Exploring – Page 5 – Stephanie Sicore

August 6, 2007August 6, 2007

Refresher at the DeYoung Museum

We drove into the dripping fogcloud, nestled ourselves in Golden Gate Park;
ran across Strybing’s damp green lawns, held hands across Lincoln avenue;
climbed sculptures, tripped security fences;
touched artwork, careened down staircases;
shotgunned white halls, leapt off sacred benches;
sweated, grimaced, laughed, shrieked, held hands;
faceplanted onto a mirrored glass exhibit case,
you guessed who: Chas
took pictures, toppled glass vases;
stampeded back through the arboretum,
held hands under the weepy eucalyptus;
chased squirrels, held hands across Lincoln Avenue;
squirmed in our seats, drank Thai beer;
savored a steaming bowl of pumpkin green curry
corn cakes, satay and pad thai
held hands under the table
another beer, a better reference point;
Amoeba records for a Dr. Who series DVD,
Goodwill, lucky me, offered
a handmade, tailored vintage women’s western blouse
Then a quiet moment off Haight, where I brainstormed in peace;
Then snaked along the San Andreas faultline,
watched the fogclouds creep over Skyline
like a suspended avalanche,
a stampede of white buffalo, frozen in time,
pink-tinged crests from the hidden sunset;
and sundown’s reflection off Loma Linda,
A blushing blue bear on our horizon.
And suddenly we were home.

++more photos are over on flickr++

August 3, 2007August 3, 2007

Routine Assessment

Once in a while, I have a day, maybe a few days, of dysfunctional funk. Sometimes I think it’s my mind’s clever way of alleviating boredom. The day is inevitably sunny, my children are particularly joyful, my husband–syrupy kind. It matters none that he’s remarked n how beautiful he thought I looked, nor that my dinner was delicious. It matters none that I sat on the floor and played Legos with my children, made a lego woman for chas with boobs, made a rocket with Ford; nor does it matter that I rocked and read and rocked and read and read in bed with happy pillows tossed at my head, midafternoon. It isn’t enough that I was able to watch them paint in the garden, watch them paint their toes, then their feet, their legs, their tummies: a robot here, a Dalek there, a rainblow of tempera-covered rocks beneath a wet easel. Smiles, laughter. Running, oh the running: unhinged and impulsive, a Thoroughbred on fresh green grass, and then the wind kicks up, and he bolts, breakneck, a half-eaten mouthful of grass falls at your feet. Or a string cheese wrapper.

On days like this, I pore over yesterday’s photographs. I rediscover beauty to validate my perception. See? I noticed that! I’m not dead. I SAW that!

I noticed a jumble of sea-jewels,

a tangle of mermaid thread,

grass, whispering along our walk

I caught the salty smell of Chas, whirring past me on the trail

and the soothing lull of a calm Pacific afternoon, heavy sand, horizontal bliss

a little vertical tension.

and the coastal summer smells of dried wildflowers, trampled ice plant, baby seal poo and low tide, trailing on the sweet sound of swaying grass and Ford, who had just told me this was his new favorite beach ever.

So why the dull face, woman?

Just throw the ball. I’m here all day! How about you?

August 1, 2007August 1, 2007

SPC :: Patterns :: week 1

In the spring, we took a boggy family hike through a riparian gulch along Skyline Ridge. Our feet were wet with dew as we plodded across a green meadow that lined the creek and opened to the morning sun. Spiders scampered underfoot. But the boys mostly chased each other, shouting southern anatomical parts and faceplanting into the foot-high grass occasionally. We stopped for lunch on an oak knoll, and passed around sandwiches and sunscreen. Out of my pocket I fished these intact turtle scutes that I’d found on our walk up there around an alpine pond. I figure they’re either from a painted turtle that got caught by (like I’d know, right?)…a coyote?

Scutes are like the skin on a turtle shell. In fact, it’s derived from the epidermis. The word ‘scute’ is derived from the Latin scutum, which means ‘shield.’ The shell, or carapace, can withstand great injury in order to protect the turtle; even deep cracks or entire missing portions are then filled with bone and then able to heal. The carapaces grow outward like the rings in a tree trunk. Just look at the beautiful patterns they make over time! And that, my chelonian buddies, is proof that the God drops acid.

More SPC patterns here.