tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16095783674000224722024-02-20T15:40:29.215-08:00Flying SquashDiana Caplanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08560756225109314544noreply@blogger.comBlogger48125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1609578367400022472.post-63098330777706226762014-09-16T15:03:00.000-07:002014-09-16T15:05:38.088-07:00Setting Myself Up For Success<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; color: #222222; font-family: arial;">Wandered the streets of Portland behind S and her friend E, each with a baby strapped to their bellies. They talked about mom things and I daydreamed and noticed figs, a bird nest, Asian pears fallen unharvested from a tree, a fuzzy melon, squirrels, tiny acorns, unknown flowers, the red edges of a white rose's petals, yarrow blooming from a lawn. I thought, "this counts as training for the half-marathon, right?"</span></div>
Diana Caplanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08560756225109314544noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1609578367400022472.post-42450340194200520462014-06-01T13:42:00.001-07:002014-06-02T09:37:58.669-07:00Birding<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
My mother gave me a bird book over the holidays. It wasn't a Christmas gift, it was just an extra bird book she had that she wasn't using.<br />
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Ever since I can remember, my mom has been looking at the birds around her home or on her travels, and marking them down in her book. Her bird book is now about 20 years old, worn and out of date. Bird species names' change over time as scientists decide to group and re-group species. I imagine these bird scientists like children organizing their toys in to groups, (this one with this one and this one with that one and no no no, now this one over here with this one,) quibbling over how to categorize all their pretty birds "the red square block goes with the red ball, not with the blue square block!!"<br />
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I've never been interested as much in birding. I've been more drawn to the stories of things, or the poetry of names. I saw names as keys to get to the more interesting information.<br />
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But this last Winter and Spring, I found myself with very little in the way of work, a house with a porch surrounded by birds, and a desire to sit on said porch and do the mental human equivalent of chew my cud. So I sat with my binoculars and wrote birds down and felt closer to my mom. That was the big thing, feeling closer to my mom.<br />
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Then other things started happening. I realized that every bird I saw, I could look it up in my book and learn it's name and some basic things about it. I didn't have to accept seeing a bird and not knowing about it other than what I was seeing right there. I started to learn the woodpeckers. I started to associate the sounds of their pecking with their names. I started to be able to identify from the inside of my house which kind of woodpecker was outside based on the sound of the pecking. Now that was cool. I became more attuned to birdsong, and would perk up at the unfamiliar.<br />
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It's been a few months now, and I'm busier, and my birding frenzy died down a little once I stopped seeing new birds every day. And did I mention I have a job now? So there's less of that sitting time. But I'm in a different state now. That's not a metaphor. I was in California and now I'm in Washington. Last week when I was walking down the road to the Mazama store I saw a pileated woodpecker for the first time. It was big and moved in swoopy flights between trees. And it was beautiful, and it brought me closer to my mom (metaphorically). </div>
Diana Caplanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08560756225109314544noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1609578367400022472.post-59670674701067860232014-06-01T13:32:00.001-07:002014-06-01T13:32:29.134-07:00Cooking<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
The air is warm today, and there's rain in it. I eye the painfully beautiful clouds with mistrust- I know there's lightning up there somewhere and I don't like it. But the air is warm and the rain has that smell, that new rain smell I love. Kind of like asphalt. It's not that it smells good, it's just I like the way it makes me feel.<br />
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I'm in Mazama now, one of the places my heart lives. I get to be here the whole Summer, this time as the cook for my beloved Outward Bound home-base. I'm tired of being in the field and being uncomfortable, but still want to be involved with Outward Bound, still love the community, still want to be part of the magic. So I swallowed whatever egotistical pride I felt about wanting to be the kind of person who is generally a baddass in the mountains and who knows about ropes and rocks and plants and group dynamics. Instead I'm indulging the part of me that loves to feed and serve people. And be creative with food.<br />
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I'd like to take a moment here to thank my former girlfriend and my ex-girlfriend for helping me learn to enjoy feeding and serving people. Without them, my own resistance at being in a role that I feel societally pressured to be in would never have allowed me the freedom to find out if I even enjoyed it. Something about being with a woman who loved me and who also cooked for me freed me up to love and cook in return. Thanks girlfriends.<br />
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So here I am, a skilled and experienced career outdoor educator staying indoors cooking, and almost thoroughly enjoying it. Half the time I'm just making shit up with a ratio of 80% inspiration and 20% panic (will it be enough? will it be on time? will it be delicious?). The other half of the time I'm cooking things I actually know how to make, or following recipes. This changes my ratios to 90% work and 10% worry. Outward Bound staff are hungry and grateful eaters. There's no group I'd rather be cooking for.<br />
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Maybe I'll post some of my recipes. Today though, I'll keep wandering around smelling the air, inspecting the cilantro seedlings, worrying over the tomato plants, keeping one ear to the sky for any distant thunderings coming to shake my heart and make me grateful for my indoor job.</div>
Diana Caplanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08560756225109314544noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1609578367400022472.post-41350557348607751132014-01-19T11:42:00.000-08:002014-01-19T11:44:40.832-08:00Stranded Steel Core: A Thank You Note<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
My new cello strings arrived yesterday and they are beautiful. Each is smooth wound in titanium or tungsten and silver; metals as pretty as as their names. Inside is a stranded core of thin steel strings bound together. They are strong, durable, and clear-voiced. They are not affected much by temperature and humidity. To tell the notes apart, they have silk strings of blue, gold, red, black and purple winding around their ends. They look like friendship bracelets.<br />
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They <i>are</i> friendship bracelets. My friends bought them for me when my old strings were unraveling. And see, <i>I am </i>my strings unraveling. I have been stressed about money and running out of it, trying to stretch what I have. I haven't gotten to the point of questioning my decision to quit my dream job (and the unfulfilled personal life that went with it) eight months ago, but I have spent weeks grateful for my roommate's generosity with rent. And I have spent nights awake in worry or asleep in nightmares.<br />
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Staring at my beautiful new cello strings this morning, I feel this: Somehow, I am smooth wound in titanium, tungsten and silver. My stranded steel core of friends will stretch and sing with me in to this unknown future. I will withstand the temperature and humidity changes with minimal re-tuning. I will be strong, durable, and clear voiced.<br />
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Thank you Katrina, Leta, Lilita, Justin, Hittl, Sean, and Dylan. Thank you Sue. Thank you. </div>
Diana Caplanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08560756225109314544noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1609578367400022472.post-76561908620244209122013-10-19T11:39:00.000-07:002013-10-19T11:39:01.573-07:00Foothill Roots Farm Mural Update 8: It's done!!!!!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
It's done!!!!<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvrFKUAT4Xrf9HT3BDeeCxGCK_uMR2AZ8KaiYPWmJ4PgVRLx41FrqZKMy8_aIVlB1ybfyoiN57HzCLlkqPJrGdO7lwvzOw1Ga7hH_2ocBBWqecbKxDIbUonR-mc4zfu6d80S6lEp1QADG4/s1600/IMG_0616.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvrFKUAT4Xrf9HT3BDeeCxGCK_uMR2AZ8KaiYPWmJ4PgVRLx41FrqZKMy8_aIVlB1ybfyoiN57HzCLlkqPJrGdO7lwvzOw1Ga7hH_2ocBBWqecbKxDIbUonR-mc4zfu6d80S6lEp1QADG4/s1600/IMG_0616.JPG" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;">
"This mural is a gift for my friends Diane and Pat and the people of Meadow Vista who love vegetables.</div>
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Muralist: Diana Caplan Assistant Muralist: Brent Klava</div>
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Painted with help from Gene Cain, Laurel Bollinger, Diane Bollinger, and Pat Bollinger.</div>
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Thanks to Sunset Ridge Mandarins, Gene Cain, the Kerns, the Lowrys, and Janet Root."</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhitldA0ef8ZXA8YNHGWkNdGnpDlbZTahd5LvNRbutGsT-kkWB0Eudw23ZXY47PQSBCVQzznMB05_8bcZ24pgkyQXCLRzWaiYV1AilCh3lUUr6JQkVwNBN-4MXyqmok2KA10BmubqPs6GXg/s1600/IMG_0627.JPG" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhitldA0ef8ZXA8YNHGWkNdGnpDlbZTahd5LvNRbutGsT-kkWB0Eudw23ZXY47PQSBCVQzznMB05_8bcZ24pgkyQXCLRzWaiYV1AilCh3lUUr6JQkVwNBN-4MXyqmok2KA10BmubqPs6GXg/s640/IMG_0627.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYvRwiLqeZQXC0TOaDt7-8-YYW_gQH2Mdlksh2Ncx2Fsiwafk922UDFotKrHPrS6NwoJGvz2SxIz29JdFFD8TNjWZtZi2pIUKqIsrCsrQOZ1yMYqvBje7fqU6V9KuAFWDbfsZlQ34O3KUl/s1600/IMG_0629.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYvRwiLqeZQXC0TOaDt7-8-YYW_gQH2Mdlksh2Ncx2Fsiwafk922UDFotKrHPrS6NwoJGvz2SxIz29JdFFD8TNjWZtZi2pIUKqIsrCsrQOZ1yMYqvBje7fqU6V9KuAFWDbfsZlQ34O3KUl/s640/IMG_0629.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZTUV2ysK6LesPy3sn-gzwDjFj3xo1WCfktdlaSYzbPjonI06C6U6iACI10l-A8dztpFIcEK3c2DLTuPifN-5ZgB7dvAxyO5L60hAaNo0ewVkeJB0wjBm2P9GPsqDH2Owk2JbfwvCnGrsb/s1600/IMG_0631.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZTUV2ysK6LesPy3sn-gzwDjFj3xo1WCfktdlaSYzbPjonI06C6U6iACI10l-A8dztpFIcEK3c2DLTuPifN-5ZgB7dvAxyO5L60hAaNo0ewVkeJB0wjBm2P9GPsqDH2Owk2JbfwvCnGrsb/s640/IMG_0631.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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This morning to finish up we wiped off the dirt that had dripped down on the painting from the top of the shipping container and then raced to put the finishing topcoat on before the sun came over the trees and heated up the surface too much to paint. We did it. </div>
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Brent has been such a help for this whole thing. At one point when he was away working, he wrote me a love note that talked about how he wanted to support me in this next phase of my life, this art and music phase. I thought he meant emotional support at the time. Neither of us realized that it meant he'd be be here for every day of painting. At some point I called him the Assistant Muralist, and he liked that. I like to tease him and say I meant to say Muralist Assistant. Either way, without him, this mural would be nowhere near done and I'm so thankful for all his help.</div>
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There was a time around the beginning of July where it had been four months since I had been researching mural painting and telling people I was quitting my job to do art and music and I was gonna paint a mural, and it started to feel untrue. Like it was just talk and I was never gonna actually do it. I had a couple of days of feeling like a poser, like I was just telling myself and others this story to seem cool. It was such a relief when I finally bought the paint because then I knew it would happen. And then it did. And now it's done. And I love it. </div>
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Here's some more details:</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQA8xQKTshEAPOF9ds54xZY40sbU99TX1PEVdi4sAV8Eu8-30pBXzwDbQNjP1JITi124a_9JCAVi-lseTRq1pZGddeu1OplJtgv1dNwCwvN1s_XpFRYBERBzIg0PLg5mMa8-W4fmUVN8XZ/s1600/IMG_0634.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQA8xQKTshEAPOF9ds54xZY40sbU99TX1PEVdi4sAV8Eu8-30pBXzwDbQNjP1JITi124a_9JCAVi-lseTRq1pZGddeu1OplJtgv1dNwCwvN1s_XpFRYBERBzIg0PLg5mMa8-W4fmUVN8XZ/s640/IMG_0634.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Worms.</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFPlRKgdoC_ReMJ-BmYIOS7zrGvfXMaWPdFEHNE4Euswl86x-y8hmUn830fWDgku7HLvFq7ygvdy965A8f0gnWfrIj531sVlLLnxphZ1tuuNdzrNzENruRYg5SFukNlyZt1ymdiy5pZ4-8/s1600/IMG_0636.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFPlRKgdoC_ReMJ-BmYIOS7zrGvfXMaWPdFEHNE4Euswl86x-y8hmUn830fWDgku7HLvFq7ygvdy965A8f0gnWfrIj531sVlLLnxphZ1tuuNdzrNzENruRYg5SFukNlyZt1ymdiy5pZ4-8/s640/IMG_0636.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Basket of acorns under the black oak.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLqy6pd9pokUr7lAnDApz2MNsdpg0SxcvAjXtE58u57WxshLTPkfHznhKXfFwlJLSuUhWaHRXU0doB8FHOctzjLXXhXa3xWKHn4NEs0zMf_5fJG68GgwUWyjJRQCzpHnLudc55JuMsY_hp/s1600/IMG_0638.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLqy6pd9pokUr7lAnDApz2MNsdpg0SxcvAjXtE58u57WxshLTPkfHznhKXfFwlJLSuUhWaHRXU0doB8FHOctzjLXXhXa3xWKHn4NEs0zMf_5fJG68GgwUWyjJRQCzpHnLudc55JuMsY_hp/s640/IMG_0638.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Falcon greeting folks at the covered bridge.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxNvRonXwdJzqWvSYPG-iO1xDOGy0z20CvbtV8uXFX64VLDOn-IyLWf3Sd780Umo4mf0z3ai9U3KsbQbEvKBnNKooxldX9jLdUvOWob8Hv2Cgxemz7ao2bl32So1n-c1uhFsUJnN4WrDdK/s1600/IMG_0640.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxNvRonXwdJzqWvSYPG-iO1xDOGy0z20CvbtV8uXFX64VLDOn-IyLWf3Sd780Umo4mf0z3ai9U3KsbQbEvKBnNKooxldX9jLdUvOWob8Hv2Cgxemz7ao2bl32So1n-c1uhFsUJnN4WrDdK/s640/IMG_0640.JPG" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cute tongue.<br /></td></tr>
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It's done!!!! I'm so happy and proud and excited. </div>
Diana Caplanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08560756225109314544noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1609578367400022472.post-69365643919933505922013-10-16T20:10:00.000-07:002013-10-16T20:10:10.810-07:00Foothill Roots Mural Farm Number 7 Update: More Progress <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Brent and I painted until dark today, and then kept painting with our headlamps. I took a picture of the mural before it got dark though. Before I show you that, check out how nicely Pat cut up these leeks:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjflI_NaFOt9OZAAqB0jXf0sUjpUs3BqlmkN0uRWI39Ac9T5STN4EjHWvZyXOunlWHtgu8McN03Uks5bF9hFQZmTXSg3N-XHxgZWC5rJS90YfBQNKDq_uyTZY1cbhI5gNWQn2iFgEZ0ZzMn/s1600/IMG_0605.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjflI_NaFOt9OZAAqB0jXf0sUjpUs3BqlmkN0uRWI39Ac9T5STN4EjHWvZyXOunlWHtgu8McN03Uks5bF9hFQZmTXSg3N-XHxgZWC5rJS90YfBQNKDq_uyTZY1cbhI5gNWQn2iFgEZ0ZzMn/s320/IMG_0605.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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Impressive leek cutting. Anyway, here's the mural:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPr1nwMLOyDDhlZTt7SeGZ4LmDpw8VC_Mr54gTNUulIWsnFoOCKdZiuBGwx8yi14ipDHyVWttNo_2RZRVgVnke68APxseMWMVwDBEme0oAZn6rumH1gcQWODgYkePVA8NCEqkGXEc7hlIl/s1600/IMG_0583.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPr1nwMLOyDDhlZTt7SeGZ4LmDpw8VC_Mr54gTNUulIWsnFoOCKdZiuBGwx8yi14ipDHyVWttNo_2RZRVgVnke68APxseMWMVwDBEme0oAZn6rumH1gcQWODgYkePVA8NCEqkGXEc7hlIl/s1600/IMG_0583.JPG" /></a></div>
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I know the picture sticks out of the blog frame when I make it this big, but I don't care. I'm excited about how the mural looks.<br />
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Here's a closer look:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiq2ro7YojsxxnKmCF_NBzj3fgArGeUkIaZ0BjF7VULzLHAMlcpSSG_chSCJJ2-iZexMq04eUTko6IXymP_Eo_74e9PQCVzBKNaCkq5deaa31rrnvErlhMP5KlxGdZyHtQvg0NePeCTlgGM/s1600/IMG_0595.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiq2ro7YojsxxnKmCF_NBzj3fgArGeUkIaZ0BjF7VULzLHAMlcpSSG_chSCJJ2-iZexMq04eUTko6IXymP_Eo_74e9PQCVzBKNaCkq5deaa31rrnvErlhMP5KlxGdZyHtQvg0NePeCTlgGM/s1600/IMG_0595.JPG" /></a></div>
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And closer:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi35W7ynA0bvyfMMcKAJe_x9yFHFe_TACjWzvT7pULm96Chn0hZHtIkKfZTPVAxJPlsxu3JzeAq5BR4gz0xan_PCyjFm7hS5V7Fufw239il4SA_ZUUx3Max4d5cqclHFKd0jqmVpu7Zb5R1/s1600/IMG_0603.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi35W7ynA0bvyfMMcKAJe_x9yFHFe_TACjWzvT7pULm96Chn0hZHtIkKfZTPVAxJPlsxu3JzeAq5BR4gz0xan_PCyjFm7hS5V7Fufw239il4SA_ZUUx3Max4d5cqclHFKd0jqmVpu7Zb5R1/s1600/IMG_0603.JPG" /></a></div>
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Whoah, that was too close. You can see the dirt streaks.<br />
No ones' perfect. </div>
Diana Caplanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08560756225109314544noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1609578367400022472.post-37191732748191213582013-10-15T22:05:00.000-07:002013-10-15T22:05:25.347-07:00Foothill Roots Farm Mural Update 6: Speed bumps<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Um, this happened:<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsMYqisX0_nd_7FtTzKWPQFge0X6ArwqBxlNOiSpAzS8EhhutF1dMSNe-_oj_s9Lw7VNCU_RFRktLtjaoGyViMgyBhf_k0JinQTXzETDvGXEnReHdGWcLLVK9y_ySN7Q1g6klCcKXh3SSZ/s1600/IMG_0576.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsMYqisX0_nd_7FtTzKWPQFge0X6ArwqBxlNOiSpAzS8EhhutF1dMSNe-_oj_s9Lw7VNCU_RFRktLtjaoGyViMgyBhf_k0JinQTXzETDvGXEnReHdGWcLLVK9y_ySN7Q1g6klCcKXh3SSZ/s320/IMG_0576.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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We got back from rafting the Grand Canyon (which was awesome, by the way) and found that the paint and primer have been blistering. Agh!!! How could this have happened???</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMN_F2OBqMj4rfqmu4-NReyyWSFc5RM6bZi7IaYumgyEQawQ7Jnda8KoV9GUJdYkFB52ECU6T0fgKPR-yQwneE0PTHkAqTRhRFkI1nHncgj3idgEbG_P8ReRPeOlC-tcTuB18kw3E7wGfK/s1600/IMG_0577.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMN_F2OBqMj4rfqmu4-NReyyWSFc5RM6bZi7IaYumgyEQawQ7Jnda8KoV9GUJdYkFB52ECU6T0fgKPR-yQwneE0PTHkAqTRhRFkI1nHncgj3idgEbG_P8ReRPeOlC-tcTuB18kw3E7wGfK/s320/IMG_0577.JPG" style="cursor: move;" width="240" /></a></div>
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The surface of the shipping container was real dirty when we got back, so I hosed it down. Could the rapid cooling of cold water on the sun warmed surface have caused it? Could it be that the primer has been exposed too long? Could it be the hot sun warming the mural? Sometimes it gets so hot it will burn your hand. Could it be the rain that came down while we were gone? What's happening? Why? Because we have no answers and don't know what to do about it, Brent and I ignore it and paint other things. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWTET9huspUjEHbmOJ1gJJo8qvU0TQHZsMlhwJxAITbO8gZHmYD6t5NF-MMjOnA1Z3tP26CBbfu0YKUNe1ThkRZJgh4faiNfQiERWpEhM_NzoxPQsf5xmKYMysdbADvzNl6XjcaTzUGT1q/s1600/IMG_0572.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWTET9huspUjEHbmOJ1gJJo8qvU0TQHZsMlhwJxAITbO8gZHmYD6t5NF-MMjOnA1Z3tP26CBbfu0YKUNe1ThkRZJgh4faiNfQiERWpEhM_NzoxPQsf5xmKYMysdbADvzNl6XjcaTzUGT1q/s320/IMG_0572.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
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Brent puts the leaves on the tree in the top right corner. I put Falcon the horse, in the field across the creek.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtuQypJjoPovIsYHYXnD26llVZdZCty4OCO2tqFVFO_ON2U1nV3aikF6Mv9n8_c5EO7zmZ0o3cMvKO2573y7e14brL8tevXtI_I8Qh9QrJAGorZgx8SvW4Qy1lMxG8uQK8YpIq0r37Bj0G/s1600/IMG_0573.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtuQypJjoPovIsYHYXnD26llVZdZCty4OCO2tqFVFO_ON2U1nV3aikF6Mv9n8_c5EO7zmZ0o3cMvKO2573y7e14brL8tevXtI_I8Qh9QrJAGorZgx8SvW4Qy1lMxG8uQK8YpIq0r37Bj0G/s320/IMG_0573.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
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There is a sign on the fence that borders the field across the creek (in real life) where Falcon used to live. It says "Falcon, Gone But Not Forgotten". I never met Falcon, but I guess he used to come up to the fence right where the trail goes by it and greet people. He's touching noses with a coyote in the mural. The idea of Falcon living out there in the field alone makes me a little sad. Horses are social and get lonely. My own horse spent a lot of time being lonely because we didn't know horses are social and didn't really think about it. I think it makes me sad mostly because I still feel guilty about my horse, Canela, being lonely for so many years. Anyway, Falcon is in the mural now.</div>
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And so are these confounding paint blisters. I finally decided we should pop them and scrape the paint off, re-prime those spots and re-paint. I'm afraid we won't get it all done by Saturday when Brent and I have to leave again. I'm afraid the mural won't be done before the weather really turns and I can't paint anymore. I'm afraid the paint will keep blistering and peeling off. I'm afraid the whole mural will peel and fall off, hundreds of dollars and hours and hours will fall to the ground in little colorful flakes. </div>
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But whatever. There are bigger things to fear. Like having a scorpion on your shoulder. That then runs down your shirt. On the inside. And stings you. That actually happened to Brent while we sat in the van after getting off the river. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1A4y3MrF_kEMduHpZG0iQ8dFVS0C9rAxdguHcucYasHSLOEiJiUjltZROk5tmUyLmC9VcVMOeMegDhe8_CNU6WSGWBwGY3Du1J5sGg_b8rFOuICj2tX8-Vw0Re733gUwPuuEyPjubGK4R/s1600/IMG_0580.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1A4y3MrF_kEMduHpZG0iQ8dFVS0C9rAxdguHcucYasHSLOEiJiUjltZROk5tmUyLmC9VcVMOeMegDhe8_CNU6WSGWBwGY3Du1J5sGg_b8rFOuICj2tX8-Vw0Re733gUwPuuEyPjubGK4R/s320/IMG_0580.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
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Another thing to fear is finding out the sugar in the cookie dough you just mixed up is actually salt. And now there's not enough butter left for a full batch of cookies. That actually just happened tonight to Pat. He figured it out when Diane tasted the cookie dough and promptly spit it out. Honestly though, that scares me less than the mural falling apart. </div>
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Something interesting: After we peeled the paint/primer off we scrubbed it with Simple Green to get our finger oils off so the primer would stick. Here's Pat's mom Gene, washing the spots. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDfWVs7S-ZhUKANAsCFht3HBcPDVVxaYraRgRh-3CEmIw6y4uKxEga5FBf9i2-C0TicKZuNMPGAjLu_3E4znRwpto_epP7DeEIkRb1Tl24-UwK9qqokfrjTa8VeWBqpOFBzq_llpq4PX5i/s1600/IMG_0581.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDfWVs7S-ZhUKANAsCFht3HBcPDVVxaYraRgRh-3CEmIw6y4uKxEga5FBf9i2-C0TicKZuNMPGAjLu_3E4znRwpto_epP7DeEIkRb1Tl24-UwK9qqokfrjTa8VeWBqpOFBzq_llpq4PX5i/s320/IMG_0581.JPG" style="cursor: move;" width="320" /></a></div>
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Notice they are blue after their scrubbing. There is another layer of white paint or primer under the primer I put on. It's covering up a bunch of blue and red paint that was already on the shipping container before I got to it. All the paint blisters are on this under-layer of paint. Very interesting. At least to me. </div>
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Anyway, it's late and I'm ready for bed. Here's one last picture of the blue spots getting primed again. We'll see what happens.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKPkfyRHL6c5CxiRB5KSlw7vyKGXzOzm_nOiPU_uZRVGuJeqKmlgjO7l83va7v3vTYB115jh4FyclfFol8Wrm8BviAYOChdHC7h6UH3QkUQG-4nQasSfHgYGbsfmfSy09nkDVymQivx5PO/s1600/IMG_0582.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKPkfyRHL6c5CxiRB5KSlw7vyKGXzOzm_nOiPU_uZRVGuJeqKmlgjO7l83va7v3vTYB115jh4FyclfFol8Wrm8BviAYOChdHC7h6UH3QkUQG-4nQasSfHgYGbsfmfSy09nkDVymQivx5PO/s320/IMG_0582.JPG" style="cursor: move;" width="320" /></a></div>
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Diana Caplanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08560756225109314544noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1609578367400022472.post-28598894128636746032013-09-13T07:34:00.001-07:002013-10-16T10:53:43.722-07:00Foothill Roots Farm Mural Update 5: Pause on work.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Well, just a quick update.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgN_fXehUH9HIzRjwq7Cu8hDdVOFn4UlrgNWHbWVH3CcGRjHnR1LfcEslW8_fSe92nlWR4K40D9PKUnXFn0Dd1prjyDWLTk52agkjmFSZL7j33SvTQQLpHCwWs_ahnQWFmVTacBImN3FV-r/s1600/IMG_0561.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgN_fXehUH9HIzRjwq7Cu8hDdVOFn4UlrgNWHbWVH3CcGRjHnR1LfcEslW8_fSe92nlWR4K40D9PKUnXFn0Dd1prjyDWLTk52agkjmFSZL7j33SvTQQLpHCwWs_ahnQWFmVTacBImN3FV-r/s320/IMG_0561.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">It's happening!</span></div>
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Also, there's still time to get your name in the mural as a supporter if you donate $25 or more before the mural is done! A number of lovelies have donated and it really helps a lot!</div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Here's some close-ups:</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-uOxDo24RavzGXVUdgsqI9EHKdtA7iEXd0yJPR_tbfDVwIBaIpau0_s-nxQ7TcbJN-nnq39Q6sTBBIRvIZ29BUBaR_t4eyNlTsIV_6HTtnG3yGLOL266UZ5b6Ma1RJiBDGfSnhv9CQJZH/s1600/IMG_0562.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-uOxDo24RavzGXVUdgsqI9EHKdtA7iEXd0yJPR_tbfDVwIBaIpau0_s-nxQ7TcbJN-nnq39Q6sTBBIRvIZ29BUBaR_t4eyNlTsIV_6HTtnG3yGLOL266UZ5b6Ma1RJiBDGfSnhv9CQJZH/s320/IMG_0562.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">I'll post more when I get back! Yay!!! </span></div>
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Diana Caplanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08560756225109314544noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1609578367400022472.post-29938230543327031652013-09-05T10:08:00.000-07:002013-09-05T10:08:47.065-07:00Foothill Roots Farm Mural Update 4: Get your name in it!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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One thing I've learned in taking on this project: It's expensive to paint a mural!!! Over the last few months I've spent about $450 just on supplies. </div>
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The majority of this amount ($410) is primer, paint and varnish. The rest is things like brushes (the rolly kind and the brushy kind), photocopies, pencils, cleaner, things like that. My mom and some friends lent or gave me a bunch of supplies so I didn't have to buy those: grid paper, a tape measure, sanders (which I ended up not needing), facemasks, a long handled roller holder thing, paint pans, etc. And Diane and Pat borrowed a pressure washer, which was awesome, so I could blast the moss off the surface. That was super fun. But anyway, I was talking about money.</div>
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I've been so excited to have the opportunity to paint a mural that I've been happy to spend my own money on this. I feel like it's giving me awesome experience and exposure as an artist. I get pretty much complete creative freedom. I get encouragement from Pat and Diane when I start to get nervous and have doubts about this or that. I get to support their farm, which I just think is so wonderful. I had this idea that after the mural was painted I would fundraise to make some or all of the money back. Because people would see it and love it and want to give me money, or something. Not sure what exactly I was thinking. It has occurred to me that that's kind of silly. If I start fundraising now, people who donate money can have their names in the mural!</div>
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So here's the deal: if you donate $25 or more to the Foothill Roots Farm Mural fund before the mural is finished (this is a moving deadline here), you can have your name in the mural as a supporter. </div>
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If 18 people donate $25 each, that will cover the cost of supplies!!! If more people donate, it can start to cover my gas costs! Yes! If even more people donate, well, gee, maybe I can afford to keep painting murals! Maybe I'll paint one for you! That would be such a dream for me. </div>
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How to donate:</div>
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<li>In person: come by the farm! </li>
<li>Mail: cash or check made out to Diana Caplan, 2314 Estes Rd., Chico, CA 95928 (if you are excited about getting your name in the mural, this is not the best option).</li>
<li>Paypal: you can send money via paypal to my email address, which is simply my name with no spaces at gmail dot com.</li>
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I quit my full time job a few months ago so I could dedicate myself to art and music for a year. By donating to support the mural, you are supporting me as an artist and you are supporting the Foothill Roots Farm and Pat and Diane as farmers. You are also supporting similar awesome endeavors that may take place in the future. I'd love to be able to paint more murals to support more causes. </div>
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Thanks so much for reading!!</div>
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Diana Caplanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08560756225109314544noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1609578367400022472.post-55887029745745293452013-09-03T10:39:00.003-07:002013-09-03T10:39:48.988-07:00Foothill Roots Farm Mural: Part 3<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
CRASH!!!!!<br />
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The loud thud and subtle earth shudder woke me this morning.<br />
"What are Diane and Pat doing down there?" I wondered from my bed in my tent on the hill across the creek. I assumed it was another shipment of woodchips. Real heavy ones.<br />
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Wrong. It was this:<br />
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"Start the harvest day off with some excitement, hey?" Pat shouted to me from where he and Diane were already collecting lettuce heads, even while I was still stumbling sleepily from the hill. No kidding!<br />
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Yesterday rained and thundered on and off all day. Pat blamed it on me, claiming I brought the storms. Not one to be pushed around, I cleverly retorted, "Me?? No."<br />
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I took advantage of the rainy day to finish the design for the mural on my little scale grid paper. So the schedule has shifted, and that's okay. After spending so much time outside in rain and lightning with students for so many years, I thoroughly enjoyed being in Pat and Diane's dry home, drinking tea and drawing coyotes.<br />
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On Sunday, before the rain kicked in, I did manage to prime the shipping container, Diane helped me cut away the blackberries in the work space, making it friendly for open-toed shoes. Today I'll be marking the grid up on the surface, so I know where to draw things. Then I'll draw things.<br />
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At some point today, my partner will arrive and I'll get to show him this wonderful farm that Pat and Diane have built. Tuesdays they harvest a bunch of things, wash them, bundle and box them to give out to their CSA (Community Supported Agriculture - it's like a weekly veggie subscription) customers. Last time I was out here I got to help them in this process, it was a lot of fun work. "This is so much fun!!" I kept saying, and, "I wouldn't want to work this hard all the time, but I'm sure having fun now!!" Perhaps today, while I draw things on the blank slate that is the future mural, my partner can have fun helping Pat and Diane.<br />
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Diana Caplanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08560756225109314544noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1609578367400022472.post-5590420836366982072013-09-01T09:17:00.002-07:002013-09-01T09:17:36.539-07:00Foothill Roots Mural Part 2<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
A few people have been asking how the mural is going and I'm happy to report I'm finally back on the farm and ready to start flinging paint around! Here's a rough schedule of when I'll be working on what for the next week or so. I've also included notes for potential helpers on when you can help and with what:<br />
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<li><b>Sunday, September 1</b>: Priming, letting it dry. Hoping it doesn't rain. I'd love help with priming but realize this is very short notice.</li>
<li><b>Monday, September 2:</b> Gridding, penciling in the mural design. Would love some help with gridding. I'll be doing the penciling myself though.</li>
<li><b>Tuesday, September 3 to Friday, September 6</b>: Color painting. This is the part that seems to sound like the most fun to people and that everyone wants to help with. Please feel free to drop by and check out how things are going, but it's unlikely I'll have much for you to do if you are looking to help. Thursday 3-7 is the farm stand, so if you come that day you can also buy some produce!</li>
<li><b>Saturday, September 7</b>: no mural work (my friend's wedding).</li>
<li><b>Sunday, September 8 and Monday, September 9</b>: Color painting.</li>
<li><b>Tuesday, September 10:</b> Either Varnishing the finished mural, or just packing up to leave for my next adventure (if it's not finished yet).</li>
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This whole schedule is of course subject to change based on the weather. If any of the fancy beautiful paints or primers wash off in rain I will be so sad!!! It seems ambitious to me to try to paint the whole thing in a week, but since my dear sweet partner has agreed to come out on Tuesday and help with stuff for the rest of the week, it seems more doable. Yay for supportive partners!!<br />
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One more important date:<br />
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<b>Saturday, September 28: Foothill Roots Farm Harvest Festival</b></div>
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Starting at 4pm, Diane and Pat are having their Harvest Festival. Check out www.foothillrootsfarm.com for more info. It's under events and Diane is making a post about it as I type. I wish I could be here for that! </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Diane, making a post. Note the hair. Oh yes.</td></tr>
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Between my last post and this one, I did make it out here to pressure wash the shipping container, which was really fun.<br />
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Apparently I like pressure blasting moss off of sheet metal. Who knew.<br />
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I've also spent a significant amount of time drawing, erasing, sketching, drawing, starting over, enjoying and agonizing over the actual mural design.<br />
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For example, these coyotes?<br />
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Not even in the design anymore.<br />
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These little planty vegetables however, are definitely still in. And in real life they're not even upside down.<br />
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Feel free to contact me if you want to come and help. I'll be checking my email and comments sections. Or call me if you have my number. My intention is to post more as things progress, but I've said that before and not followed through, so no promises.</div>
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It's time for breakfast and then painting stuff, hopefully. Thanks for reading.</div>
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Diana Caplanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08560756225109314544noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1609578367400022472.post-53694856431681779372013-06-26T21:04:00.001-07:002013-06-26T21:07:53.393-07:00What snagged on the sunflowers: a love letter.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; color: #222222; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Fields and fields of sunflowers stretch away from my arms, out from the steering wheel, green and yellow nodding heads. They all say yes to this drive I'm learning so well from San Francisco to Chico and back and back and back again. They line the road in numbers I've never seen, rows next to rows making squares of beauty growing, watching that blue sky, neverminding those clouds.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I speed by over and over with my aching back, stiff arms, restless legs, impatience growing. But also ideas and emotions. Like steam rising from a pond in early morning, but imagine it in motion, a mist of ideas and feelings streaming off my watery body as I move from home to home, snagging on sunflowers and catching in the beaks of those black curvy-billed birds I've been seeing the past few days.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">This idea of coyotes in my mural, a vision from under the black oak on the hill looking down over the farm and the grinding rock there. Those brokenhearted family feelings of letting go and getting ready to fight, like a cat bunching her haunches. Images of my new home and the creek that runs through it, the black walnuts towering over the little red house and the whirlwind of energy and doing that is my new roommate. More feelings around the massacre of the Maidu at the farm, and how it's actually more than that: everywhere I've lived has been stolen from someone. Remembering the grinding stones beneath my mother's house. The spring next door to my apartment and the shell mounds on the edges of San Francisco. Everywhere I live has been stolen unfairly from someone and this mural is just the first time I've really realized it viscerally and felt like I personally am part of the thieving and the benefitting from the theft. This desire to do what seems most like the right thing in each situation, such an impossible task but still trying anyway just because that's the person I want to be and that's the world I want to live in. The simple plain joy of eating a purple black plum ripe in my mouth as I drive and leave my mists hanging in the sunflower fields. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">And always traveling with me there's the thought of you and all this love between us. I want to share each day each thought each affirmative sunflower face most of all with with you. <span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; color: #222222;">So I am. Like this.</span></span></div>
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Diana Caplanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08560756225109314544noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1609578367400022472.post-59534164483067313412013-06-24T22:21:00.000-07:002013-06-24T22:21:15.408-07:00Foothill Roots Farm Mural: Part 1<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I'm going to paint a mural!! On this big blank shipping container:<br />
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Let me tell you more. My friends Diane and Pat have a new farm, Foothill Roots Farm (the astute reader [you] may have guessed this from the title of this blog post). The farm is in Meadow Vista, near Auburn, east of Sacramento in the Sierra Nevadas.<br />
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I got to visit the farm a couple of weeks ago. It's pretty wonderful. Diane is an old friend of mine- she has been one of my mentors in life and I owe a lot of my skills to her. In college, she'd always take me climbing and telemark skiing and was patient with all of my fears. In fact, she's the person who convinced me to apply to Outward Bound, which ended up being the best job ever. Anyway, she's awesome.<br />
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Diane and her husband Pat have now mostly left the world of climbing and skiing and outdoor education and have gotten in to that other adrenaline junky sport: farming. For real. They interned somewhere or other and learned a bunch of stuff and now they've started this farm in Meadow Vista.<br />
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What's amazing to me is how much work they have done. They just signed the lease on the land like 9 months ago and they already have a CSA going and a farm stand on Thursdays (3-7pm if you want to go by and buy something delicious to support them!). It's hard for me to understand how two people have done all this.<br />
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They've put up fencing, put down drip tape, put up a green house, cleared brush and grass, planted, furrowed, seedlinged, transplanted, thinned, covered, uncovered, mulched, and other things that I don't know the words for.<br />
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They've got this old tractor from the '50s that they've converted to solar power somehow.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pat says, "we've converted this old tractor to solar power somehow!".<br />Just kidding, that's not what he's actually saying.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The day I was out there helping, there were two other people helping. Diane told me that<br />was the most help they'd had at one time.</td></tr>
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They've had some help, in the two days I was there people kept dropping by to check things out and a couple people came by to volunteer. Apparently, if I'm remembering correctly, this is the first farm ever in Meadow Vista. From what I could tell, the community seems real excited and supportive of them being there.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgujzcfB_wOh-EGjBSy-x8j-KSNFrR83-WRwk1fSAbCfYRcZDzvl9fSBqrzqi5T2tfqB5oEbLzfuV-FGH1NT-BIl512DKpqREWlmwAKRkibaxtEylyw9ydo6wcoYwNrOc0M1wrWJG0VXlIP/s1600/2013-05-14+14.23.40.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgujzcfB_wOh-EGjBSy-x8j-KSNFrR83-WRwk1fSAbCfYRcZDzvl9fSBqrzqi5T2tfqB5oEbLzfuV-FGH1NT-BIl512DKpqREWlmwAKRkibaxtEylyw9ydo6wcoYwNrOc0M1wrWJG0VXlIP/s640/2013-05-14+14.23.40.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Ready?"<br />"Ready!"<br />"Farming!"<br />"Farm on!"<br />(I'm not kidding, they were climbers before they were farmers.)</td></tr>
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The farm is on the old Simpson Ranch and has some interesting history, past and present, which I'm still looking in to. I will write about that in another blog post. I'll also talk about the materials I'm going to use, the process of painting a 27'x8' mural, and brace yoursefl, I'll probably be asking you for money in every blog post!<br />
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I'm happy to paint this mural so I can learn experientially how to paint murals, get some exposure as an artist, support my friends and a good cause, and all that good stuff. Other than personal satisfaction and exposure, I'm not getting paid and am paying for supplies from my own pockets. Contact me if you'd like to get involved or want to help out with things like time, materials and/or money. It would be nice to be able to recover some of the costs. I'll write more details on costs in another blog post as well.<br />
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Thanks for reading! I'm excited to share this project with you on my blog as it unfolds! Feel free to share it with people you know!<br />
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Diana Caplanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08560756225109314544noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1609578367400022472.post-54982996532609437802013-03-15T20:11:00.001-07:002013-03-15T20:11:22.581-07:00Invitation<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"></span><br />
<div>
<div>
To live a life of fig jam and swimming holes</div>
long walks and at least two kinds of hummingbirds</div>
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naked desert showers and coyote song</div>
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belly laughs and belly love</div>
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nighttime kisses impervious to mosquitoes </div>
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big blue sky of a blue not taken for granted<br />my company for hockey sometimes</div>
<div>
massaged kale and steak cooked perfectly two different ways<br />teaching and learning to catch with a mitt </div>
<div>
crying because it hurt when the ball hit</div>
<div>
and stubborn refusal to stop learning </div>
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at least until it's just not fun</div>
<div>
and then also</div>
<div>
canoeing fishing coffee </div>
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tea sailing sit-ups </div>
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pushups beer banter</div>
<div>
and learning more birds<br />walking more miles</div>
<div>
and each new thing that makes you come alive</div>
<div>
with me.</div>
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Diana Caplanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08560756225109314544noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1609578367400022472.post-5406582895644138232012-08-29T21:39:00.000-07:002012-08-29T21:39:03.482-07:00The Shape of Letting Go<br />
<div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Coming home from the ceramics studio </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">driving so close to your house</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">what used to be your house</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I look that way </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">think of you every time</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">feel a pull towards places you used to be</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">like my feelings are clay</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">and love is gravity.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Then driving down the eucalyptus hill</span></div><div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">towards my home now</span></div><div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">longing for the way you move</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">through the world and through me</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">my mind, my lungs, my heart</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I work at my feelings like clay</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">and form the shape of letting go</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">and the shape of acceptance</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">and loving anyway.</span></div></div></div>Diana Caplanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08560756225109314544noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1609578367400022472.post-87125390044998813542012-08-09T17:28:00.000-07:002012-08-09T17:28:29.325-07:00Smoke SignalsThunderheads and lightning on a hot day in Southern California. We drive to the post office and pass three fire trucks going the other way.<br />
"I wonder where the fire is," my mom wonders.<br />
An hour later, back at the house, I go outside and see smoke is billowing over the near mountains. I run through the house to find my mom. She's not there. Planes flying around carrying water. I find her outside directing the arrival of a new manufactured home (she works in the community where she lives, selling manufactured homes). I point at the sky, and hope she doesn't get too nervous. A few years ago, her entire community was evacuated. I'm a Wilderness First Responder and I know how to stay calm in emergencies.<br />
"I know, I've been watching it" she calmly informs me.<br />
We come back inside. I urge my mom to start packing now in case we are evacuated. My mom is much less worried than I am, "oh, the fire trucks haven't even come in from this side to fight the fire. Last year, they were driving up the street to fight it. Take this one," I carry the box of family photos she points out to the pile of papers and boxes. I go outside to check the smoke. Looks bigger to me. I pack my things. My mom calmly goes through papers. She tells me there's a phone tree in the community in case they need to evacuate. I pace. I go outside to check the smoke. There's more white in it this time. My mom tells me that means they are pouring water on it. I can smell the skunks that are nesting under the house. Another water plane drones by. My mom is still sorting papers, putting birth certificates and other things in a cardboard box. I pace. Earlier there was a single column of smoke that started billowing white from the water. It split in to two columns orange and black and spread out in either direction. The fire itself is a couple hills away, I can't see it, only try to read it's signals in the smoke. The phone rings. It's the call. I stand up. My mom answers. I hold my breath. She frowns. She hangs up. <br />
"Is it the phone tree?" I ask, because she hasn't told me.<br />
"No, it's a sales call," she laughs. I resume breathing and notice I have my hands over my heart.<br />
"Oh." I sit down.<br />
We check the smoke together. It's more spread out now, covering more of the horizon. But it's also thinner, more orange. My mom calls a coworker who's son-in-law works for the fire department and finds out that the fire is in Chihuahua Valley. We look at a map. I estimate it's four miles away at most. Another plane flies over the house.<br />
"Well, this was a good little drill," my mom says good naturedly.<br />
"Were you even worried?" I ask.<br />
"Well, not really. We went through this last year and I was nervous. Now if it had been really windy, that makes the fires travel fast. But it wasn't particularly windy."<br />
The sick feeling in my stomach is starting to go away.Diana Caplanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08560756225109314544noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1609578367400022472.post-15699139932891049162012-07-14T21:58:00.000-07:002012-07-14T21:58:11.454-07:00HopeHope is a funny thing. It's rope that burns your hand and also holds you, keeps you from falling.Diana Caplanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08560756225109314544noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1609578367400022472.post-34730101126426216422012-07-01T10:10:00.000-07:002012-07-01T10:10:44.529-07:00Clay!!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">There is a lot of stress in my life these days. Work, family, car almost getting towed because I forgot to move it on the day they were painting stripes on the street, you know, the usual. There was a time when my guitar was my journal and my therapist at once, I'd sing everything I felt. That doesn't seem to be happening for me now. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">But you know what is happening for me now? Clay! It had been about 8 years since I had touched clay, but I found out about Ruby's Clay Studio in San Francisco and started going to their drop in hours. Just to remember how to work the clay, I made a couple of dinosaurkangarooalligator creatures. They are sitting on my dresser top now. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgw7SpnnJE1wmdaQTGZKLj1Ij7qeZmE3teJLN_3grglg6-i-sXGAZ9pVsLgOLxoD9be-A3PwRS6b5JpMI3vMzFhmjD-yHaB9oqxxsBbdR6oP0uTodlnGz1aTcSlHhCQ2LhhStx6Mgk2lwmH/s1600/Photo+294.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgw7SpnnJE1wmdaQTGZKLj1Ij7qeZmE3teJLN_3grglg6-i-sXGAZ9pVsLgOLxoD9be-A3PwRS6b5JpMI3vMzFhmjD-yHaB9oqxxsBbdR6oP0uTodlnGz1aTcSlHhCQ2LhhStx6Mgk2lwmH/s320/Photo+294.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Different people see them as different things, and I'm fine with that. I see them as full and happy of whatever I want to fill them with. Especially the fatso one with her arms around her belly. She's so full! Uhhhhh!</div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwv1CA1_NJeeiJOn_AiNmIyXh0JSPls2ajYVJWz-QDeSB9HMglx6ZQ9iHSkJibq4_hXamGgFSU-KnoQymZUUORV9OcBqsvv3LzIEIWVjCPR0RRFSBrPiEvpN0cMxEaeKm-EZbKotcUC5iM/s1600/Photo+295.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwv1CA1_NJeeiJOn_AiNmIyXh0JSPls2ajYVJWz-QDeSB9HMglx6ZQ9iHSkJibq4_hXamGgFSU-KnoQymZUUORV9OcBqsvv3LzIEIWVjCPR0RRFSBrPiEvpN0cMxEaeKm-EZbKotcUC5iM/s320/Photo+295.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Now that they are done, the obvious next move is big slugs. </div><br />
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There's something about moving clay around with my hands, all the mooshing, smoothing, cutting, forming, that is so good for getting my mind off what worries me. I don't think about whether the group in the field has enough water carrying capacity for their dry camp tonight. I don't think about my sister and her choices. I don't think about missing my partner and being lonely in this city.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDy_jP75AZQsXnkdro6McDxXWx-gt-4F36gXJG1SUGaaMc1vnOd0F94MNlkoo5bJWMaWTV5yVBNnwh28YGAhX-BrJLh_mSeRQ612wMTdNo04WOzGL47o7CdAIp6ppeWbchDFsSsPlp_F_9/s1600/Photo+297.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDy_jP75AZQsXnkdro6McDxXWx-gt-4F36gXJG1SUGaaMc1vnOd0F94MNlkoo5bJWMaWTV5yVBNnwh28YGAhX-BrJLh_mSeRQ612wMTdNo04WOzGL47o7CdAIp6ppeWbchDFsSsPlp_F_9/s320/Photo+297.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">When I come home from the ceramics studio I feel like I'm doing good work with my life, and am filling the rest of my time with worthwhile things. I feel like I am the person I want to be when I grow up. I feel whole and complete.</div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvhEfXtCsotF6McsIq579Mo4z6Jn1z3bZDkXm_8Gsnnxx-FAGq7f4g2V37pO-C-YVAvBGkhocsWTPHsHZqMLVR-uibUBo37LrZ970bIshYm9Wuu5ZaBXTMdII2mKcSnsFxfd5gJWJa0_wP/s1600/Photo+298.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvhEfXtCsotF6McsIq579Mo4z6Jn1z3bZDkXm_8Gsnnxx-FAGq7f4g2V37pO-C-YVAvBGkhocsWTPHsHZqMLVR-uibUBo37LrZ970bIshYm9Wuu5ZaBXTMdII2mKcSnsFxfd5gJWJa0_wP/s320/Photo+298.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Diana Caplanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08560756225109314544noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1609578367400022472.post-82740058498007692332012-06-02T17:27:00.002-07:002012-06-02T17:28:16.924-07:00Lo mejor de hoy:<br />
<br />
Pitayas en venta al lado de la carretera.<br />
Melón, piña, papaya y granola en la Comer.<br />
Los mismos cuento de siempre con mi papá.<br />
Muñeca Fea, la perrita nueva, linda, quisiera llevármela a San Francisco.<br />
El caballito recién nacido que esta a la vuelta de la calle.<br />
El alboroto de vida en el jardín.<br />
Vainilla, suficiente para regalar.<br />
Chacuacos en la mañana.<br />
Que siempre pienso en regresar a Rosarito a vivir, aunque ya ni me la creo yo misma, pero no paro de pensarlo.Diana Caplanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08560756225109314544noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1609578367400022472.post-80764156299879881502012-05-21T22:04:00.000-07:002012-05-21T22:04:00.383-07:00Favorite Parts of Today 5.21.12My cello lesson, even though my vibrato still sucks. The notes are ringing more beautifully and my fingers know where to go sometimes without me having to tell them.<br />
Harmonizing foghorns.<br />
Sticking my bare hands in to a pot of hot sticky rice in a failed attempt to make onigiri. It all stuck to my palms and fingers, which is what made the rice balls not work, but was also the best part.<br />
Standing outside my apartment looking at trees.<br />
Setting up my tent in the living room.<br />
Eating so many longan berries.<br />
<br />
What were yours?Diana Caplanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08560756225109314544noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1609578367400022472.post-25084168048406564002012-05-17T20:57:00.000-07:002012-05-17T21:37:21.283-07:00Favorite parts of todayFavorite parts of today:<br />
<br />
My roommate making me strawberry peanut butter nuttela toast to thank me for cleaning the fridge.<br />
Waking up to birds singing.<br />
The part of Sweet Potato Bug that I play with my index finger walking up the D chord.<br />
Finding the salsa I wanted at the grocery store.<br />
Drinking water out of a big jar.<br />
Sitting on my bed and reading.<br />
Finding out a childhood friend is engaged and seeing her cute family photos.<br />
Vacuuming my toenail clippings off my bedroom floor, finally.<br />
Thinking about my sister and how despite everything, I love her so much.<br />
<br />
What were yours?<br />
<br />
Update from a little later:<br />
Hearing that coyote outside my apartment. My San Francisco apartment.Diana Caplanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08560756225109314544noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1609578367400022472.post-37589128153175156282012-05-17T15:22:00.000-07:002012-07-14T22:00:31.274-07:00Drunken BeetleSweet Potato Bug<br />
Sleeping in late again<br />
You never ask for anything but to be loved<br />
And the world offers itself to you.<br />
<br />
Sweet Potato Bug<br />
Staying up late again<br />
Smiling you dance when you're drunk on the light of the moon<br />
Like a beetle in a Hafiz poem<br />
<br />
Finally, the beginning of a new song. It's been a while. This song may never get finished. I may scrap it by next week. But it's good to have a song happening. And thanks to Serra Sewitch who first introduced me to the Hafiz poem "What Should We Do About That Moon?"Diana Caplanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08560756225109314544noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1609578367400022472.post-44266983762175824892012-03-16T21:49:00.000-07:002012-03-16T21:55:06.131-07:00Letter to Ira Glass and the Producers of This American Life<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Regarding the Retraction Podcast</span></b><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Dear Ira and producers of TAL,</span><br />
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Over the years, I've come to really love <a href="http://www.thisamericanlife.org/">This American Life</a>, and you Ira, in particular. I feel like I know you like a friend. A friend who is always telling me good stories and listening to others with compassion, and beginning sentences with "I feel..." and being open about how others see things and willing to really try to understand why they think the way they think. I feel that approaching others in this fashion builds bridges between people, which leads to peace. Inner peace, peace between people, world peace. Some kind of small piece of peace. This approach matters to me because this is a way of moving in the world I constantly strive for. And this is what makes me feel like you are my friend.</span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I just listened to the <a href="http://www.thisamericanlife.org/radio-archives/episode/460/retraction">Retraction podcast (#460)</a> and it has moved me to want to be there for you the way I am there for a friend going through a tough time. This has been the most moving episode of TAL that I've heard. Really.</span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">When I was 16 or 17, I found out that ####### had been sexually molesting a number of my friends. When I confronted him about it, he twisted the story. He justified. He lied to me. The <a href="http://www.thisamericanlife.org/radio-archives/episode/460/retraction?act=2">silences between your words and between Mike Daisey's words</a> sounded to me like that day in that conversation, when ####### whom I loved and trusted, turned my world on it's head. I wanted to believe him. He also wanted to believe himself. He needed his version of the story to be true. And that made things even worse. </span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span">In your voice, I could hear you wanting to believe Mike Daisey. Wanting him to just explain why he lied. I mean, you even said that. You went so far as to point out to him why it would be okay to admit it, giving him a very human reason why he may have chosen to lie. And he wouldn't do it. He needed his version of the story to be true. And that made it even worse. I am so sorry, Ira. I recognize that finding out someone lied to you in a journalistic sense and finding out </span>#######<span class="Apple-style-span"> is a child molester are different in many ways. But I imagine you are sick over the possibility of your loss of credibility, an intangible thing it takes years to develop and can be broken in an instant. This is not so different from breaking someone's trust.</span></span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">####### later admitted to me that it was true. This may be the main reason I've been able to reach the level of forgiveness I have. But today, a decade and a half later, I still don't completely believe anything he says. I hope so much that this doesn't make you less trusting of people on your show, less compassionate or willing to hear their stories. I hope you are still able to build bridges of sound and understanding between people. </span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Maybe there are listeners out there who will be angry with you, who will trust you less. Who will like TAL less. I'm writing to let you know I'm not one of those. I am impressed at how you and the producers of TAL are handling this. I empathize with your fear, embarrassment, anger, broken trust and feelings of betrayal. I stand behind you. I still love and trust your show and the part of you that I know through the radio. I think even more now than before.</span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Thank you.</span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Diana Caplan</span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">P.S. I donated $10 tonight, just to prove that I mean it. I know it's a small drop in your bucket, but it's enough to make me feel better about all the times I haven't donated to your pledge drives. </span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span">P.P.S. If this email goes anywhere public, please just replace the parts that say "</span>#######<span class="Apple-style-span">" or "</span>#######<span class="Apple-style-span">" with "#######" or whatever. I will speak out against him in an instant (and have in the past) if I think he is still molesting kids. I honestly don't think he is right now though, so I don't want to mess up his life unnecessarily by going public with it again. Thanks.</span></span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;">
</div>
</div>Diana Caplanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08560756225109314544noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1609578367400022472.post-29743861762666462412012-02-28T14:39:00.002-08:002012-02-28T14:39:31.335-08:00Hummingbird nest over the trail.Twin hummingbirds this morning in the nest over the trail. Waited until the mother bird came. Watched the feeding amazed her hummingbird beak didn't poke holes in their throats.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Diana Caplanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08560756225109314544noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1609578367400022472.post-53654205940684103012012-02-24T17:28:00.000-08:002012-02-24T17:29:53.395-08:00I Caught A Rat By The Tail Today<div>
Journal entry from 2009:</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<blockquote>
I caught a rat by the tail today. </blockquote>
<blockquote>
Sorting through my things in the driveway, I heard rustling under the tarp. I looked and there it was. I thought it was a mouse. It wasn't very big, the size of a large chicken egg, big cute eyes, big cute ears, furry tail. Furry tail? Yes, furry tail. </blockquote>
<blockquote>
Reaching down I tried to grab it's cute tail but it moved. I then put my finger on it's tail and pinned it. I yanked my hand back, afraid it would turn and bite me. It ran off then. </blockquote>
<blockquote>
Later, I saw it again. This time I grabbed it. Holding it up by the tail I was suspecting it was sick. No way would a healthy rat mouse let me grab it twice like that. Just lean over and pick it up? </blockquote>
<blockquote>
Ma said it must be a kangaroo rat. That makes sense to me. It was way cuter than any house mouse or city rat. Holding her up, looking her over, I wasn't sure what to do next. Didn't want to just kill her. Didn't want to let her go in the field. If she was sick it was probably from rat poison, and anything that ate her would get sick, too. </blockquote>
<blockquote>
I ended up putting her in one of my plastic boxes with a dish of water and a piece of bread. She'll get better or die, then I'll let her go or throw her in the trash. She's dying though. Getting weaker. Laying sprawled, eyes closed, reacts less and less when I come near. She'll probably be dead in the morning. </blockquote>
<blockquote>
I never want to use rat poison. I'd rather use a trap than poison. What a terrible way to die. What a waste of life. What a terrible way to poison an ecosystem.</blockquote>
<br />
Epilogue: The rat was dead the next morning. I threw her in the trash. Later that day, in my mom's shed, I head rustling on the shelf. Another rat peeked it's head from behind a plastic tub, beautiful and alive. After briefly weighing pros and cons in my head, I pushed the box suddenly backwards, breaking the rat's neck against the wall. Threw the still beautiful dead rat in the field.Diana Caplanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08560756225109314544noreply@blogger.com0