The Short Life of the Seafoam Green Lemon

Last summer I posted about the new moped I was so excited to buy. I figured I'd thwart the overzealous extortion by the rental car industry that was rampant in 2021 (and apparently is as well in 2022--a month and a half car rental from Logan Airport is $4,000 this year). But I digress...

It seemed a perfect and brilliant solution, like all things ill-considered and latched onto in the heat of the moment. What I couldn't have known, was that extortion was and is pervasive in every aspect of the transportation industry. 

I'd originally found a rental car through Turo (the Air B&B of car rentals). A guy in Worcester, MA had a Fiat 500, as I have in San Francisco, with a very reasonable rate posted online. I snapped up the deal, congratulating myself that I'd be saving thousands of dollars for my hometown wheels. Then, two days before my flight to the Right Coast, he contacted me, saying the car had a bogus problem. My local Fiat mechanic said they'd never heard of what he'd described to me; the car always indicating that the gas tank was full, even when it was empty, and not allowing the driver to add fuel. He couldn't get the car fixed in time for my pickup, he said. (When I looked up his car days later on Turo.com, it was in perfect shape with the price marked up significantly.)

So I sucked it up and at the last moment, booked a rental car for two weeks at full price. That's when I hatched the plan to buy the scooter; to save money on car rentals and amortize my investment for years to come.

Other things I didn't know going into this:

• That both my ignition and kick start would fail shortly after I bought the thing. 
• That the warranty only covered the dealer fixing any problem.
• That it was non-returnable, or so they said at first...
• That the Buddy 50 weighs 200 pounds and, once dysfunctional, would need me to muscle it around significantly with my 61-year-old, 5'3" body.

Reminding them of the Lemon Law changed the dealer's tune. Making it clear this was out of the vast kindness of their heart, they bought it back...for $1,000 less than I'd paid. Worn down from all the stress, I caved.

My 85-year-old aunt had even asked, when I'd visited her assisted living home en route to registering the green beast, "Aren't you a little old to be riding a moped?" Should've listened to her. 

I used my bicycle for transportation during the two weeks of my scooter's death throes, while I began wheedling the dealer to take it back. This happened to be during 90 degree, 90% humidity weather. My first grocery shop, up the steep hill of my rural hometown, felt like a problem to solve, and I returned to my cottage, laden with provender, and feeling triumphant. The second just felt sad and exhausting.

But the fun didn't stop there...

I had returned the rental car after buying the scooter, to the Enterprise office in the city next to my hometown. There, I was treated to a genuine Fall River experience. (Once a major player in the Industrial Revolution, the city is struggling mightily with an opioid crisis, even while gentrifying its waterfront hopefully and beautifully.) While I waited in the air conditioned atrium for a taxi to take me to my cottage, in marched a local middle-aged woman and her (I'm guessing) son. As I scanned my email on my iPhone, I could hear her initially sweet talking the clerk for a better deal. I went back to my email, but was roused from it when the trainee called over his manager, who said to her something to the effect of, "We usually call the police if people refuse to return or pay for a car." She responded, "You should know that I was in jail for stabbing someone in the chest!" 

I began peering outside eagerly for my taxi and considered stepping out into the scorching afternoon. But I was also afraid to make any move that might divert her attention to me, so I alternated surreptitious glances with pretending to be really interested in Facebook. Eventually the manager talked her off the ledge, and she phoned somebody for a quick loan and a lift. Before knives were drawn, or blood was shed, my taxi arrived.

As luck would have it, the Fall River experience continued...The taxi driver, slightly younger than me, but much worse for wear, drove his beater erratically for the 30 minute drive to my cottage. I had him stop far away from my destination, in case he had ideas. He demanded $45 for the trip. Fearing my life, I paid him and escaped with my skin, if not my dignity.

After returning the scooter, I rented another car, thanks to my sister's much appreciated transport to Dartmouth (a much kinder, gentler town and sans opioids), and booked a one way flight back to SFO a month earlier than I originally intended (getting reamed once again by American Air and their "pay for your seat", "pay for each piece of luggage" shenanigans). 

There's usually one noteworthy challenge every summer I return to my hometown, but somehow, 2021 was the perfect storm of transportation trials. It took me nearly a year to process the trauma and write this story. Bravely I sail into another East Coast summer...wish me luck!

My paintings are like suns

My favorite Rothko at SFMOMA feels like a fireplace when I sit before it. Similarly, my paintings radiate the love and passion that I put into them, long after they're finished.

Ginkgo trees, and the aspens and cottonwoods of Santa Fe do the same thing. Storing up summer sunlight, they glow in the fall; luminous lanterns to brighten gloomy days. My art also shines back the care that goes into it, I find.

To me my paintings aren't "one and you're done" (and I do sell as well as collect my work). Even when I've moved onto the next piece, I often bask in the bright spirit that lives on in all my creations, and am inspired anew.

Stay tuned for more on my painting technique, approach, and inspiration!

Summer on a Scooter - Part 1

 

I bought my first-ever moped two weeks ago. And then the buyer’s remorse began. Questions keep surfacing… summer on a scooter - does it limit me? Does it isolate me when I need to reach out for cross pollination and inspiration as a painter and writer? What are its freedoms? Will it become a new way to help me stretch and grow?

 

The exorbitant price of car rentals in this pandemic year of 2021 drove me to consider alternative transportation options. Ordinarily I spend my summers in my East Coast hometown for my yearly immersion into a steamy, succulent, and sensual world; quite different from the rest of my year in San Francisco. The rural alternative has always required a car. But this year, with depleted fleets, renting a car for two and a half months would cost the same as a trip to Egypt. I balked, and dug in my heels on forking over so much money and have it just be gone by September.

 

A friend was diagnosed with colon cancer. An idea that I’d toyed with gelled: buy a scooter and not just reinvest but amortize the money I’d be spending on a car rental into an inspired, new type of transport.

 

I became the owner of a seafoam green Buddy 50.

 

My first test drive on my tiny new wheels was exhilarating. I envisioned a summer of easy riding and carefree sun splashed adventures. Then the initial heat wave that greeted me upon arrival was replaced with a soggy, stormy stretch. I realized that even the local gallery opening required navigating a slippery slope of wet roadway. What would I dare or not dare to do on this moped?

 

My gym, which I’d abandoned for over a year, as did most people during 2020, was now a slow, 40+ minute commute on back country roads, if I cared to rejoin it. Was it worth it? Did weight training matter anymore to me? I’d managed without it through 2020 in San Francisco with aching shoulders, frequent massage appointments, worsening posture, and lots of hot water. Back East, the bicycling, yoga, and heavy lifting required by my summer cottage life (hefting propane tanks and large bottles of water regularly) made me strong. But did I wish to invoke that extra something to overcome gravity’s effects on my 61 year old torso and feel that lovely stretching to the sun that weight training always provided me? That rejuvenating element that lengthens my spine deliciously and makes me feel powerful after pumping iron.

 

It seems this summer has become a series in new dares to myself. Do I settle into becoming an old lady? Or do I push boundaries and continue to grow and find new ways of meeting needs and desires?

 

Stay tuned for more!

 

Hamilton – a Slow-Cooked Love Story

I’ve been painting portraits for the past five years, and just began a foray into landscapes this spring of 2016.  Not surprisingly, it wasn’t until my sixth plein air painting that I finally felt like I was starting to get the hang of things. This 8 x 10 with a bright red background was a breakthrough piece for me on several levels. Not only did it provide a steep technical learning curve, but its genesis involved some truly dedicated artistic commitment, resulting from a difficult choice between one creative path (writing) and another (painting).

I’d been invited to do a book signing for the third novel of my trilogy in my hometown indie bookstore. A long-awaited coup! But they wanted me there in the fall, after I’d returned to my home in San Francisco from my annual Back East summer. I’d found a bargain $350 round trip flight. It still would have been warm enough to sleep at my unheated cabin a mile from the bookstore, but money was tight and I could easily see this ego-stroke turning into a $1K weekend, without much tangible reward. I would also have to lug copies of my book in a suitcase, to be sold on consignment. Lastly, in the hierarchy of author events, a book signing is not nearly as prestigious as, say, and author reading. I’d just read a horror story of a poor writer relegated to sitting at a lonely table at the back of a bookstore for his book signing event. I’d known the support and enthusiasm of a crowd at numerous book readings in the past, where I was able to tell tales and spin yarns to an interested audience that asked brilliant questions and bought lots of my books.

So for several reasons, I remained on the Left Coast and went plein air painting that weekend instead with my painting buddy, Emily; making a conscious commitment to my new passion/profession. We’d been wanting to paint palm trees and Em suggested Hamilton Field in Novato, for its many mature and beautiful specimens.

In any plein air sojourn, there’s always what I call the “thrashing around” stage. The first hour or so you’re scouting out the exact perfect spot to paint, scrutinizing the view, cropping the image in your mind, squinting down the darks and lights, and simplifying all the complex visual information. You’re also catching up on each other’s lives, setting up equipment and materials, and generally flailing around the canvas as you make your first tentative marks. Complaining often happens at this stage too, for example, “I should’ve sprung for the sable brushes!” or “Why didn’t I buy the two lb. pochade (paint box) instead of the 50 lb. one?” (as the tripod collapses).

This is a time where curious bystanders are not a delight, because I have no confidence yet in whatever I’m working on. Well-meaning and enthusiastic passers-by often want to chat or have their photo taken with a plein air painter, especially around the Bay Area’s many iconic tourist attractions, I found out recently, on another outing near the Golden Gate Bridge.

Mercifully, this thrashing around stage gradually gives way to an absorbed focus and flow state as the image starts to “work” on the canvas. (Unless there is wind, rain, or other external disturbance, like the sun suddenly jumping out from behind the shady tree you so carefully arranged your kit under and broiling the artist.)

At the flailing about phase on this particular day, I heard myself telling Emily—who had set up right next to me to catch the same vantage point and scene—that I draw much better than I paint. I try to witness and minimize my complaints these days, after practicing Vipassana meditation daily for 20 years, and mostly because I grew tired of hearing myself complain years ago. On observation, however, this remark struck me not so much as a complaint, but as a piece of wisdom I should listen to.

So I did. I spent the next two hours just sketching the scene in Ultramarine Blue on the Cadmium Red-primed canvas board.

A mission-style building with hundreds of meticulously hand-rendered tiles and very straight architectural lines materialized on my canvas, along with one very detailed date palm and a vaguer Mexican Fan Palm in the distance.

By the end of our session, Emily had a very realized rendition of our scene while I still had a series of outlines. But I felt satisfied. I had a strong skeleton on which to build. When I hurry the process, I find the quality of my results poor. So I committed to the slow cooking of Hamilton.

I did actually add some Cobalt Blue mixed with Titanium White to create a sky at the very end, as I needed the satisfaction of laying down some color. I noticed, on my return home, however, that Cobalt Blue is very transparent, which on closer inspection, didn’t look so good. (Nevertheless, I ended up deciding I liked the color, and layered a more opaque treatment of the same colors onto the sky at the very end of the painting process, a couple weeks later.)

Another thing that factored into Hamilton’s meticulous execution was my coming down with the flu after receiving a flu shot at work. (Yes, I think it’s possible.) As the various viruses slowly percolated throughout my system, and because life doesn’t stop for flu shots, I attended a wedding the next weekend and then spent a weekend in Venice Beach the following one. All these activities worried me as I find it’s easy for me to drop the ball and sometimes never finish a piece. Nevertheless, I persisted with Hamilton.

Years ago at a workshop, a friend drew an image to represent my inner essence. On it she wrote a single word: “create” below a nest containing three speckled eggs. I remembered that image as my viral load peaked, and it struck me that the times I’ve been most productive (like when I wrote my first book), I incubated the project; sticking with it doggedly, so that distractions wouldn’t win.

I fleshed out Hamilton; fitting in an odd hour or two here or there at home, working around illness and the day job. I thought through every decision, every color change, each object’s relationship with another. I researched opaque vs. transparent colors. I gazed at how one of my favorite contemporary artists (Anne Garney, of Kansas City) treated expanses of undefined foliage (I ended up creating a mottled, camo-type mass that worked). I read through a how-to on painting a palm tree. I studied palm trees; identifying the species I was painting. New questions surfaced. What was that other, scraggly palm I’d painted out on the jetty outside my studio in Sausalito a few months back? The one that gave me so much trouble because it only had three sparse, whippy branches. A Queen Palm!

Knowledge inspired more interest and keener observation. The “distraction” of Venice Beach turned into an opportunity for extensive palm study and photography. My lifelong love of palm trees expanded. I remembered the magickal night I stood outside my Santa Monica apartment in 2009, looking up at the shiny ribbons waving overhead; soothed by the clattery sound of their fronds. Back in San Francisco, I gazed with admiration at the highlights and reflections of my neighbor’s Mexican Fan Palm.

Piece by piece, Hamilton came together. And it was only when one question was answered to my (and the painting’s) satisfaction, that I moved onto the next.

So while I could’ve been promoting my book for dubious benefits, I was gifted with this breakthrough painting—one where careful execution and a lot of pleasure were woven into the mix. In the great scheme of things, either path would’ve been fine. But trusting that little nudge from the subconscious seemed to work well for me this time. I’ll keep listening.

Advice for aspiring writers/The best thing about being a writer

My advice for aspiring writers?

Don't give up! Surround yourself with other writers and artists regularly, for the support you so very much need. And of course, do your Morning Pages and Artist Dates.

The best thing about being a writer?

It's the perfect place to hone your l'esprit de l'escalier; a French term for when you think of the perfect answer to something after you've left the room and are doing something ordinary like walking up a staircase. Not being a hothead by nature, I find well-thought-out arguments bubbling up later, after I've had the time to digest a perplexing conversation. Hopefully I've left the other person with a graceful (or possibly clueless) exit remark. On my own time, I can weave the situation into that of one of my characters; resulting in a satisfying display of verbal gallantry (at least on the part of my protagonist)!

What did I learn while writing The Secret of the Cylinder and what was the biggest surprise during the process?

I learned about daytime discos in Tehran in the 1970’s – one of the few places young people could kiss; similar to the way young people in Mexico City steal away to churches to do the same! At the Basilica of the Lady of Guadalupe in 2012 I was surprised to find myself sitting behind teenagers necking. Blasphemy! (I’m kidding here.)

The biggest surprise was when the actor who I’d talked with about playing the male lead, Mirza, was framed and thrown into jail for 2 ½ years in Dubai, while I was converting the screenplay into a novel. I was shocked and saddened by Farzan’s misfortune. But he never gave up, and neither did I. I signed his MoveOn.org petition to urge that his case be reconsidered by Sheikh Mohammed of the UAE (Prime Minister of the United Arab Emirates) a.k.a. His Highness Sheikh Mohammed bin Rashid Al Maktoum. That didn’t feel like enough, though. So, using the power of positive intention, I wrote the character Mirza into, and then out of prison before three years had gone by. (Farzan was starting to approach his third year and he’d just turned 30!). The Swedish-Iranian model wrote a rap song while in prison, called “Save my Life” asking for the sheik’s forgiveness, mercy, and pardon. The audio for the music video was recorded through a phone booth from inside the Central Jail in Dubai. The sheik listened to the song. Farzan was released this past December, 2015. He appreciated my story!

What is the meaning behind the title of The Secret of the Cylinder?

The cuneiform-inscribed cylinder that the protagonist steals is made of a special clay that has magical properties, brought to Earth by an interstellar traveler. The abilities it confers on anyone who touches it are exactly what the planet needs. “He who possesses it will be most powerful. Yet what most think is power will be taken by its touch.” The ultimate weapon, the Cylinder has the power to geld one’s enemies . . . or bestow peace upon all who touch it.