Back On Board
February 4, 2010 | By Mari | The Purple Muffin Diaries
January in the Bu
2010
A thousand cups of tea and a centillion of raindrops later, I’m back on the Purple Muffin wavelength. Instead of attending to my diary, I’ve been indulging in dessert writing (aimless, cherry on top, no goal in mind, fantasy) about the adventures of a flatulent hippopotamus, but it’s time to get current. More about the hippo later.
Last week the sky fell. Relentless storms hit LA, and LA responded as only LA would: instant flooding, drama in 3-D and non-news news reports — “Storm drains hold.”
With predictions of a tornado, (yes, a car flipped over in Long Beach and some trees were uprooted, but there were no casualties) landslides, evacuations in fire-ravaged La Canada and traffic advisories everywhere, we decided to be conservative and hunker down for the week. When the Pacific Coast Highway closes, one is locked out or one is locked in. Locked in is better, as long as the power holds and there are no earthquakes. So much to worry about.
Au debut of the weather prediction, we got into action and headed out to forage and gather and plump up the Muffin with basic necessities: propane, water, comestible staples, and amenable comfort preparations: last long dog walk and tennis ball-time on the bluffs, creative sources of entertainment, fun food. Fortunately we are only five minutes away from provisions of all colors, shapes, flavors and sizes: corn chowder and split pea soups and sour dough rolls from Marmalade, chocolate macaroons and grilled vegetables from Malibu Kitchen, salads, green veggies, tofu and fruit from Ralphs and of course a few tulips and stargazers to keep the spirits up. We were covered on the movie and book front. Writing paraphernalia, paints and pencils, film and dog toys are always at the ready. We really could have used some Wellies but they were not within our grasp. We have four pairs at home, but who knew? We traveled down here to escape the winter not to wade through it. Still, fasten your seat belt and relax into the ride.
THE DELUGE
Storm after storm strafed the bluff and all who rested upon her.
“Another cell is heading our way for a total of five this week,” the newscaster somberly warned in his well modulated announcer tones. A gentleman from our park office advised us to run for cover
and take refuge in one of the two concrete bath houses if there was another tornado alert and to fill up our holding tanks with fresh drinking water in case the supply was cut off. He’s just being a drama queen, right? Hackles up kids, or as my performer friend, Fay, used to say, “Tickets up girls.”
The Muffin rocked in the gale. The winds wailed. Hail pelted the roof. Rain blew sideways. Mumbles cowered under my hem, and Flakey looked bored. She was raised by a metal fabricator and accustomed to the sound of welders, generators, electric saws, drills, ad infinitum.
“What’s a little rain? This is NOTHING! “I heard her woof under her breath.
The walls were damp. The dogs were sodden, their paws full of sand. The bed was moist and grainy. There were very few clean corners to be found in our little sanctuary. Still, we were warm and safe and together. Isn’t that what counts?
Thank Dog for Netflix, the New Yorker, my harmonium. I had my yoga/meditation practice; Robert had his Kindle i.e. access to the daily London Times and passels of his clever photos to creatively manipulate. I worked on my hippo story — her name is Po, by the way.
I ruminated over Puddle Moon, my new picturebook … “For anyone who hasn’t forgotten how to dream,” and spoke with the publisher and designer. It’s due out in the fall, and I’ll have to jump right in as soon as we get home. So much to angst about.
Cell phone service came and went. Internet connections are still intermittent. But I was filled with gratitude for the cozy comfort of my family, sandy or otherwise. Yes we suffered from cabin fever. Twelve legs, four bodies, two eighteen inch fluffy tails and copious amounts of fur in a 350 square foot Muffin for five days can begin to eat your bread, but as the lightning flared at arm’s length — are caravans grounded? – and peal after peal of deafening thunder shattered the air, R and I looked at each other, smiled and pronounced in unison: “This is NOTHING!”
THIS IS NOTHING!
When we lived on the Greensprings’ Summit, we endured upwards of seven feet of snow during the very long winters. One afternoon, as we sat sipping tea by the woodstove and gazing out at the sullen landscape, we watched Morocco, our black quarterhorse, saunter by. He had simply walked over a fence that used to be. The snow was piled so high that all obstacles (and sins for that matter) had been buried.
At the summit, there was a single road in and a single road out. Greensprings Highway was winding and perilous. One skid on black ice or an error in steering could send you over the cliff into the black abyss.
I remember one particular frigid February night. I was returning home from a day Ashland when a storm set in. My nervous system went on high alert. I cautiously climbed the mountain, negotiating curve after treacherous curse. As I nervously rounded a corner, my knuckles white from strangling the steering wheel, a sudden flurry of driving snow assaulted my windshield.
My first white-out! It was blinding. I tried driving with the door open. Freezing air burned my face. Snowflakes blew into my eyes. I squinted. Attempted to discern the center line. At each approaching turn, I honked the horn, praying no one was coming around the next bend. Only faith and luck kept me from driving over the edge that night. There was snow, snow and more snow.
When all visible boundaries dissolve, what remains is the infinite heart.
We survived nine years up there on the ranch. During those pioneer days, my capacity for love and willingness to befriend my fears knew no bounds. “It’s character building,” Robert would say after another series of annoying, physically exhausting or harrowing adventures. I figure by now I’ve got
enough character in the bank to retire.
Here in Malibu on the Pacific Coast Highway, there is one main road in and one main road out and the hillsides tend to spill across it, in spite of the pyramid of sandbags and miles of black plastic sheeting secured to the earth with iron pins.
We lucked out, the roads stayed open and we stayed close to home. Sequestered on our perch, we observed the world with fortitude, determined to outlive the storm. There was a spirit of bonhomie. At the same time, tragedy struck in Haiti, the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan continued to rage, children were starving, the numbers of homeless mounted, congress played American Roulette with our future, and the days melted away as they do with or without our consent.
Why do I expect the world to be just?
For me, acceptance, gratitude and being of service continue to be the best tools for survival and an antidote to despair.
A NEW DAWN
The sun is rising as I write. The sea is dusky. Lemony light grazes the distant undulating water. A layer of purple is compressed between tangerine clouds and the cold sea. Above that, floating striations of pale pink are punctuated by steely long flat clouds. The sea growls. I love it. I love it.
I think about my friend who is in emotional crisis, another who is waiting for a liver transplant, an old girlfriend wrestling with breast cancer, my best friend’s husband who is undergoing experimental therapy for a rare disease. Our lives are so fragile. Our happiness ephemeral.
“Keep falling in love, Mari,” I remind myself. “Take pleasure in the moment, be kind. Look into your dogs’ eyes and don’t forget to wag at every opportunity.”
Joy of the moment alert.
I spot a ground squirrel staring straight at me. She has a small morsel balanced on her paws and is nibbling at high speed. It’s one of those adorable sights that defy description. The best I can do is to say:
“Sooooo cute!”
“Twitch twitch,” go her little lips. “Crunch crunch,” her jaw is working overtime. She flaps her tail, peers right and left and then segues to the sweet alyssum. It disappears flower, stem and leaf. All the time she is working those jaws.
“Sooooooo cute!”
“Whoosh.”
Down the hole she goes. Ground squirrel gone. Disappeared. Replete. Neat.
A LITTLE CULTURE…OR NOT?
During the deluge, regrettably, I had to sacrifice an evening concert at Disney Hall. I was to accompany my bosom buddy, whom I call The Bear ( I am The Bun.) The downpour was such that we erred on the side of caution and elected not to be on the freeway or coast highway at eleven at night. She has tickets to another concert in February. I anticipate it with passion and hope for clear skies.
Just before Christmas, The Bear and I did manage to get downtown to the LAOPERA at the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion. The rain was falling that day too, but we were attending a matinee and the storm was short-lived — maybe one and a half cells. The afternoon was perfect. On the menu was The Barber of Seville. The interpretation was whimsical, prankish, extravagant. The performance was high spirited. The voices were superb. Scenery and costumes were starkly black and white until the last act when the actors took us over the rainbow and the stage burst into technicolor. A dazzlingly bright, intense and bewitching palette. All that was missing was a chorus of “Somewhere over the rainbow.” But that was a different show.
The rain was plummeting down as we exited. The chandeliers glowed. The high ceilings and grand lobby were overflowing with opulence and glamour as were its patrons as they filed out in their fur coats and cashmere jackets, blue jeans and fedoras. The Bear and I had a wonderful time. We basked in the afterglow for the rest of the day. On the drive home, even the flooding on the freeway and the speeding cars on all sides of us didn’t trouble. We were ensconced in our cozy world on wheels reliving this act and that aria. Our feet and coats were damp but not our spirits. They continued to shine like an unquenchable flame.
THE JOY OF TIDEPOOLS
One sunny afternoon, Robert and I trekked down the steepish Malibu hillside to the tidepools. We teetered across the dramatic barnacled rock formations, admiring their exotic and intricate shapes and mesmerized by the rhythms of the ambivalent waves — intimately closing in and then receding, again and again — like some people I know (who drive me crazy).
Tenuously balanced, we crouched and peered under the rocks examining the salt water life. Awesome splendor. We took it all in: the limitless ceiling of blue sky, the briny scent of ocean that breathed itself down to our toes, sea gulls and pelicans and a handful of brave pigeons gossiping in a shallow tideflow.
I turned in a circle and I was in an art gallery. The rocks took on the impression of perfectly arranged statuary. Stately, graceful, magnificent. Mother Nature is a genius. What an artist is this grand dame. My perspective tends to be topsy turvy since I was raised in Hollywood and didn’t encounter the pastoral life until my thirties. I see nature as art, rather than art as nature. When I witnessed my first snowfall on the mountain, I was overheard to exclaim, “Look! All the trees are flocked. Isn’t it beautiful!”
As a kid I loved searching for the perfect Christmas tree (yeah I know, I’m a Buddhist Jew, confusing isn’t it?) I’d always gravitate toward the tallest Douglas Fir with the thickest white flocking.
I couldn’t abide the pink and blue ones. I guess you could say they were ahead of their time — the first punk trees.
THE RUDENESS OF THE TIME WARP
Recently I rediscovered the lovely woman who used to style my hair (and my mother’s)
twenty-two years ago, when we lived on Via de La Paz in the Pacific Palisades. Thu was still at her station at the same salon on Swarthmore. Thu is Vietnamese, petite and lovely. She and her family relocated to France when the war broke out. As I settled into the rotating chair, I had another welcome opportunity to stumble through my French. We had fun, just like the old days.
I had forgotten what it was like to be pampered. At home I do the minimum when it comes to beauty management. My esthetician works out of her home and is a one woman show, complete with Jack Russell Terriers offering kisses.
At Michéle International, Thu cuts, colors and styles, then Linda takes over and removes extraneous dye adjacent to the hairline, drives the hair dryer and proffers cups of coffee, or in my case water. Then there is Mary the manicurist. In the interim, while my color was cooking and the conditioner moisturizing, Linda and Mary persuaded me to “treat myself” to a manicure. I was a pushover. The reclamation of my weathered artist’s hands began at Mary’s table, but then became a moveable feast. When Thu announced that my color had ripened, Mary followed me around from one station to another in an effort to transform my beast-like hands. She succeeded brilliantly.
Momentary panic. I was cashless and the diffident girl at the desk said I couldn’t tip on a credit card. ATM to the rescue. I avoid these machines at home, but was glad to find one at the Wells Fargo next door. The last time I stood furtively in front of an ATM was in Costa Rica, four years ago. Another tale to tell another time.
My mother, Rhea, was a generous tipper. At a tender age, I was taught the art of invisibly passing a greenback from one palm to another. With panache, I made my monetary contributions to Thu, Mary and Linda. It felt heady.
Grasp her left hand in both of mine, gently squeeze and transfer said bill, neatly folded onto itself so no edges are visible – then another affectionate squeeze. Smile genuinely and slide your hands away, with a nod and a sincere sotto voce “Thank you” and lots of eye contact. Yes, it all came back to me, I would say ten fold, but in this case it was more like thirty or forty, — inflation.
When I emerged into the night four hours later, I was transformed. I felt as though I had been in a dreamworld.
TIME WARP INCIDENT TWO
The next day I took my hair maintenance shopping list to the beauty supply store in the Malibu Country Mart; I felt like a kid playing grown-up. While the very pretty gamin girl with the metallic red hair was ringing up my order, a thin, dark haired young man popped in the door.
“Do you have hair colors?” he asked with a smile, unembarrassed.
“You want punk colors.” She stated rhetorically.
“That’s right.” He nodded. She indicated the back wall, and he disappeared among the
cosmetic-laden rows.
I thought, “Here’s a secret language I know nothing about.” I knew I’d regret asking but I did it anyway.
“Exactly what are punk colors?” I inquired.
“Green, purple, orange, pink.” She replied while handing me my bag full of goodies: curling wand, travel dryer, two large rollers, cuticle stick and emery board for natural nails.
I’m a fly by my curls sort of gal and all this fuss was a mystery to me. It hadn’t always been so. In my model/actress days I was adept at the art of disguise, beauty and allure. Three sets of eyelashes were a morsel gâteaux.
I do clean up well and have a certain je ne sais quoi look and style, but nowadays I prefer comfort. Stylish body-hugging clothes give me a stomach ache. Mascara makes my eyes water and neat hair and groomed cuticles elude me.
Or so I thought.
This beauty stuff is addictive. I found myself liking the way my sleek curls hugged my cheeks, instead of the frizzy wild ones that looked like they were trying to escape into the next room. My nails were short, but now a soft pearlescent shade of pink made them restful to look at. I caught myself arranging them visibly when we went out to dinner the next night. Nothing wrong with a little self indulgence as long as I don’t forget it’s all a game and can walk away at any time.
Thu’s magic held for almost two weeks, but now it was time for my solo flight. This afternoon I tried to emulate what Thu had done. I curled and I blew and I combed to the best of my ability, but I looked like I had been shot out of a canon.
“Sigh!” I bow to Thu’s talents. It is always a joy to partake of someone doing what they do well. “It is worth the time and money,” I tell myself as I regard the image of the woman who just survived the attack of the curling iron and the assault of the round brush and travel dryer.
“Oh well, I’ll wear my panama hat today. “Once again, I applaud Thu in absentia.
“This is going to take some practice,” I assert.
ENTER THE DICK BAG
Early one morning, R and I were standing in the checkout line at Ralphs, after doing our daily foraging and grazing, and Robert heard a familiar voice. He discreetly pointed out a grey-haired man, casually but beautifully groomed, wearing navy blue sweat pants and a light gray cashmere sweat shirt and carrying a brown leather shoulder bag. The check out girls were giggling and catering to his whims. He was smiling and laughing and lapping up the attention. It turned out to be Dick Van Dyke. He is in his eighties and looks fabulous. As we walked to the truck, we discussed this phenomena of looking expensively casual. The current vernacular is shabby chic. We can do shabby and we can do chic. It’s combining the two seamlessly that is the magician’s trick.
After my four hour beauty stint, I began to understand about the pressure of glamor. There is no magic wand. Anyone can do it with hours and hours of free time, an entourage of professionals to sweat you, exercise you, dress you, hitch up your sagging jowls, groom you, and arrange you in the stingingly understated clothes that hang perfectly, look carefree and probably cost $700.00 to $10,000 a pop and counting. I’m not knocking it. I think it could be fun and no doubt I would get used to it, but it’s not on today’s menu. Still, never give up hope.
A glimpse into another world is fun, but beware the insatiable dragon of youth and beauty.
“Zoom out, Mari,” I remind myself. “See the big picture. Our hearts are the same.
Impermanence. Impermanence.” And that is precisely why I booked two more appointments with Thu before we head home. I am embracing impermanence.
Robert was particularly taken with the shoulder bag. He schlepps glasses, a camera, two sets of keys, a wallet, cash in a money clip, a cell phone, a fountain pen and sometimes, his Kindle. His pockets bulge like Dennis the Menace. I took note of the longing in Robert’s eyes as he admired Dick’s purse and decided this was not a luxury, this was a mercy mission.
So before Christmas, The Bear and I made a foray to Bev Hills. After much discussion and close consideration of various mens’ purses, we scored a light weight understated black Ferragamo shoulder bag. The salesman – young, polished, with shaved head and effete mannerisms — nodded his approval.
It has been donned The Dick Bag and Robert never goes anywhere without it. Did I mention that Thu had shorn R’s locks too? He actually looks shabby chic and very handsome indeed.
On that sunny shopping afternoon, the Bear and I took lunch in the lounge at the Beverly Wilshire Hotel. The piano player was no longer there, but the sofas were. We flopped on the soft maroon cushions, ate chopped salads and sipped Ceylon tea. I was dramatically attired in a long,
black, silk dress — a Harari printed with images of Quan Yin — flat shoes (my fashion downfall, but chosen precisely so I don’t tumble) and one of my outrageous straw hats, off-white with flowers and six abbreviated feathers on stalks. The beautiful Bear was dressed in tailored black trousers, a lemon colored jacket, a silk blouse with a lime and vermillion silk scarf perfectly knotted. Her jewelry looked expensively understated. She was a knock-out. We were enjoying being women who lunched.
Flashback to a time when Rhea and I would share a double suite in the back section of this hotel and and call room service on a whim. We were very whimmy in those days. She dedicated the center desk drawer to tipping money — singles, fives, tens and a twenty or two. Rhea loved room service and I so did I, but then who doesn’t?
When we first moved to Oregon and people alluded to how much they loved camping, R used to tease me by saying, “Camping to Mari is staying overnight in a hotel without room service.”
I do love luxury, but am held hostage by a work ethic that says I have to earn it. Luxury tastes like empty calories until I have done some good work, only then does it feel nourishing. It’s bullshit to be saddled with this uptight equation, but there it is. It smacks too much of the reward and punishment theories which have caused no end of havoc in this world. But I do subscribe to a bench line of balance with lots of leeway in both directions — flexibility partnered with right understanding. And for Dog’s sake, throw a bucket of cold lemonade on the judging mind.
The trick is to find an equitable balance between pleasure and practicality, between lasting values and passing fancies. Add them up and they give life its luster and rich mix.
I Have Made My Bones
…And through the years, I have made my bones
Juxtapose:
Sipping tea with the rich and famous
with
Delivering a breach lamb at two a.m. on a snowy night on the ranch;
Watching the swans swanning at the Bel Air Hotel after sharing a sumptuous breakfast on the patio with my mother
with
Clasping Rhea’s slender hand as death closed in on her, ten years later;
Breathlessly hovering over the Long Beach shoreline in a red Cobra Ultralight Trike and catching sight of whales spouting
with
Waking up in the ICU after open heart surgery on that dark December afternoon when the most precious thing on earth to me was a single ice chip;
Zooming down the PCH in my racing green XKE Jag with hair and scarf flying in the warm wind
with
Hauling ass across a hay field pursued by a rambunctious and ornery black ram with huge horns.
(I could still leap over fences in those days. “Whew!” Never underestimate the power of adrenaline.)
THE TURBAN ROCK
I forgot to tell you about the Turban Rock near the tidepools. It sat hidden in plain view. That is, it was framed by a vast, assorted jumble of rocks – above, below, to the right, to the left. But this beauty stood out from all the rest.
I thought, “This should be displayed in a gallery, no in my livingroom. I wonder how we could move it?” 
What is it about human beings that compels us to leave our mark on everything, like a dog on a tree?
That illusion of possession temporarily possessed me. Thankfully it passed quickly and sanity returned.
It turned out, the Rock had claimed me, not the other way around.
The gift of the Turban Rock was seeing it in situ. Now I took the opportunity to really look. I was in thrall with its astounding erotic roundness. Majestic. Magnificent.
The Rock Turban had an intoxicating effect. In the center rested a large stone ball. It wedged there perfectly. How did it get there? I think Mother Nature was playing a trick when she placed that ball in the Turban’s hold. She probably placed it there on a bet.
“Nah, that won’t fit,” said King Neptune.
“Betcha a tsunami it will,” she said defiantly and then came Aceh in 2004.
THE HARMONIUM AND OTHER BLISSFUL COMPANY
The last two Sundays I have taught Yoga workshops with my friend of thirty years. Saraswati, aka Chris Bennett, is a chanteuse and composer. We produced four extraordinary Yoga/Meditation cassettes together way back when and have grown closer through the decades. Saras is a statuesque blond who reminds me of a great big dollop of vanilla ice cream. We are like sisters and work symbiotically. Our rhythms are perfectly complimentary and we love sharing our successes.
During these afternoons, we guided twelve devotees through asanas, Kirtan (devotional songs) meditation and Vipassana Asana, (mindful movement). The afternoons were uplifting and powerful. When I teach, as when I am writing and drawing, the Muse takes me over. I feel full, content, centered. For a short while, I have a reprieve from the loneliness of being a human in a body. I know who I am when I am under the spell of my Muse. It is a grace. I am at one with life’s heart and spirit and dare to be fearless.
The nice thing about teaching is the company. There is something special about being surrounded by kindred spirits — the joy of immediate reciprocity and feedback is like the parching of a deep thirst. Writing and painting, however satisfying and magically transporting, are solitary endeavors. It is wonderful to experience the immediate give and take. These were especially sweet afternoons.
I am a pack animal. It is good for me to venture out of my cave from time to time and join my tribe at the watering hole. Here I revel in the company of my sisters and brothers. We partake of life’s simple joys with unselfconscious abandon.
Won’t you please join us?
May we all love and be loved and not forgot for one single moment how precious is this life.
May we sip of life as a delicious nectar and live each day as an art.
May we greet the moment with the innocent delight of children and puppies,
but with the wisdom of our years.
Stay tuned. More to come.
Today’s Mariquips
Regarding body piercings: if you flew over LA with a magnet, half of the population would be airborne.
The pressure of glamour is suffocating.
“You can’t go back.”
” Of course you can. That’s why God invented cars with reverse and eyes in the back of our heads.