This last weekend I took a trip to Fort Bragg with my best friend, Lety, and her friend Jen, from work at the lovely bull’s eye – Target. We met in the parking lot of the Travelodge and proceeded to head to dinner. Given we’re in our mid-twenties and not high rollers – we ended up at Round Table Pizza, even though we wanted seafood. But the two places that the guy at the Travelodge were – no and no. After sharing 12 breadsticks and a small pepperoni pizza we headed back to the room to snooze. And I eventually fell asleep after 3 a.m.
On Saturday we grabbed Starbucks and headed to MacKerricher State Park to the tide pools. There were dogs everywhere, and the Park was having a sewage problem – which meant no running water. We immediately felt bad for the people camping there – no showers, no real toilets. And the porta-potties had not yet arrived. But, we headed down to the tide pools, down the long steps made for giants that seem to only appear at State Parks. And it’s these moments that I wish I was just a little bit taller, maybe even a baller, and had a girl so I could call her. However, the pools were a bit anticlimactic. We did discover two anemones – closed and open. One of which Jen took great pleasure in poking – the closed one of course. And we had a large man walk over and show us a sun starfish, one he had cradled in his hands. And I couldn’t help but recall the sign at the top of the stairs – to leave creatures where they lay – undisturbed. Still, families climbed down those tall stairs, buckets in hand, disturbing any creature left to be discovered. And it didn’t fail to me amaze me, how reckless people can be with children, ones carried in their arms. Especially since tide pools aren’t known for their lack of slips. Even later we would watch a couple climb a cliff side, the father carrying the daughter out-stretched in front of him, no more than two years old, no harness in sight.
And it’s not that I’m going to be a helicopter parent when I eventually have children. I don’t plan to protect my children from bumps and scratches and broken bones. That’s apart of growing up. But it seems kind of ridiculous to set your child up for a great fall – cliffs or tide pools don’t seem like comforting places to fall – at least compared to slides and swing sets. At least then there’s usually a hospital nearby – and not miles of coast, windy roads, and campers. But after a near morning of small tide pools, lacking captivating creatures to harass and dismantle and disturb, we headed to Longs to pick up some meds for Jen before leaving her in the room to recover.
Then, Lety and I headed to Point Cabrillo Light Station. I’d vaguely remembered going years before with my parents, when my mom had been looking for a pharmacy job on the coast, but I was apt to take pictures since the Lighthouse seemed aesthetically pleasing – at least on the internet. While walking down the 1/2 mile path to the lighthouse we discovered a warning sign for Mountain Lions, my favorite part of course: “Keep children close, as mountain lions seem to be especially drawn to them.” Who knew mountain lions were pedophiles?
We spent sometime take pictures, watching a kid climb down this steep grade hill, to the ocean, his parents staying up at the top, more self-involved with each other, while this maybe 10 year old boy climbed rocks on the edge of the water. And had Lety and I had more faith in our athletic abilities we may have too headed down the hill, but as you get older – there’s always the fear of getting back up. Instead we stuck to heavy conversations. About the necessity of someone – “getting you”. To the attractive qualities of blue collar men. There just seems something so grounded about them. They just seem to get the necessity of making a living and earning your keep. They have the capacity to understand your struggles in ways that sometimes I think academia lacks. Or people who have spent too much time behind books and not enough time grasping the dirt with their bare hands. They understand struggle – the raw – the edge – and they seem less likely to runaway – cause they’re rooted, responsible, mature, not stuck drinking seven nights a week [though I know blue collar alcoholics exist].
And as my friends have become very aware – my love life is quick and fast and loose – and it’s hard to keep track. But the now, is nice. The having someone get you – is nice. To have someone to just tell me to stop thinking and talk is so refreshing. To have someone be fucking honest with me. And he’s already managed to get under my skin in a week. Being beautiful doesn’t hurt, but there’s so much more to it. At first I might have been quick to write him off, since he works with his hands, like for some reason my inner bigot has decided those not “traditionally” educated must be stupid – and obviously I shouldn’t buy into this. My mom didn’t go to college until her 30s. And yet, being surrounded by academics – “thinkers” has simply made me that – think too much and make too many snap judgments about people. Because he’s smart, goofy, and in-tuned. And who knows how long this will last. But for now, as always, it’s nice to have someone to think about, and to think, he likes me too.
So eventually after our heart to heart, Lety and I headed back to pick up Jen, and over to some shops we’d seen on the drive.
The first Glass Fire, was open roomed gallery – with vaulted ceilings, big windows, and glass scupltures everywhere. Jelly fish of glass, oil, acrylic, vases, and chandeliers. We learned that in the studio, someone was making banana slugs and that we should go watch. We quickly scurried out and watched as this lanky fellow put together a banana slug, piece of molten glass upon molten glass, with only tweezers, scissors, and paddles at his disposal. The entire process was mesmerizing. We stayed for 1 1/2 banana slugs and two starfish, when he told us it was our turn. Throughout each creature he created he kept telling us to be prepared for our turn, all of us figuring he was joking, but when Lety and Jen turned him down, I jumped at the chance. “Well, if they’re not going to do it, I will,” I said, springing from my barstool. And he told me to come around and handed me my tools – scissors and tweezers.
It was from there that I became entralled [not that I didn't always want to do such a thing - the art of glass blowing has always intrigued me]. So he took out this glowing fire orange piece of glass and instructed me to use my tools. Of course I’m flying blind. I’m a pretty good mimic on watching alone, but I had no idea what I was making. Two quick pinches on each side of the glass blob – I decided this glass was to be a fish. From there I stretched out his body – using the tweezers to pull him toward me. Occasionally Buster would stop me and place the glass pipe back into the fire. He warned, “if the glass cooled too quickly it will explode.” And on most occasions I think such an announcement would scare me. Send me running back for cover around the counter of his studio. But instead, I was energized. I worked quick, making rash and quick decisions. Declaring that this little fish needed side fins and a tail and eyes. And piece by piece, my little molten glob became more and more fish like. By the end – I was sold. I was suddenly having fantasies of becoming a glass blower.
I’ve always had an artistic bent – drawing, music, writing. But nothing has ever just bubbled out of me so quickly. With writing – I get the itch, the bug, the middle of the night heaves of words upon the page, though lately these have been lacking. Instead I get the guilt – the “I should be writing.” The “I should be working on my novel.” I get that with my art and music too – the – I should be doing this. But, anymore I feel so uninspired. But with those tweezers in my hands, those scissors making a mouth for the fish, it was like having a fire lit back inside my heart. My own little lighthouse, sending signals from my chest to my fingers. To react, to create. And while Elmer [my fish] isn’t beautiful, isn’t symmetrical in any way, a part of me, of my spontaneity, my gut reactions, is held in that solid glass paperweight sculpture.
When I finished, Buster told me to come by Sunday and I could take the fish home. This surprised me most. Not only had this man let me into his studio, play with his tools, his products, I was walking away with my own little souvenir. If not even more surprising – if I had let them sell Elmer at the shop – they would have priced him at 50 bucks. As someone who went into writing because she loved it – not for the money – to see something I created – my first time around capable of having some monetary value in the real world shocked me. It was completely beyond me, that my little fish, in all his ugliness might be worth something other than the memories that went into his making. Now Elmer has become my surrogate for the travelocity gnome. I plan to take him around the world with me, as I embark for the Peace Corps this September. He’s come to represent the fire in my belly. When something just leaps out of me, a harness of creativity. And I’ve been bitten. I want to work in glass. I want to take classes and create beautiful things, beautifully ugly, but still beautiful to me.
Afterward we headed across the street to a pottery studio, and talked to the most hilarious woman, as she painted tentacles of clay, and spoke of a skull she’d pull from the spine of a dead seal on the beach, as the vultures circled around. The skull looked more like a Hawaiian shell – its bone smooth, white so white, a long spine down the front. It was strangely beautiful, and this woman was indeed a hoot. Each story she told became more and more ridiculous – from famous actors and their behavior and partying with the locals, to where we should eat dinner. And of course we listened and packed our bellies full of calamari, crab cakes, and fish and chips in the Noyo Harbor.
That evening we set up our tripods to watch the sunset over some coastal access just north of town. As seems to be the trend lately – I was ridiculous. Calling myself a bat, lifting my cardigan around my arms, flying around. Dancing in the water, making bad jokes, talking about Elmer and my future glass business. This idealistic front room gallery, back room studio, with a nice little place upstairs. And someone to share it with of course.
That night we crawled back into bed, and yet I had trouble sleeping, my mind full of so many thoughts from art to love to creation. By morning we gathered our stuff, and headed to do some last minute photography – this time at Jughandle Reserve. Climbing rocks and splashing about, the water cold, but our spirits high. We lunched in Mendocino, and drove back to my car at the Travelodge. I said goodbye with hugs and promises of future visits. If anything I promised a San Francisco photo shoot, at Lety’s request I model for her. And hopefully my narcisism won’t get the best of me. But, what a perfect weekend. And it’s nice, to be just so happy again.
Pictures
Not really a twig, I’d like to plead with my curves to stay, but we know beggers can’t be choosers.
