T: Thoughts, Things

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T is for Tobin’s Tunnel. Yesterday, it was clear and sunny. B and I walked out to Mussel Rock at low tide, and came upon the remains of Tobin’s tunnel. It was first blasted out in 1874 so the landowner could enjoy scenic carriage rides along the beach without having to detour around the headlands. Very soon the tides, winter storms, and finally, the 1906 earthquake made other arrangements of the work. This is the only section that remains. (NOTE: The geologic and social history of this area is truly fascinating; I recommend a google dive. The best is Shawn Heiser’s SFSU thesis, Living on the Edge: Environmental History at Mussel Rock, 2010.)

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T is for triptych. The view looking west, over the ocean. That’s Mussel Rock on the right, with the wooden posts sticking up, and old highway riprap, which forms part of the seawall, in the lower right. The San Andreas fault line is directly underneath us.

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T is for trails. The network of trails leading down to the beach — when there is one — are the remains of the old Ocean Shore Railroad (abandoned in 1920), and the Ocean Shore Highway (bypass over the headlands completed in 1957).

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T is for thread. I am eagerly awaiting the San Francisco pattern I ordered from Haptic Labs to hand-stitch a small quilt. Serious goodness in this shop. I’m sure I’ll have much more to say when it arrives.

T is for thought. I can’t say I’m fond of this particular enamel pin, but the copy that accompanies it struck a chord:

“Handmade is as much a path as it is a product, an ethos that creeps into every aspect of life. When we make things for ourselves, we take a singular pleasure and satisfaction from every use, sure of its provenance and intention. The creations of our hands become the warp and weft of our days, until life becomes a tightly woven tapestry inspiring us with purpose and pride.”

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T is for tea. Fermented kombucha in this instance. My daughter gave me a book of recipes and a large Weck jar at my birthday. This is my first batch, brewed with Yorkshire Gold — a two-week-process in my chilly kitchen — bottled for second fermentation. That’s Meyer lemon + ginger in the Weck, and ruby grapefruit in the cute recycled bottles. Yum and Salute!

S: Smorgasbord

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S is for Smorgasbord. Yes I know I’m stretching it, and being somewhat silly. There was a break between storms, and the ocean at Manor Bluffs looked so pretty. That’s the unstable, crumbling edge of the cliff you see in the lower right, and the beach 60 feet below. (This was also the vantage point for February’s H: Horizon shot.) 

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S is for Slice. In this case, grapefruit. Or pamplemousse in French, which is a superior word. 

S is for Shelley, sharing. I bribed Shelley with some wider (taller?) looms to continue experimenting with her weaving magic. She sent variations on three traditional patterns, bird’s eye, twill and goose eye.

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Mind blown (again.)

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Jan of morphunkyMiniatures in Edinburgh, UK let me share what she’s doing with the Toto2 basket kits. Love the vintage illustrations on the lids! Be sure to check out her other great luggage, furniture and “eccentricities” — very original and beautifully made.

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S is for Stone. I like rocks, a lot. This one is incomprehensibly old, and it used to be alive O_O. Keli recently surprised me with a package of Michigan goodness, including this specimen of fossilized coral called Petoskey Stone. Well worth reading about! In the sun, the white parts sparkle. Stunning.

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S is for Sign and a Sign-off Story. This is a large — almost five feet wide — sheet metal sign, “handcrafted by an Amish craftsman known around Lancaster County as Rusty Merv”, that I accidentally got some years ago. Originally ordered as a gift for my daughter, I mildly damaged it slicing open the shipping box with an X-acto. (In my defense, it was very poorly packaged.) So I had a new one shipped to her, and held on to this one. It was a nice brick red color at the start; when I lived in the mid-century house with all wood paneling, I spray painted it this dull moss color.

Right-reading, ‘gather’ has hung in various places in a few different houses, and most recently, perpendicularly in the entry way that opens to our living room. With the nancyland studio re-org, I moved it over the thinking couch (which folds out into a guest bed) and hung it upside down. This makes me smile all the time, I think because I’m an introvert.

N: N

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N is for … N.
I’ve been collecting vintage sign salvaged Ns for some years. My husband is especially accomplished at finding and gifting really good ones.

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Some I admire for their intricately weathered surfaces.

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Some I love for their over-the-top appearance. This one is three feet tall, of heavy wood painted red, and oversees a stairwell.

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Much of the typography is beautiful, like this well-balanced classic uppercase N, of green metal.

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This is the newest one, a hollow aluminum lowercase n, about 12 tall by 3 inches deep, an early Christmas present (of course) from my delightful husband.

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N is also for Napoleon, my stoic and dingy old man cat, who is growing very boney. It makes me so happy to see him comfortably napping in the early morning sun.

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This was the remarkably pastel dawn over the ocean that morning. There’s the horizon obscured with a far-off fog wall, as often happens, but the colors — especially the lilac and rose — were extraordinary.

 

H: Horizon

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H is for the horizon.
Seen from Manor Bluff, late afternoon, very low tide. The jumble of dark in the lower left is riprap (huge granite boulders) the City has been placing in an attempt to protect the sandstone cliffs from inevitable (and natural) erosion. Two humans for scale. This view is directly across the street from the post office, which I visit most every day.

G: Gray, Gray + Green

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G is for the grays of a winter storm.
Sharp Park Beach, looking south to Mori and Pedro points.

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G + G, for the warm grays and bright-eyed greens of a handsome cat.
Napoleon, overseeing the Sea House Warming Hut build.

 

D: Dollhouse, Wheelie

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Alongside a small apartment building in Rockaway Beach is an odd assortment of broken Talavera pottery, derelict lawn ornaments and abandoned dollhouses. It is thought-provoking, but not at all sad.

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In an effort to get out more, I’ve been auditioning various coffee shops around town. Current fav is Perfect Pour on Clarendon. Small, friendly, excellent coffee (they do their own roasts). Wheelie enjoyed making my cappuccino appear mustachioed. Little hipster.

B: Blade, Funk Protocols, Wheelie, Weavings!

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B is for BLADE: X-Acto X-Life No. 11, on an old silver-plated tea tray that lives outdoors atop my worm compost bin. Hmmm, maybe I should have saved this for X. Megan and over-achiever Keli, I’m looking at you.

Thank you for sharing your funk wisdom and protocols. I laughed, and cried a little, and felt deeply how truly kind you all are. It was helpful, and energizing. Some of my takeaways:

“Give it a little time and some sun; sun will break up a funk like nobody’s business.”
—Sheila

“Keep breathing through, keep walking, keep looking out and seeing that unexpected beauty, accepting that unasked for kindness.”
—Azteclady

“Having something to look forward to helps me to make the transition from funk to functional. Be kind to yourself.”
—Megan

“Punt.”
—Joyce

“Bring the Funk! (Dance!)”
—Jodi

“I know from experience that once in it, you just have to ride it out to the end… usually they’re just passing through.”
—Elizabeth S

“Every day is different, life is a wave, happily!”
—Ingi

“First I have to recognize The Funk. That always seems to take longer than it should.”
—Keli

“Hang in there, I have faith in you that we’ll see more wonderful creations. And get that cat out of your beautiful, tiny house!”
—Bennie

“… I also find doing a kit, following someone else’s instructions helps me to, at the least, get back a sense of accomplishment.”
—ShelleyB

“Take this time to pause and reflect, but trust your instincts.”
—Barbara W.

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So Wheelie and I went to look at the waves and do salt air aromatherapy for a while, to “take it all in and savor the goodness”.

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I returned home to find this brilliant rendition of the Toto2 picnic basket kit that ShelleyB was kind enough to share. This changes everything! and we’ve been pinging ideas back and forth. She says the proportions and shape of this basket makes good storage containers, with or without lids, and wondered if a kit of three might be made available. Maybe a taller version, too, as a laundry hamper? I can’t wait to get out some graph paper and chart monograms.

Also, I have not forgotten or given up on the protea flower kit. Really.

2018: In or Out?

2018

For every fish out, let’s have a fish in. May your ladders be sturdy. See clearly. See stars. Grow flowers. Spin the wheel. All in.

This is a collage made from Dresden trim, layered over a recent sunset here in Pacifica. I know the blessing is silly, but it is heartfelt. Welcome to 2018, friends.

The Solstice, Lighting

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Last night — Good Solstice, all! — I set to work installing the ceiling lights in the Sea Rise Pavilion kitchen.

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Because I’m such a lighting electrics n00b, I used five 3-volt chip LEDs, set in mini eyelets. They are tragically insufficient to light the kitchen. But hey! I learn by doing. So I went to bed.

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This morning, I ordered some larger (3mm) LEDs, then pulled the chip LEDs and eyelets from the ceiling installation. (Those are the holes you see.) Under-shelf lighting seemed like a good use of the sadly pale chips, so I plotted a layout in Illustrator to use as a template, and drilled new holes in the upper shelf. (Um, not an ideal construction protocol, the drilling of already-installed things.) I methodically undid all the twisty magnet wire connections from the ceiling — thankfully I had not set the heat shrinks — and reset the eyelets under the shelf. With my teensiest drill bit I made exit holes for the wires in the back wall, in line with each eyelet.

It is a good setup, but two of the chip LEDs did not fully survive. (Though they do work intermittently, argh, whygodwhy?)

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Then I walked out to see this sunset over the ocean. One can aspire.