Twiggy Nest - get cozy

noreply@blogger.com (Jami Willaman) — Sat, 01 Mar 2014 18:52:00 +0000

The Magician

"I am a point of light
Within a greater light.
I am a strand of loving energy
Within the stream of Love.
I am a spark of eternal fire, focused
Within the fiery Will of the Divine.
And thus I stand."

-Alice Bailey

For me, the magician channels energy and makes it form. He takes what is invisible and makes it real. He takes the beam of light and reaches into the ether and strikes the earth. "Let it be so!" he says. And it is.

noreply@blogger.com (Jami Willaman) — Fri, 06 Dec 2013 00:17:00 +0000

What we have here is Vaquita modeling the season's newest fashion: a lovely white Paddington coat accented with a soupçon of holiday flair.

The Hermit

noreply@blogger.com (Jami Willaman) — Fri, 06 Dec 2013 00:08:00 +0000

This painting captures the peace and stillness of aloneness (all oneness). It is a warm, dry place. I am attracted to the hermit's light.

Mercy Now

noreply@blogger.com (Jami Willaman) — Wed, 13 Nov 2013 18:44:00 +0000

Don Quixote's International Music Hall, Felton, CA
photo courtesy of Georgewillaman.co

The last time I saw a concert was near the end of the dot com boom. Of course, we didn't know it, and times were good for us. It was October 2000 at the Bridge School Benefit. Performers included: Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young, Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers, Beck, Dave Matthews Band, Red Hot Chili Peppers and the Foo Fighters. The performers all used acoustic guitars. We were very close to the stage and could see the energy, concentration and passion they used to play their instruments and sing their songs. It was breathtaking and, probably, one of the most intense and favorite musical experiences of my life. It has been downhill ever since then.

Not really. But, sort of....Of course good things happened along the way: my son was born, my husband and I have had many good times, there are family and friends, good movies, funny tv shows, good food. But really, the 90s were roaring. People ran around wearing clothes that stated "Life Is Good" and weren't embarrassed to be seen wearing them. Then the big, invisible structure that was supposed to shore up our society was apparently termite eaten and suddenly collapsed under its own weight. And down society went with it - t shirts and all. Fast forward 13 years. The axiom now is Think Local. Buy Local. Homesteading, cohousing and self sustainability are firmly in place. Life is conducted on a smaller scale. Smaller houses. Smaller cars. Smaller families. Smaller portions.

Which brings me to singer/songwriter Mary Gauthier. On 11/12/13 (as pointed about by Gauthier, ironically, Neil Young's birthday) I was able to see another concert. Instead of the big stage with thousands of people, I, along with my son, husband and about 50 other people, sat at Don Quixote's in the Santa Cruz mountains watching Gauthier perform. And what a performance it was. She is not only an excellent performer but she is a great storyteller. We had to leave at the break because it was a school night, but we wish we could have stayed the entire time. I loved watching her play her 1953 Gibson guitar. When she plays, why do her fingers not bleed? She plays it like the strings are made of velvet and not steel. When she sings she closes her eyes, stretches her neck forward and holds her voice at that perfect note.

In hindsight, I love Gauthier's performance just as much as that night at The Bridge School Benefit 13 years ago. I'll always remember her short, silver, razor cut hair. Her glasses, her blue jeans, her old cowboy boots and the red scarf she used to wipe the sweat off her face. She has great stage presence. Even though her songs are so sad, she seems content. Whether it's "Cigarette Machine," "Mercy Now," "Your Sister Cried," or one of her other many songs, one of them is guaranteed to draw you in and make you want more. It is appropriate that we found Gauthier at this time. She is abiding, and, now, so are we.

For more of Mary Gauthier go to http://www.marygauthier.com/

Morning on the Bluff

noreply@blogger.com (Jami Willaman) — Mon, 28 Oct 2013 20:19:00 +0000

We never know what we will see when we wake up and look out our windows. This was a nice sight. I love VW pop-top campers!

The Emperor

noreply@blogger.com (Jami Willaman) — Mon, 28 Oct 2013 20:16:00 +0000

Meditation on Strength

noreply@blogger.com (Jami Willaman) — Thu, 03 Oct 2013 23:42:00 +0000

Emerging from the subconscious:

What I have here is a whale breaching into the surf, a baboon, bubbles and a view into a verdant world emerging from the darkness.

For me, these are all images of strength: of tapping into the strength of our inner nature - our soul. Our souls want to expand and show themselves. And when they do, they are unique and beautiful - universes unto themselves.

Strong Love

noreply@blogger.com (Jami Willaman) — Thu, 03 Oct 2013 23:27:00 +0000

It finally opened! As you can see from the jar and the lid, this love was strong.

Spring Cleaning

noreply@blogger.com (Jami Willaman) — Mon, 28 Apr 2008 19:21:00 +0000

Part II

It happened not once but twice.

The smell wafting through the bathroom was obnoxious. Of course, this is nothing to be upset about. One has to do what one has to do - and the bathroom is the one place in a house where one can just let oneself go. I don't care to make anyone in my family anal retentive so I just shrug my shoulders and say, "ugh."

However, the smell got worse - and it got stronger the closer I came to the toilet. Sniff. Sniff. My nose was honing in on the source. I'm definitely next to the toilet. I peer in. Nothing there. It stinks. Something is stinking. I look over to the sink, my eyes glancing over the garbage can on their way over. My eyes rivet back to the garbage can. There is a lot of paper wadded up in there. Something is amiss. It didn't look that way this morning. I lean over and peer closely. There is a brown smear on one.

I hear the screeching of violins in my head. My vision goes telephoto and then pan, telephoto and pan. I am horrified. Somone, THE PLASTER MAN perchance, has tossed their used t.p. in the garbage. Whoever has done this is either passive aggressive or else has such a huge butt that they thought they got the paper in the pot when they actually got it in the can. Both of which fit the Plaster Man.

After fishing the paper out with a robotic arm and disinfecting the garbage can with Lysol (which, by the way, smells just as bad as human waste), I ponder what to do to prevent THAT from ever happening again. One vision was just walking out to Plaster Man and asking him to please be sure he gets his t.p. in the toilet. I feel a little uncomfortable doing that. So, I decide to let it go and don't say anything.

And then, it happened again. Same m.o. Stink. Dirty paper in the garbage can. This time I am too angry to talk to the Plaster Man. I make a sign and put it on the toilet for all to read: "Please be sure toilet paper falls in the toilet and not next to or in the garbage can." That's a priceless piece of signage - I can tell you that.

It worked. The man can read. I guess he didn't know he was doing it. Can ya imagine that?

p.s. I'm getting a new garbage can tomorrow.

Spring Cleaning

noreply@blogger.com (Jami Willaman) — Wed, 16 Apr 2008 17:28:00 +0000

Spring Cleaning
Part I

Plaster Man - I feel nervous arond him. He is sinister. His actions are suspicious. His first day on the job he asks odd questions: Where does my husband work? Is he gone all day? He sort of paces around the house, just looking at it. He is on my *#@* list from the first day. None-the-less, he is on our doorstep because a sincere, if not sometimes flaky, source recommended him. I lock every single door on the way into the house after meeting him.

Day one, around four hours later.

I hear a crash. I try to ignore the sound and hope that whatever it was was just a passing thing. However, the Plaster Man's legs dangling from the roof catch my eye. I know that his legs are about 5' off the ground. He thinks he's dangling 100' off the ground. It becomes an ordeal.

The Plaster Man never yells. He never raises his voice. He just dangles there in a state of panic. I know this because the man does not let go when I have him by the legs and tell him to. I get smacked in the face by his boots. My face is in his (one who was on my *#@* list too) midsection trying to support him. Finally, the carpenter who is working on the other side of the house hears me yell. He comes running over and tells me to get the ladder. Everyone is acting like it is life and death. It is not. It has been about five minutes and the Plaster Man is still hanging on by his fingertips. If he falls, my goodness, he lands on his feet. Worst case, his bum.

The ladder. The ladder is what fell out from under the Plaster Man. It is about twice my size. I look at the dang thing and lose my concentration. Impossible.

None-the-less, in the spirt of the "emergency," I heave the thing up. It soars over my head, swivels, and starts to capsize. I compensate with my appropriate adrenaline response rush, and hump it over to the dangling man. The ladder falls against the window but, thank you God, does not break it. I am now desperate. I can't get it under the Plaster Man. His arms and hands are stopping it. Bam, bam, bam goes my ladder. The Plaster Man, unbelievably, is still holding on.

The Carpenter grabs hold of the Plaster Man's hands. Now it's human to human. Skin against skin. Muscle holding muscle. Bam, bam, bam goes mye ladder. This is insane. Finally, the ladder gets under the Plaster Man. I have amnesia. How the hell did that happen?

It all works out fine. The Plaster Man walks down the ladder. He doesn't say a word. Carpenter man comes down from our low roof and doesn't say anything either. Someone has to say something. We have just been through an ordeal and no one is talking. I look at the two of them, waiting. Nothing. Zip. Nada. Obviously, this is a macho thing. I stand in the silence and appreciate what it is: men defying the obvious. Impressive.

The Plaster Man holds out his wrists. Little drops of blood are on them - little scrapes from my perspective (all knowing mom that I am). We go in the house. I tell him to wash them with soap and water. I get lotion and band-aids. He snaps at me to get him a paper towel. I am reminded of why I didn't trust him in the beginning and leave him alone in my kitchen to dress his own wounds.

Don't Look Away - Boycott the Olympic Games in China

noreply@blogger.com (Jami Willaman) — Sat, 05 Apr 2008 16:10:00 +0000

Keep the drum beat going. Do not look away. The world's oppressed are screaming. Magically, we are all supposed to experience collective amnesia for two weeks and root for our teams while we sit in our air conditioned homes on soft couches eating snacks and drinking sodas. I for one will not watch the Olympic Games. The political, cultural and environmental charade going on in China is appalling.

Elvis

noreply@blogger.com (Jami Willaman) — Wed, 02 Apr 2008 17:22:00 +0000

In memory of Elvis.
I'll always love you.
17 years old.
Died March 30, 2008

Boycott Olympics in China

noreply@blogger.com (Jami Willaman) — Sun, 16 Mar 2008 04:22:00 +0000

Support Tibet independence.

Amanita Muscaria

noreply@blogger.com (Jami Willaman) — Fri, 14 Mar 2008 18:53:00 +0000

Never eat an amanita!
(Saying is courtesy of my son's wonderful teachers at Family Network Preschool in Live Oak/Santa Cruz, CA. Thanks for turning me on! :)

The Fancy Glass

noreply@blogger.com (Jami Willaman) — Thu, 01 Nov 2007 19:08:00 +0000

I beg of you. Anyone reading this out there who is a chef and lives in the New York tri-state area and wants to relocate please come to Santa Cruz, CA. Pleeeeeese. There are lots of people here who want to shower you with money if you can serve delicious food, professionally, in a warm and inviting atmosphere. You must come to Santa Cruz County and try our restaurant food to truly understand. I now know why the people here are such good cooks themselves and just stay home to buy local and eat local.

I have had pasta primavera served that used melted velveeta cheese. When mussels or clams are served, we are expected to use our table fork. One of our "fine" restaurants wants us to use our meat knives to cut the cheese. When requested to put my cab. in a proper red glass, I am told I want "the fancy glass." The other day it was "the big glass."

Etiquette? Please. Some examples: owner chefs are grumpy and they are allowed out of the kitchen, pot smoke seeps from the kitchen into the dining room, and posing waiters are de rigour for us desperate "hoi polloi" in search of just a simple dinner out.

Help!

Part II The Car Seat

noreply@blogger.com (Jami Willaman) — Wed, 03 Oct 2007 17:02:00 +0000

The curbside baggage guy at Southwest tagged our bags and got us our boarding passes. My husband handed him a $5 bill and asked for $1 back. As soon as he did that, the tide of this so far courteous exchange turned. The guy said no problem and handed $1 back and promptly placed my giant suitcase on the scales. Two pounds over the weight limit. That will be an additional $25, please.

Now another guy gets involved to help my nonplussed husband fork over the $25. I get huffy. I inform anyone who is listening that we are not paying $25 for two pounds over. Surely there must be some wiggle room since both my young son and I are using the same suitcase. No, he informs us. That's why every person is allowed to have two suitcases. I'm starting to get hot now. My son can't carry two suitcases, and I can't carry his two suitcases. We are already lugging a car seat, two suitcases, one carry-on bag, a computer and a five-year-old. No van would stop to pick us up if they saw four suitcases, a car seat and all the minutia dragging behind us. Have mercy.

The guy says I could try repacking the suitcase. Fine. "Give me Ring Ding," I tell Mark - just because he happens to be standing there. I open the giant suitcase and grope along the top searching for George's buckwheat and lavender rabbit. I find him and open Mark's suitcase and put him in. I realize Ring Ding doesn't weigh two pounds and will have to start unloading lots of clothes: adorable little jammies with rabbits in race cars, puppies opening presents, rocket ships blasting off into space, tiny shirts, tiny pants. Everyone in the baggage line stares as I self consiously and hurriedly share our choice of apparel with the entire world.

The baggage guy says I have to move our luggage out of the way. I pick up my 52 pound suitcase from a sitting squat position and toss it to the side. No problem. What's he complaining about? I lug 40 pounds around on a regular basis and I don't even toss or drop it. I carry it on my hip sort of like a backpacker carries a backpack. It's part of the equipment. I go up steps. It goes up steps. I go down steps. It goes down steps. It's called my child.

I finish my organizing, zip everything up and wheel the monster suitcase back to the scales. Without a word he places it on the scales. It weighs 48 pounds. My satisfaction is short lived as I realize this guy really does not like me now and he has the suitcases. Will they be going to Fiji today or perchance they might just sit at San Jose airport a little to the side in the shadows of the baggage basement forever? I don't budge until I see him physically place the suitcases on the converyor belt. He does and adds the car seat as well. "Okay, let's go," I tell George. "It's all in." And off I go to the next gauntlet: security. Oh the airlines and the stories I could tell. But, I will stick with this one.

We arrive in Reno and collect our luggage. Everything is there. My anxiety fades. The world is whole again. The sun is shining. The air is warm. The baggage guy is out of my life. Let's have some fun! We get our rental car and drag all our stuff, like toilet paper dragging from the sole of a shoe, to the car. I put the car seat in the car and ask George to get in it. I try to fasten the restraining straps and can't figure out how to do it. Something isn't right. I look closer and see that one strap of George's car seat has been neatly cut all the way across. I am shocked. I was expecting maybe something like poop in the suitcase but nothing like this.

So, as all parents know, you can't go anywhere without a car seat. We are stuck at the airport. He got me. So, we take the car seat out of the car and head to customer service. They are apologetic, loan us a car seat so we can go to a store to buy a new one, and pay for the new car seat.

I remember fingering the cut strap like somehow I would understand the person who would do something like that. I keep touching the cut strap, its smooth yet tough fabric gliding through my gentle fingers. The clean cut so decisive and violent to me. I feel for the children of the world.

My Summer Vacation

noreply@blogger.com (Jami Willaman) — Sun, 16 Sep 2007 15:24:00 +0000

Part I: The Mile High Club
Anyone considering joining this club please read this entry. This is how not to go about it. I have it from a knowledgeable source that it should only be tried in business class on international flights and on almost empty red eyes.

This particular debacle happened on board a packed flight in coach going to Salt Lake City, UT from Cleveland, Ohio (read kids, lots of kids and seniors on board).

Enjoy....

I first noticed him as we stood in line waiting in the aisle to take our seats. His girlfriend/wife was stuck with a heavy suitcase, and my husband offered to help her carry it. She declined. But this man, her boyfriend/husband turned around to look back. He gave her a big, wet, deep sloppy kiss - not unlike a cat rubbing against a piece of furniture marking it as his. I was immediately repulsed by him. His look, the kiss - everything about him was gross. The fact that this woman had to be subject to his attention aroused my sympathy for her. I tried not to stare.

The line moved along, and we all took our seats. The couple was two rows in front of us. About an hour into our flight, the man stood up. He was in the aisle seat. As he stood there in the aisle, he surveyed the rows behind him. He looked at my son, and then he looked over at me and, alas, he caught my eye. Ick. Ick. Ick. And then he did it again. He leaned over and gave another hideously long kiss to her. It went on a long time. When he stopped and stood up he looked flushed. I really felt bad for the woman now. What? Whenever this man wants to he can make her do his bidding?

O.K. This guy was definitely on my radar and now I covertly watched everything he did. And I managed to watch, from beginning to end, how "Mr. Bumbles" and "Miss Pillows" carried out their doomed plan to get a "quicky" on the plane.

Step 1:
Miss Pillows gets up to go to the bathroom. As she walks by, she nonchalantly smoothes her polyester dress down over her knee length spandex leotards.

There is no line for the bathroom so she steps in.

Step 2:
Mr. Bumbles gets out of his seat to go to the bathroom.
There is no line but there is trouble. Some other people get up and follow him to the bathroom. He lets people go ahead. Smart...don't want to be seen going into an occupied bathroom.
Miss Pillows still in her bathroom. People keep coming. Must be the beverages. There is a line now. They sure could use the bathroom Miss Pillows is in. Coach is down to one lavatory now.
I start timing the situation. Ten minutes goes by. Mr. Bumbles decides he has to go to the bathroom so he actually enters the empty one.

(My neck is aching now from looking backward so much.)

Step 3:
Just do it. My heart is beating with excitement as I know the moment of truth is about to happen. Everybody is gone. Miss Pillows is still in her compartment. Mr. Bumbles exits his potty and knocks on her potty door. He goes in. They are in there for awhile. In that time, a line has started again. This time, there is a teenage boy, a mother with her toddler in tow, a senior woman, and a woman in line. A dad with a baby comes up but leaves because it's taking too long. The teenage boy goes in the one empty bathroom and stays there a long time. The heat is on because nobody is leavng.
This is just so classic, and I am giddy with what will happen. They can't leave the bathroom.

I read body language. The women are talking. What's taking so long?

Finally, the teenager leaves and the mom with the child enters. That leaves the woman and the senior woman. This is where the quicky in coach plan collapses. Miss Pillows finally opens the door and tries to quickly close it behind her. The woman waiting for the bathroom lunges for the handle but has the door yanked out of her hand. The door slams shut. The woman literally grasps the door handle with both hands and starts yanking on it hard. The door is shaking but it won't open. She looks at the senior woman - obviously not grasping the situation - in cofusion. Finally, Mr. Bumbles gives up and comes out about a minute later. The woman makes a big silent O with her mouth and then covers it with her hand. He smiles sheepishly. The senior woman stares and then the fall-out starts.

Needless to say, Mr. Bumbles is truly disgusting now. He is sweaty. He takes his seat. Miss Pillows' shaking hand adjusts a stray strand of hair.
Now the woman is talking to the flight crew. She is pointing. They are talking. The back of the plane, where the woman sits, is craning to see who all did what. There are smiles.
And finally, the senior woman. It turns out she was seated directly across the aisle, one row back from him. She took her seat next to her husband and started to talk. She nodded in his direction. Her husband, all 6'2" of him, sat and openly looked at Mr. Bumble. The husband's face alternated between amusement, contemplation and disgust.

It was all very exciting. I was disappointed that it all ended. But, I was happy that I actually got to witness such an event as entry into the Mile High Club. I still felt very sorry for her. Her shaking hand seemd so fragile. But, at least he went away. He satisfied himself and kept low the rest of the time.

Remember your vegetables!

noreply@blogger.com (Jami Willaman) — Fri, 08 Jun 2007 17:06:00 +0000

See what happens if you don't eat your vegetables? Aaaaa!!!

Delicious recipe

noreply@blogger.com (Jami Willaman) — Wed, 11 Apr 2007 16:38:00 +0000

I found this recipe in Vegetarian Main Dishes from Around the World (from the Chunky Cook Book series). I really liked it because of its unusual ingredients (for me) and unique flavor. I didn't chop any of the vegetables finely and it turned out tasty. So there you go. You are free to chop chunky - or finely. Whatever.

Kukuye Sabzi (vegetable and walnut bake) from Iran

Heat over to 325degrees F/Gas 3/ 160 degrees C

2 cups leeks, chopped finely (uh hum)
1 cup lettuce, chopped finely (mmmm)
1 tbsp. fresh parsley, just chopped
1 cup spinach, chopped finely ( again?)
3 scallions, chopped finely (sigh)
1 tbsp. flour
1/2 cup walnuts, chopped (Aw right! I did it with a hammer.)
8 eggs
4 tbsp. margarine
salt and pepper (love the pepper- spicy- yum, yum)

1. Put all the vegetables in a large bowl, shake on the flour and seasoning. Mix well, and then add the walnuts.

2.Next, beat the eggs and pour them onto the vegetable mixture. Stir so that the egg coats the other ingredients to bind them. (I love that sentence.)

3. Using a loaf tin, melt the margarine gently over a low heat and swirl it around the pan to coat the sides. Then transfer the vegetable mixture to the tin and cook in the oven for about an hour or until the top is crisp and brown. Turn out into a dish and serve with rice and yoghurt.

Seacliff

noreply@blogger.com (Jami Willaman) — Fri, 06 Apr 2007 14:51:00 +0000

Unititled #1

noreply@blogger.com (Jami Willaman) — Fri, 06 Apr 2007 01:38:00 +0000

The funny thing is, I like to write. Why can't I write for my blog?

I feel pressure.

The pressure to be funny.
The pressure to be smart.
The pressure to be ironic, witty, unique.

O.K.I'll write something real.

Come into my garden. It is beautiful. It is contrived. It is natural. I am balancing. Relax into it. The smell. The color. The sound. Exist in the moment. It is scrumptious.

The Monterey Bay

noreply@blogger.com (Jami Willaman) — Tue, 03 Apr 2007 23:52:00 +0000

Looking down from Seacliff.

Joe Heller

noreply@blogger.com (Jami Willaman) — Mon, 26 Mar 2007 15:18:00 +0000

True story, Word of Honor:
Joseph Heller, an important and funny writer
now dead,
and I were at a party given by a billionaire
on Shelter Island.
I said, "Joe, how does it make you feel
to know that our host only yesterday
may have made more money
than your novel 'Catch-22'
has earned in its entire history?"
And Joe said, "I've got something he can never have."
And I said, "What on earth could that be, Joe?"
And Joe said, "The knowledge that I've got enough."
Not bad! Rest in peace!

-Kurt Vonnegut

Sand

noreply@blogger.com (Jami Willaman) — Fri, 09 Mar 2007 23:23:00 +0000

Learned to make paper boats.
Went to Seabright Beach with George. He climbed rocks, buried partially burned logs in the sand, and wrote "treasure" in the sand. I buried George up to his neck in sand. Sand everywhere.
Managed to wear a dress and drink coffee at the same time.
Drove home with a cup of sand in my cup holder. George will make cement with it.