever, right?” And I say “right.”

The seamstress, the dress and the Ocean

| betweenstops

There are clearly few, who are so talented as Connie WalkerShaw.

Today I pick up the dress she made for me from special  fabric that had been given to me when I was 35. I remember because it was given to  me by an older woman artist who shares my birthDAY and lives in a synagogue. She gave me the fabric when she was 70. She was twice my age. The fabric has gold threads in it. It is like a color shifting fairy tale fabric that changes from lavender to gold, hinting at rose.

I am late picking up the dress, so her lesson is already underway. I try on the dress which is magical and am ready to go. As I leave, I ask the student seamstress if she knows that Connie also is in a band and that she can play two saxophones at once? The little girl says a shy “no”. I smile, shrug, raise my eyebrows and say “well, she can” and leave.

After WalkerShaw I drive to the beach..   20120317-201932.jpg   Ocean Beach in San Francisco is like heaven. It is so empty and so nothing. I can see as far as I can see in three directions. My cells take in the empty vastness with relief. This hasn’t changed. I think then, have I changed? Each time I stand at Ocean Beach I remember other times I’ve stood before her. Before the ocean and cried out with my soul for all that I hope for. She solicits requests like that. The ocean is vastness itself. Before her, troubles shrink and expire, being obviously temporary. She emanates eternal presence, over and over, her waves sounding like a large echo of my internal self; of something that helps me let go and know.

It’s the same, and different. It always is.

Two solitary men pass me going one way; then an older couple passes the other way. That’s it. The beach’s nature to human ratio is nourishing, safe and separated from the highway by blocks and blocks of gorgeous graffiti, painted on the ocean side, I assume late at night.

Image 1

There are birds. That familiar seagull silhouette is everywhere; taking off and landing. I notice a particularly nice one but sense something odd about it. It’s the wrong size. I realize it’s outdoor art of some kind as it is not a real bird and even far away it reads clearly and I like the design so I walk towards it. It takes longer than I expect. Getting closer I see it’s a sign. Not a regular government sign but still it seems official. It says something like “strawberry ice plant sanctuary ends here”, yet there’s nothing but sand for miles.

 

Letters to Santa in May

| betweenstops

DSC_0001   A couple of days ago, in the middle of May, I got a large envelope in the mail. It was a very official United States one from the “Bay Valley District of Consumer and Industry Affairs Office”.  Needless to say, I was worried. As a self employed person putting two kids through college, I wondered what I could have done wrong on which of the countless tax and financial aid forms I fill out.

It was thin, like one sheet of paper inside. That also didn’t seem like a good thing in my fear based state. An 11×14″ white envelope with a government seal and one sheet of paper inside?

So I wait a day and then open it. To my amazement it is an apologetic letter from the post office. An announcement for an art opening I had last December somehow got itself to the “Letters to Santa” receptacle.

My card was “mistakenly treated as one of the legitimate request letters”. Who knew such a place existed? and that “every piece of mail at said receptacle is intended to be fulfilled by one of our santa helpers”!

They did not know what to do with my card. So they sent it back; with apologies, hoping I’d understand. Truth is, I’m thrilled my request got to Santa, but I don’t really understand.

Going There Alone

| betweenstops

IMG_1218

 

 

 

 

I went to allende alone

i could have asked someone but I didn’t feel like it

buying tickets at the bookstore, I was surprised when asked “How many tickets?”

I said “oh, just me and my lonesome” kidding around ish.

 

I know how to park at that downtown oakland church.

You don’t go for the lot. it’s way too small

however the neighboring streets, particularly

the ONE WAY in the wrong direction from the entrance to the church

is usually an easy spot

and close

 

there it is

I am parking behind another car which has just parked

not exactly behind but on the other side of a driveway

I know the car type

older model and the too many bumperstickers

none of which I could disagree with

“AWAKEN” and such

 

The woman who gets out of the car is dressed in layers of dresses and baggy pants

She is messing around in and out of the car.

She is filling or emptying a water bottle

She wears a scarf

Finally she throws a guitar case over her shoulder and walks in the direction of the church

 

I am not wanting to be near her but I am not disgusted either

I realize that we are going to end up waiting together at the corner for the light to change.

She turns to look at me and there is a moment when I could have pretended I didn’t know but I didn’t do that

When she looked at me I said,

“Janet?”, “Janet Fowler?”

 

She usually sings at this church on Wednesdays In a room downstairs. Therefore, the guitar

She decides to see Allende instead at $15. without blinking an eye

Waiting for it to start we talk.

She has been homeless for a long time and she doesn’t seem crazy. Mostly she camps out.

 

Not needing more of her story,  I stand up , excuse myself and ask her to save my place.

She says, “Leave something”, so I leave my scarf and go look at the books for sale in the lobby.

 

The latino poet laureate of san Francisco

Introduces Isabelle and after some chatter

Alllelne reads from her new novel which is a mystery set in san Francisco amid teenagers.

 

She reads a gruesome description of a brutal murder discovered by children.

 

Immediately, abruptedly even, after the description Susan gets up and leaves.

I respected it and was relieved at the same time. It felt like she lived by different rules and would not allow herself to be in that dark atmosphere.IMG_1219

Like she couldn’t risk it

Or wouldn’t allow it.

Anyhow she left.

 

But when I got back to my car,

Her car was still there. Still across the driveway. Still saying “AWAKEN”

Where Are You Going?

| betweenstops

20140101-233110.jpg

Amma asks , “There are 86,400 seconds in a day. What are you doing with them?”

She asks, “Where are you going? If you are in a car and someone asks you where you are going, you know. If you get on a plane you know where you are going. Where are you going with your life? To go around willy-mildly is no good”, she’ll say.
“What is the goal of your life?”, she will ask.
“Is it the realization of god?”, she’ll continue.

20140101-233725.jpg

20140101-233832.jpg

Never Enough

| betweenstops

20131229-181134.jpg

The cashier is chatty so I join in.

“I have soo many hooks because each of my teenagers have a thousand sweatshirts from thrift stores and 500 of them are on the ground”, I explain.

She says, “I know. It’s the same at our house.”

That catches me as we are outwardly so different in lots of ways. Yeti it’s the same at her house.

We have longer than an moment of eye contact. I note her perfect eyeliner but mostly we look into each other’s eyes for a second or two. Then we look down at the hooks.

“No matter how many hooks I buy…” , I say.

“it will never be enough”, she finishes.

The Lenses We See Through

| betweenstops

IMG_1108

After talking with Ilana, whom I’ve just met at a party full of eclectic people, I am starting to wonder about her glasses. I don’t have on my glasses because I am not reading but, truth is, I should be wearing those progressives all the time as there are quite a few subtleties passing me by.

Ilana, a wildly talented San Francisco Art Institute grad student is talking about her hispanic childhood in LA and how she devoted twelve years of her life to throwing the discus. She’s got the body for it. She’s funny and is rambling on in a I’ve-got-this-conversation-covered kind of way. I’m fine with that and enjoying the ride as are my two teenagers. It’s Christmas eve and even the food is eclectic because a lot of the party works at Rainbow grocery, one of the first large co-op health food stores in the nation.

I am feeling friendlier and friendlier with Ilana as we get smushed closer together when still others feel there is enough room to sit down on the large couch.

I become more suspicious and say, “Let me see your glasses!”
She shies away and says, “No, you can’t see my glasses!” but in a smiling way.
“Come on, take them off”.
“I can’t see without them”.

Close enough now on the couch for almost anything I grab her glasses. There is no glass in them!

I comment on this and she says, “I’ve got a pair of sunglasses at home just like these”.
I say, “But there’s no glass in them!”
I’m liking her more than ever when she says, “I Know. They’re prescription!”