Ordinary Beauty as seen by Leila Anasazi

In 1940, the Soviets executed over 20,000 Polish military officers, policemen and civilian prisoners of war. Today, artist Wiktor Szostalo delivered his latest sculpture–a memorial to those dead–to St. Margaret’s in Seattle.

Szostalo worked from a photograph of the bound hands of an executed prisoner, and his steel sculpture is a compelling rendition of anguish.

There is an excellent entry on Wikipedia which tells the story of the massacre, and I urge you to spend a dozen minutes reading it.

The pattern of the gray steel above replicates the braid that trimmed the uniforms of the executed Polish officers.

Below are is a small sequence of the memorial moving into its new home.

The P.O.D. is gone, as of 9:06 a.m. this morning. No more P.O.D. at our house. I felt like busting out the Champagne and donning my sparkled prom dress, then doing a jig in the empty driveway.

Least you have forgotten, my inheritance came in the form of: acres of timber in Easter Washington; acres of nothing but grass and sky (in E. Washington); untapped mineral rights in Sheridan and Daniels counties, Montana; and, STUFF. Stuff Stuff Stuff.

STUFF!!! Mom and Dad were antiques dealers for decades, plus they held a belief that the wisest investment of money was in STUFF–objects of value, e.g., ancient Japanese porcelain and early American silver. So, I inherited 1/3 of their STUFF. (Yep, there are four children and the Will said split it all in fourths, but one of my siblings demanded that we buy him out so he could have cash cash cash right NOW. So, after he posited a variety of threats, we cut down a bunch of trees and obtained his desired cash cash cash. Don’t let anyone convince you that loving siblings stay sane after their parents die.)

Anyway. Mom and Dad’s STUFF. Given that I AM their daughter, I have a hankering for STUFF–unfortunately. I have fondness for fine things, and I have deep appreciation for well-crafted things, as well as the “art” that emerges from need: sheet metal tool boxes and wooden bowls and deer antler buttons.

Anyway. Our P.O.D. was a 16′ version and had lingered here well passed good use. It was half-empty and the bulk of its contents were the dregs of a full and busy life: carpet remnants we need for patching the one carpeted room in the house; a swell bamboo mat we don’t have a place for anymore; a vintage metal cabinet that I have hopes of refinishing as a bar; a couple of bags of mending; two stained glass windows I’ve had since 1980 that have no good spot in our home. STUFF, and not my favorite kind of stuff.

But the plan was to cull the dregs and combine the keepers into the box of my truck.

Did I tell you I own a truck? Here’s another picture of the inside of my truck.

It is a 1966 Ford “Agricultural Vehicle” which my wise brother arranged for me to buy, once it was clear I would need a place to put a lot of STUFF, and then haul it from Eastern to Western Washington. Which I did–buy the truck, and then drive it 300 miles from Malo, WA to Seattle, WA. A little grueling. But I digress.

STUFF. The truck was stuffed with my stuff, and then it, too, got emptied some, bit by bit over time, until it was only about 2/3 full–but a sloppy two-thirds. So I spent a good many hours re-arranging and sorting making more room in the truck, and NOW, the contents of the P.O.D. are all re-located, either in the house, the garage, or the truck.

More sorting and jettisoning to do. Lots. But, I think I’ll go have some Champagne now, b/c the P.O.D. has rolled on down the street, to become a bulky burden in someone else’s life!

Mask and Clown class with Arne Zaslove continues. Session number 4 will be next Monday. I am enjoying the adjunct benefits: getting more in touch with my body and my imagination.

I find myself surrounded by friends who are clowns, (retired clowns), and mimes. I guess I lost track of this information.

Kerry

Robby Pellett

Steffon Moody

Heather Wofford

Ellen Newhouse

Simon Neale

and more …

What a swell world I have stumbled into.

Okay, first of all I have to love-hate a state whose abbreviation is MO.

Nevermind that were it not for MO, I wouldn’t have the adorable husband that I have (he, being born in STL, MO).

He is at The Pageant in STL, MO at this very moment, as I sit here in Seattle. And at this moment, he is probably listening as Rundgren & band sing, “One step, higher, higher” although if there was an opening band, Rundgren is probably right in the midst of declaring, “Now I’m mad“.

Before my dear flew off this morning, we had a long chat during which I tried to convince him that I have no issues with him stalking Todd Rundgren; it’s not something I have any interest in doing, and I cannot really “relate” to it. But it’s what he wants to do, and just because I don’t feel such compulsion (for Rundgren or anyone else) doesn’t mean that I don’t get it. As I’ve said before, Rundgren and his work had a gigantic, positive, life-changing effect on my husband in his youth–and the music is hot these days, too.

Besides, thanks to certain connections in STL, this time there’ll be an All Access pass to glue onto my dear’s black linen jeans, although he swears he will forego the back stage stalking for the better sound quality that will be found in front of the stage.

Oh, and then tomorrow night he’s off to VooDoo in Kansas City.

I know you have been waiting breathlessly for pix from the big ReFirement party. Hope to have some Flicker links soon. In the meantime, this is what the transition looked like:

When there are THREE frozen cakes, you gotta bring out the electric knife.

Christmas, 1971. We had just moved to a little rental house in Issaquah, 495 Rainier Blvd, from our home on Capitol Hill in Seattle. That was back in the day when there were NO stoplights in Issaquah. The closest thing to a stoplight was the blinking red light above the four-way stop at the main intersection on Front Street.

Our little house was actually good sized, and the empty lot to the north of it was ours for the plundering. Mom and Dad put in an above-ground swimming pool and us kids had free-rein of the neighborhood-wandering into the hills and swimming at some odd swimming hole that was associated with the fish hatchery. We’d pack bologna sandwiches and bottles of Coca-Cola and be off for the day.

That was in the summer. Not so much fun in the winter.

I don’t know what was in their minds that winter. My brothers and sister and I, we weren’t really “children” anymore, but Santa still came to visit. In 1971, Santa brought us a little red Benelli motorcycle. It’s the first motorcyle I ever rode, and we all spent hours on it, riding in the spare lot beside our house, going around and around and around the swimming pool.

That year, there was a good 8 or 12 inches of snow during Christmas break, and each of us began our “driving” education on that Benelli, in the snow. I’m don’t imagine that’s what my parents had planned, that we would start learning to commune with motor vehicles in the snow in the backyard, but I couldn’t ask for anything better as a way to learn the nuances of an engine and wheels and the physics (and even danger) of all that.

I feel for folks who ride with me now, as I drive my little yellow car, zip zip zip, along the streets. I drive my car pretty much like I learned to manage a motorcycle, almost leaning into the turns and all.

So, back to 1971. The receipt above is obviously for the purchase of the Benelli. I found it this afternoon amongst some other old papers that I moved from their house after my parents died. I am quite keen on the turquoise blue of the paper and the ink, and that the Benelli came from Penny’s, but especially that my mom was the one who signed for the purchase. I dunno. I just think that’s very cool.

The dear Elke Macartney is one of several people in my life right now who have been spending a lot of time in hospitals, tending to the critically ill and injured. Her young son was in an auto accident recently. His girlfriend was a passenger, and the accident caused extreme injury to her, and to Elke’s car, which her son was driving at the time.

Elke spent many weeks tending to son and girlfriend–hours bed-side at Harborview and Children’s hospitals. The girlfriend made a storybook “miraculous recovery”, in no small part I know because of the love and attention of Elke and kin. Girlfriend is home now, and Elke can turn some attention to other important matters.

Below is a story she sent me this weekend. She calls it, Creating Pearl 190.

–

Life is settling down a bit in the aftermath of my son and his girlfriend’s car accident. Girlfriend Kristin is home now, well on the way to full recovery. Son Eron is recovering as well from his emotional wounds. It’s time to move on in life. The car in the accident was my newer model Ford Focus, a car I was still making payments on when the accident happened. The insurance paid off the rest of the payments, leaving me with nothing to spend on a new one.

After the accident, I was in no mood to look for a car. A generous family friend who owns a dealership nearby loaned me a safe Taurus to get around in while I looked for a car, so that helped for a while. Yet, as I began my search, I found myself anxious about the process. The cars I looked at for my budget of the $2000 I had in the bank were either rust buckets or unsafe or both, and I was feeling quite discouraged. At one point, I thought about buying a car I liked very much for $6000 , but realized that with the accident came an uncertain financial future, so putting my family into further debt was out of integrity. I felt helpless and thought I’d never find a car I could afford.

That’s when Spirit found me, sitting in a bar, crying over a drink after having looked at yet another car I couldn’t afford. “All right Spirit,” I whined, “I give up. You take it from here, ‘cause this is not working!

And just like that, the tears stopped, and I heard a very distinct, yet gentle voice in my head: “State your demands.” It said.

From me: “Huh?”

The voice in my head repeated, “State your demands.”

So I did: “All right, I want a nice car I will not be embarrassed driving, it has to be safe, and in great condition. It needs to be no more than $2000. And, by the way, I need to look cute driving in it” I threw in that last point for fun.

The next day, I looked online at Craigslist, in the Cars section, and found nothing. I went to close down my computer, but instead pressed the “refresh” button, and saw a new listing for a 1990 Audi in Bellingham (an hour from my home) within my price range. Two phone numbers were listed on the ad: one for the owner of the car, a Korean gal who spoke little English, and the other for a nice man who posted the ad on her behalf. After speaking to the Korean gal, and not understanding her very well, I called the other number and talked to a lovely gentleman named Jack. I told him my situation, and said I needed a car right away. He offered to drive to Bellingham from his home a half hour away to act as translator/transaction facilitator.

I called on a friend to drive me there, and we went to the spot on the street the car was supposed to be parked. No audi was parked there, but a nice looking white Mercedes sat in a nearby parking lot with a man sitting in it. I commented to my friend: “If that pretty car was for sale, I would buy it!” She agreed I would look rather cute driving it….

We turned around, and parked in front of the Korean gal’s house, and saw the Audi parked in the driveway. “Hmmm,” I said, “the car has been moved. I wonder what that means.” Then we looked to the Mercedes, where a gentleman got out and walked toward us. “Are you Jack?” I called out.

“Yes, he answered, “Are you Elke?”

We shook hands and looked into each others eyes. “I have bad news,” he said sadly. “My friend sold her car fifteen minutes ago, all by herself!”

“Just my luck.” I said, shaking my head.

He regarded me and then said, “You know, I feel badly about you driving all the way up here, and about what has happened to you, so I have an offer for you. See that Mercedes over there? I want you to take it and drive it for a few weeks until you find a car to buy.”

“What?” I asked, astonished at the offer. “You don’t even know me!”

“True, he said, “But I looked in your eyes, and I know I can trust you. Listen, you need a break. Please take it, drive it, and if you like it, I’ll sell it to you for $2000.”

“Let me buy you lunch” I said, and we trooped over to the restaurant, where he held the door open for me, took my coat, and generally treated me like a princess. A retired inventor, he tinkers with cars, had bought this 1988 Mercedes 190E, fixed it up, and was willing to part with it just to give me a good ride. I drove him home, then drove it to LaConner through snow and rain, and fell in love with it.

The next day I brought my German mom with me on a lovely country drive in the old Mercedes to meet with Jack and buy the car.

I couldn’t be happier or feel more abundant. Abundance isn’t creating more debt in one’s life in order to have nice new “things”. True abundance is being in integrity with life and its challenges. True abundance is meeting someone who genuinely cares and wants to make a difference in someone’s life.

By the way, I knew the name of my car immediately upon driving it for the first time: Pearl 190. She was created in a time of major irritation in my life, and is a bright pearl in my eyes.

My niece turned 16 today. I remain as excited as I always have been, to see (more of) who she becomes!

None of us though, are particularly grateful for the upcoming sugar hangover.

This is me. Well, this is me as seen by a woman who can see things most mortals can’t.

There’s a lot to this portrait, that I’m not so qualified to go into, but I will say that the experience was marvelous, and I have a lot of new information to use as I ponder myself and my future.

If you want your own portrait painted, please contact Elke Macartney.

Sometimes it’s easy to say I Love You — in this case, my beau is partial to Reese’s peanut butter cups, and something about the special Valentine’s rendition is even more appealing to him than the usuals. So, I’ve squirreled away a few to stuff in his jacket pockets now and then (shhh. Don’t tell him there are more hidden somewhere ;-)

Three hundred and thirty miles in a 1964 Ford 2-ton truck with a fully (and I can’t emphasis fully fully enough) loaded box.

Just drove from Malo, WA to Magnolia, WA with my faded-blue truck, big-ass aluminum box on the back and the stuff of my inheritance inside. Shake shake shake rumble. Long, loud trip.

See, the truck truly is a farm truck. Drives like one. Comes with assorted debris of the ages in the cab, and the classic “Gas Grass or Ass. No one rides for free” sticker on the glove box.

Did I mention loud? And hurky jerky? All along the highway. Tiring. Plus, three mountain passes between here and there.

But I did it! And the truck is now parked here at my home, with the looming chore of unloading and finding homes for all the contents.

Did I mention fully loaded?

I am still stunned.
Baffled.
Flumoxed.
Amazed.
Joyous.
Flat out perplexed.

Not in a bad way, any of it. Just effin remarkable. Startling. Puzzling. Indescribable.

And all completely NORMAL at the same time.

Nevertheless, stunned.

I married this man two months and a few days ago. It was all completely The Right Thing To Do, nevertheless I am still settling in with What Does This Mean?

I don’t have much more than that to say about that right now–except that it’s no wonder that it is so difficult to answer the question, “How will I know if he is the Right One?” — because the Right One, just Is.

I suppose I have spent more time on our invitations than on anything else for this wedding. I don’t want to count the hours of thought and effort.

My first wedding, I dunno know what I was thinking, the breadth and quantity of people I invited. I was young and socially inept.

Now, I am old, and still somewhat inept. And my venue has its limitations, so I have–for months–been grappling with the disparity between the numbers of people I love, and the number of people the venue will comfortably hold.

We started with listing all the many folks whose company we enjoy and whose blessings we would cherish. Of course, we added certain “obligatory” names to the list; who could believe we hadn’t. But here’s the thing about the Obligations–I don’t feel ambivalent about any of their invitations, those people belong at my wedding.
The total number of names … damn. It was a big number. Much larger than our venue– OR, our introverted natures–would tolerate. So we cut things down to just family, and those dearest of friends (you know, those friends who would donate one of their lungs to you, without question). That number was still huge (uh, over eighty names).

And pretty much I’ve been losing sleep over it ever since.

So, if you thought you would be receiving an invitation in the mail, and you did not–please know that the lack is not because you don’t shine in my eyes. The lack is my lack.

Perry and I decided this weekend, that if three weeks from now, after the wedding, hindsight reveals some “we should-uvs” and we have regrets about things or people we did not include in our wedding, well, we’ll just have another one. Refresh our vows and all, and have another party while we’re at it.

Note, not “what makes a marriage”, but, “what makes a wedding”?

Many artists and geniuses are contributing to the schemes and details of my Big Day. The key players and elements include our priest, our cake, our caterer, and, our “clown”.

Steffon Moody is working his magic on the course of events. His day job is to delight children at Children’s Hospital. His role at our wedding is multi-faceted, and cannot be discussed, as that would ruin several surprises :-) …

Robby Pellett is our priest, and I’ve talked a few times here about his gifts to our day.

Tibero Simone, my dear, dear friend, will cater. But to say only “cater” does no justice to his way with food and affairs.

Tobey Rodriguez of Sugar! cake studio is building a cake the likes of which has never been known. About that I cannot say much, again at risk of ruining secrets.

My dress is the work of Isadora’s. And today, Perry acquired his vest, cravat, and ring there.

Photos will abound.

Michelle Bates is sharing her Holga talents. John Cornicello will be capturing sweet and sultry images of the guests in their glory. Jeff Richardson has some video magic up his sleeves.

Nicole Kincaid has agreed to clear the energy from our wedding rings, before Robby blesses them.

Jon Rosen, Rebecca Ryan, “Doc”, Michal Szostalo, and Rob Medcalf are all inclined to musically augment the day.

And those are just the Big Parts … there are so many details.