Art Food Soul

So yesterday, I met my friend Miriam at the park and ride in Harwich for tea. We went from there to this lovely little spot I found while on the bike path this summer called the Harwich Central Cafe.

The owners are the sweetest, most gracious couple I have encountered in a business. I met Blaise this past summer (she works as a social worker outside of the cafe), and Chris one of the last couple of times I was there. She was there today, but they were closed! Miriam and I walked in, and after chatting with Chris for a while, she fixed us coffee and tea, a plate of treats and left us to close the space ourselves as she had an errand to run in Hyannis! How cool is that?

“You can’t know where you’re going if you don’t know where you’ve been.”

This quote popped into my head this morning as I was thinking about how much I love history, heritage, people’s stories. Maybe I made it up, but I don’t think so. Feeling incredibly inspired lately and even though doubts creep in, I am going to go as far as I can to create a particular dream. (Self-doubt being, “who do I think I am? I’m with Emily, I’m nobody, who are you?”)

The dream is an event for late fall 2010, something I’ve dreamed of for years, and as I watch other people doing this, I think why not me?

The food would all be sourced locally and when possible organic, including dairy, produce, coffee and the fabulous Iggy’s breads and such.

The place is amazing, having been in the same family for generations and borders a wildlife preserve. The property is on both sides of the street and you can walk down to Buttermilk Bay from the main house, Overbrook. Kofi and Erin’s organic farm, called Bay End is across the street. Kofi’s grandmother used to host artists there (Kahlil Gibran for one), and the dance hall was built for his aunt (Kofi’s) who was a ballet dancer.

It will be a small retreat (about 30 on-site attendees, 10 off-site nearby), and will be a different kind of art retreat. Many of the beds are doubles, but by the time this all comes together I expect the people drawn to this will be okay with that. I hope to share the development process here in all its bits and pieces as I manifest it, with back-story, more photos and so on. In the meantime, I leave you with a few pictures of the location, the southeastern Massachusetts woodlands on the shores of Buzzards Bay, known as the wrong side of the bridge, the land of King Philip and Hockamock Swamp.

To more photos (my camera battery was dying, my battery was dying — I saved as .gif files instead of .jpg and my editing skills are minimal, but you’ll get the idea of it anyway): 4 bed room, hallway, another view, great room, library, butler’s pantry, pantry, to the dance hall, dance hall, red room, blue room, aqua room, another 4 bed room, dining room, with my travel mug, king, queen, space

For some reason, every year I look forward to Halloween (maybe it’s the magic of the season), want to dress up (this year I actually got as far as a costume), reminisce about returning to the Ted Williams Haunted House in Lakeville, and end up feeling disappointed at another Halloween gone by that I haven’t seized a new memory for; one I want to save for the archives. And I end up thinking the same thing — next year. I do this with a lot of things and the hard thing about it for me is that the years keep going by, I don’t get the moments back, and I have this thing about wanting to live full throttle, with no regrets, yet I allow things (people, opinions) to hold me back. After reading a Shutter Sisters post this morning, I was reminded of how often I have been able to say yes — to others; it’s time to say yes to me.

Today is All Soul’s Day, or Dia de Los Muertos, so I haven’t entirely missed the boat for this year’s Samhain celebrations, but I do have to create my own. Here in the northeast, we don’t have big celebrations today — as a Catholic, it is a Holy Day of Obligation I have long neglected. But today I will celebrate it in my own way. Lighting candles for my loved ones on the other side, taking a dance class tonight, and exploring ancient cemeteries here on the cape with a friend.

** I think my son’s makeup in the above photo is pretty cool for a Day of the Dead look, but I don’t think I’ll go quite that far today.

I’ve been revisiting the Portfolio Project over at Jen Lee’s blog lately. Last winter when she and Jen Lemen were doing it, I didn’t have an IPOD and didn’t realize I didn’t need one to listen to the podcast. That’s neither the here nor there of it at this point. I am having fun exploring her archives now and think I’m gonna hit up my sister-in-law and anyone else who may want to play along for another round of this game. Fast and Dirty. Yeah! The Portfolio Project credo. I’d love it if Jen, Stef, and a few others would play along too.

“We do not see things how they are, we see things how we are.”
— paraphrased from many sources but the original source I saw was the Talmud so I’ll stick with that (plus it’s easier for me to remember).

As I work on my writing, good or bad, just getting it done (think Portfolio Project), what I write does not always reflect my true feelings. Sometimes what I write is more in the interest of the flow, and how the piece will read — will it be halting and stumble over just — the — right — words, or will it flow and move over the words lightly, not worrying too much. Will the easy words be the ones that cut those who read too deeply? I hope not — in the interests of the story, I tend to write lightly, very tongue-in-cheek, and pretty much how I talk (not always good — I am the queen of foot in mouth syndrome, still learning to think before I speak) . It’s kind of like sharing our parenting “horror” stories to lighten them up a bit (considering how scared or angry or embarrassed we were at the time), or our war between the sexes stories (Nick and Nora, Spencer and Hepburn, Ralph and Alice).

That’s where the Talmud quote comes in . I could tread very softly, and measure every word or I could recognize this kind of seeing in myself, accept it in others, and not take so much to heart.

** polaroid from my hotel at UMass in September

I’d just finished writing a little thank you in my journal this morning — for my shift today. A few minutes later it was canceled. My patient died. Canceled. Needless to say I’m actually more bummed out at his loss than the loss of my shift. I was really hoping he’d rally — he was such a sweetie, an ex-Marine truck driving Korean war vet — the tattoo (smudgy dark green) always gives those vets away — a sign of seeing the South Pacific, let’s say.

So, what I’d planned on doing tomorrow I’m doing today. Haven’t written descriptions for Little Pink Dress in a long time, but if I want to get away from here this Halloween weekend I have to help my man out with his business. Gonna bite the bullet, be a trooper and write about vintage dresses.

Sophie, of the bodacious booty-luscious behind modeled for us Friday. She was great — totally down with it like I’ve never seen her before. For an actress she can be shy, but I think California’s opened her up in a good way. Now if I can ever learn photoshop beyond cropping and adjusting brightness levels, I’d love to use her pic to develop a logo for Brabarella.

Went to see Christine Rathbun’s play tonight — it was last night. I knew that, just had forgotten it. Oh well. Was disappointed but checked out this steampunk music/video/alt art sort of show that wasn’t really happening either. Is anyone inspired around here? Drawn towards light and positivity? Excited about what they’re creating? They had the right idea with this — it — just — was — not — happening.

People, few that there were, orbiting each other, no mingling. I think BC had the right idea tonight, going in the right direction, and who knows maybe by 9:30 they’ll be someplace. I know I shouldn’t knock local efforts, I must give people credit for trying. Isn’t that all any of us can really do? Try? And it’s better to try and fail than fail to try. I think I was just disappointed at having missed Christine because I do love steampunk.

He’s actually a grown man now, one I am proud of. I know this, I recognize this — the time flies and it’s hard to believe that he is no longer my sweet rockin’ boy. Is this how my parents feel about me — that I am still their girl even though I am a grown woman of 51?

I am still so smitten with my kids, their charm, their humor, their humanity, the privilege of watching them grow into adults I enjoy being around. I am letting go — slowly, finding my way back to a life beyond motherhood, but man I cherish those memories like nobody’s business.

Told my son about my mondo beyondo last noc over a lovely and leisurely dinner at Wicked. He misses the sky blue ’85 chevy celebrity that was his first car. He doesn’t believe it’s possible to find another one like it — thinks they’re rare. I think otherwise.
When we first got the battle wagon, he felt like a soccer mom — most teen boys want the flashy red sportscar that screams to cops “pull me over.” He was no exception but he grew to appreciate that car as did I. Safe, reliable, good on gas, reasonable mileage, it had been well taken care of, “a grandfather’s car.” It’s long gone and a long story, but I told him last night I am going to manifest another one for him. I told him I’m putting it out to my mondo beyondo community and whomever else is out there. I want him to always believe in the power of dreams.

Took the above photo when A was 17 and still had the battle wagon (an old print transformed though rollip into a polaroid — when he saw the pic last noc, he smiled and said “that’s an awful picture.” Love my kid’s straight shooting honesty.)…I am still so in love with my kids — and he was my first, the apple of my eye, an incredible big brother, inventive, imaginative, a subtle sense of humor, the best son, follower of dreams and a trooper always. Thank you for coming into my world to light my life, babe!

I don’t know if it’s the positivity (is that even a word? Do I care?) of Mondo Beyondo, full on Indian Summer here, connections with friends or what, but I am charged lately. Meaning the crash will come but for now I’m riding the big Kahuna and enjoying it.

I had stopped at the Giving Tree gardens last week before heading home and my cell rang…it was my chum (I like that retro sorta Nancy Drew/Dana Girls word, don’t you? chums are our adventure friends), Sophie. She’s back from California for a couple of months after two years away…we play hit or miss with contacting each other, when something reminds one of us of the other, we give a shout out. Sometimes we connect with a real voice, sometimes we just connect.
I was so surprised that she’d called me…delighted and flattered actually because she’d only been home a day, but she saw Marty out on errands, he reminded her of me, so she called. The call was also very mondo beyondo for me.

Sophie’s one of the bright spots in the Cape Cod world, she gets how small and stifling the cape can be for wild dreamers (Provincetown being an exception, thankfully). More and more I’ve been paying attention to my call to performance art. Art in time or art in space as Nerissa blogs about (couldn’t find the particular post). Maybe create a poetic mystic druid I inhabit for solo productions at festivals, or heck, just busking. Kathryn Rose introduced me to this concept when she performed on the street in Amherst a spring ago. I started researching and started seeing more about one woman performances like The Belle of Amherst.

Sophie’s been in theater now for several years and is an accomplished stage actress (as well as in a Sam Diego’s commercial locally); her call felt like the universe is listening to my whispers. Perhaps she’s my teacher, I don’t know. I feel like the bird in that Dr. Seuss story…”are you my mother? Are you my mother?” only it’s “are you my teacher, are you my teacher?” And I’m still not sure if performance is my thing, or what form it will take if it becomes so. But who cares? It’s kinda fun finding out — like the Nancy Drew mysteries I used to read.

Red Katherine Rose photo from her myspace page