Buzz and Mud

2012-01-09T19:44:00.000-08:00

Over the Holiday season, my sister and her kids came to visit . One sunny visit to the beach, amidst spewing geoducks ("gooey ducks"), nudibranchs, and sea slugs, we found a beautiful baby octopus! She let us play with her for a while, nibbled my hand with her beak, oozed and slithered. Finally she had enough and squirted ink in her pool so we left her alone. It was an honor. To begin the new year, before throwing new pots, I made use of some seconds: tiles, platters, plates, etc. and laid them out as mosaic risers for the stairs in our house. Some alterations are planned, but here, essentially, is the run of risers for our stairway. It's promising to be a good year.

2011-12-15T11:23:00.000-08:00

Egg Cups!
I just made a slew of egg cups thanks to my new fascination and favorite breakfast of the soft boiled egg (3.5 minutes for a room temperature egg, 4 for a refrigerated one). I love to knock the top off with my spoon and then dunk toast "soldiers" (toast cut into little slices small enough to fit inside the opening) in the luscious yolk. Delicious! Then I scoop out the cooked whites with my teaspoon while admiring the lovely packaging of the egg shell itself. Such a perfect container!

I've been wondering what to do with these molds I got from a guy on craigslist, and I've found purpose for them in egg cup companions. I have owls, chickens, ducks, turtles and frogs. Of course I had to paint some octopus, trees & bees. I figure some people may use the more chalice-like designs for shot glasses, or olive pit holders, stud earring cups, or cumin seed dispensers.... suggestions? More photos and designs are on the way....

2011-11-06T12:15:00.000-08:00

People often ask me where I get my inspiration and I usually answer something like, "It's all around me." This week the SF Chronicle had these humpbacks and happy kayaker on the front page (SFChronicle). I imagined myself in his place- the overwhelming majesty. Only last month, we saw humpbacks at our beach, Goat Rock, where I go several times a week for exercise and visual refreshment. We call it going to church. We observe and praise as many creatures as we can find. There are always the GDD (God Damn Deer... moderately demonized for their rose and garden-eating habits), hawks, kites, bunnies, osprey, crows, bluebirds, a rare bald eagle, occasional dolphins and great blue herons. A bobcat who lives out there was admired twice. The pelicans that cruise the waves in calm synchronicity are like prehistoric muses. When we went on my birthday, the beach was littered with bright scarlet starfish and gulls choking them down whole. In my own little story, they were a gift from the sea. I hope that my pottery recalls, cultivates and connects such stories.
The pots pictured here, under the latest inspirations, are freshly painted, pre-bisque firing. The grey color will blacken under the glaze in the next firing (and they'll be available for purchase at the upcoming Celebration of Craftswomen show this Friday-Sun, 11/11 -13).

2011-10-30T08:58:00.000-07:00

Though I felt required to attend, I’d been avoiding theOccupy movement in Santa Rosa. Icouldn’t agree more with the concept and the near miraculous fact of itsnationwide existence, but I didn’t feel up to a protest. I’ve been angry, I’ve marched, I’ve carriedsigns, and even shut down a freeway. Theemotional impact of being in that mass of chanting, angry people is increasinglyoverwhelming not to mention that it’s difficult to point to any direct effectof all the drama. Now it’s the busiesttime of the year for me, kilns to fill, pots to throw and paint… But the factthat people are finally standing up to point out the gross disparity in wealthdistribution and lack or proportional representation needs support. I had to be counted.

I also had to dosomething. I couldn’t just meander witha sign. I cut two National Geographicsinto 6x6” squares to fold 99 cranes to represent the 99% who are losing jobs,homes, health coverage, and social programs (plus 1 greedy little one with 34.6%of the nation’s wealth). While I attached handles and trimmed butter bells,Joey gathered together a portable sawhorse table, created signs, a T for thecranes and a cooler full of sandwiches. His vision was to provide the PB&J brigade: Peace, Brotherhood &Justice through free sandwiches.

We arrived whilethe marchers were still looping the town so we claimed the shade of a tree toset up. We were soon joined by Mia, whobegan folding cranes with me. We had 12strung by the time the parade arrived, fronted by a man dressed like theMonopoly millionaire and a sign declaring, “This is class war. We own you. Pay up”. “Some of us are justworth more than others”, he chuckled. Others signs included, “Democracy not Corporatocracy”, "What's more important, Paper or People? [drawing of dollar bill next to "paper"]", "1% fat, 99% milked". I do love the signs. Much more than the drum circle.

Folding the cranesprovided a calm focus and there was always at least one other person at thetable with me. Photographers snappedaway. Joey gave away 70 sandwiches tobig smiles and gratitude. By the time wepacked up, we had 81 cranes. I evenstumbled through an interview with KSRO. The Occupation wasn’t a scream-fest, instead thefeeling was relieved and playful, and being so close to Halloween, there werecostumes. A marked awareness of therecent violence at Occupy Oakland may have contributed to the city governmentofficially allowing tent camping on the lawn.

We’ll be back next week. As the sign said, “The Beginning is Near.”

2011-10-20T11:17:00.000-07:00

When the rain begins, our “backyard” forest blooms. Throughout the winter we see OysterMushrooms, Chanterelles, Hedgehogs, Lion’s Mane, Boars Head, Matsutake, Porciniand a million more we don’t know the names to. We don our camel packs, knives and bags and go out hunting. There’s a maniacal glee in the expressions ofall the hunters in our fungi bible, All the Rain Promises and More, andit bursts from even the most sedate hiker we bring along with us. Today we were already fat on the first loadof oysters I found on a tree the day before and turned into delicious gratin (http://www.epicurious.com/recipes/food/views/Potato-Leek-Gruyere-and-Oyster-Mushroom-Gratin-15641)which we will probably be having for Thanksgiving. The rest I sautéed in butter and froze.

The hike is a bitrugged, the paths are abandoned, overgrown fire trails from the loggingdays. I have patches of poison oak on mealready from the eager green leaves that embody “ubiquitous”. But the joy on sighting that angelic glimmerof white, a glowing cathedral in a misty forest, overpowers the itching (andfear of it). The oyster mushrooms formmagnificent bouquets along dead and fallen trees. I murmur, “Beautiful”, “Amazing”, as I cutthem down and hand them to Joey for cleaning. There’s a similar sense of awe and living community to that of thebees. We clean the log so that the nextbloom will have room to thrive and won’t suffer from rotting mushrooms. Over the years, we have feasted offparticular logs repeatedly, up to three times a season from the same one.

The first log wefound this morning just recently fell to the ground. But the second one was still wedged againstthe dead stump and another tree 50 feet up in the air. I gingerly harvested from this beauty,careful not to stand below it. Then Joeymounted it to capture the luscious ones just out of reach.

In all, wecaptured 10 lbs of perfect oyster mushrooms. There were many that were already past their prime and we spread theseabout so that their spores could do their magic. Home to breakfast and a hope that we canshare our abundance with a local restaurant in exchange for a meal. Bring on the rain!

2011-10-13T21:52:00.000-07:00

This summer’s third visit to the apartmentcomplex, the bees were in a second story eve (the perfect location on nearlyevery building). The first time, they were a simple swarm hanging from arose bush on the side of a courtyard where a rainbow of kids were playing. Without veil, gloves, or other protection, Idemonstrated and explained how peaceful the bees were in this state. I cut the branch that supported the heavyswarm and gently shook them into the box beneath. A mother arrived midway and demanded, inSpanish, for her son to go inside for his protection. He contested, in English, by repeatingexactly what I’d just told him. “Estaseguro,” I assured her. She stillinsisted that he retreat inside.

Thesecond visit was nearly identical situation to this third one, another secondstory eve. Joey had to build a structurebetween apartment fences to support our scaffolding. This time, the maintenance staff built us aplatform onto which we could construct our scaffolding. But I set theladder up to this platform and neglected to lock it properly. When Iclimbed up it with Joey’s drill box, the top section slid and I nearly lost mybalance onto the cement pathway, instead scraping an instant bruise on myarm. Joey corrected the ladder, I felt inadequate, and we continuedwith the job. I carried equipment from the truck and started the smokerwhile Joey revealed the bees. Around the roof’s drain spout, there wereabout six tall frames of comb, topped by honey.

Icut the comb below the honey and handed it and the associated bees to Joey whobrushed the bees off into our box then cut and attached the comb to ourframes. They were calm bees, mostly, but a few, as usual, got trapped inour suits, between us and the wall, on and in our gloves, and we got stung. With the roof location and the last blast ofpre-winter heat, it was hard to differentiate between meandering bee androlling sweat under our suits. Most of the stings were “false stings”,only partially penetrating through fabric and thus likely disconnected beforethe entire venom sack can pump out its fluids. They still hurt, like very focused burns. Naturally, the more we got stung, the more"punchy" we became. After a full-sack sting to my bellybutton,I stepped back and Joey took over the remaining honeycomb. Honey becomes a killer when you’re doing aremoval. It oozes all over the bees andkeeps them from flying or heavy chunk fall and crush them. No matter how careful we are to keep thehoney separate, there are drowning sticky bees everywhere, dragging themselvesto higher ground and trying to clean each other.

Finally, with all the comb inside our box,(three hours in total) we hoisted it up so that the entrance approximated theoriginal location. But we never got thatsatisfying buzz that comes when you grab the queen. We took a break to discuss out suspicionsthat she’d gone deeper into the building. I felt woozy. When I went back upthe ladder to help retrieve our tools, I was unsteady and sore.

“Getdown,” Joey insisted, “Relax.”

I sat on the grass and admired the varietyof stripe patterns on my fellow exhausted bees who meandered lost there. For the rest of the afternoon and evening Ifelt worked. I don’t know if it was theearly slip and resultant adrenaline, or the number of stings, which weren’treally above normal, but my legs were sore like I’d run a marathon and I lackedany form of energy. This doesn’t happenoften. But it invigorates a very presentfear; the one where beekeepers who hit that maximum-venom wall and suddenlybecome allergic have to quit because of it. And while apitheraphy is a nearly accepted treatments for MS, I’m notconvinced that the shock to my already whacked immune system is good for it.

Still, I had the focusing job of glazingthe load of pots that had been cooling in the kiln while we did the bee job sothat it would be ready for the upcoming weekend show in Half Moon Bay. Joey helped: blowing dust out with the compressor, sponging off pots andpointing out spots to be sanded clean. Even Dalziel, our magnificently hairy Manx cat, kept company. While I dunked them all in glaze, Joey pressedthe bucket of honeycomb we harvested: 12 ½ pint jars in all. Finally, I retreated to bathe and rest. I kept waiting for my tongue to swell and theresultant race to the Epipen, but it never did. Just my left eyelid.

The following afternoon we returned tocheck on the hive’s status. Theyrejected our box. Instead, they werehanging in a watermelon-sized cone in the cavity we had just evacuated. We lowered the box so Joey had access to thenow scoopable hive. With a spatula, heloosened thick clumps of bees into an aluminum tray and handed them to me. I poured these over the boxed comb with thehope that the queen and her minions would be attracted to the brood there. Instead, the bees took to the air and formeda cloud around our heads. We puffedsmoked and blocked up all the holes in the old location so that they would notbe inclined to return. As we were doingthis, I noticed a focused murmur of bees on the roof next to us. Then I saw her. She was young and fuzzy and barelydistinctive from the rest aside from the attention they gave her. Wherever she walked, they pointed likecompass needles in her direction.

“There she is!” I squealed, my hands fullwith the smoker.

Joey cupped her in his gloved hand and wastemporarily stunned with what to do with her.

“Up there!” I pointed. We had set the hive on the roof’s edge in thehope that the bees would walk up to it (their favorite direction is up). As soon as Joey let her out at the hiveentrance, she strolled in and the butts aligned in her direction. It is a magical sight. The level of communication, at proportionallymassive distance, is amazing. Bees thatwere nearly three feet away from the hive had their butts confidently in theair pointing in the same direction as all the rest. Then they fan madly so that all the airbornebees get the message. Next they march, aparade of determination. It’s beautiful. Parallel stripey butts. The ultimate synchronicity. Moments like this take dominion over thosewhimpering fears.

We left them again, to complete movingin. We’ll be back tomorrow to take themto their new home and make the old one completely uninviting andunbreachable. But we’ll probably be back, to another spot,same complex, next spring.

On the way home, we stopped by the CalvaryChapel to pick up a free ping pong table.

“Do you two go to church?” the young manwho showed us the table asked.

“Bees,” I responded. Truthfully.