You look radishing!

Welcome to the phase of post-fire projects! The stages of devacuation are apparently apathy, laziness, sloth, denial, acceptance, and productivity. Yes, it will probably burn down some day, but I want a few good seasons first. Who knows? Maybe I'll get lucky enough to grow my own food once peak oil hits! Peak oil, infernos, economic collapse—it's sure to be an exciting surprise! And everything is better with salsa. Thus, tomatoes, jalapeños, cilantro...I also planted leeks, basil, carrots (the cool multicolored kind!) and—it turns out—WAY too many radishes. Or at least enough that I'm going to need to track down some delicious radish recipes.



To create these beds and fill them with the composted caviar and angora to pamper my seedlings took a lot of work...mostly work to generate the cash to buy the materials. "Dirt cheap" doesn't have much relevance for urban gardeners anymore.

Assembling the boxes was pretty easy work, and very rewarding. Little plants tucked into their new beds are as cute as leafy kittens. I like to imagine them purring... not really the best image as I yank them out of the dirt and bite their little radish heads off... still working on it...

Shell shock

At long last, all that was evacuated is back, and almost all of it unpacked—including the camera cord! Being the most challenging to evacuate, the tortoise stayed at the safe house until the fire was GONE. And it's GONE.

Despite having spent all but two weeks of her 15 years on this little side street, she seemed pretty cool about her adventure. Considering that she got to ride in the Official Vehicle and wear a special silvery name tag (note the duct tape), she seems reluctant to talk about it. Notice the moving out of frame "no comment" shot.


Then again, it's difficult to detect enthusiasm in a tortoise. She holds her cards close to her chest (metaphorically speaking, since even if she had thumbs, her legs are too short to give her much choice in the matter).

Speaking of reluctance and tortoises and legs, tomorrow is the marathon. I'll be thinking of this big lug, my 80 pound symbol of endurance, as I'm enjoying some music and Gatorade. Hopefully, I'll have some good stories to tell when I get back.

Devacuating. Ugh.

Devacuating. The threat has passed, I can move all my crap back into my still-standing house. I should be ecstatic. And I am, really, except I just can't get my butt off the couch to move back in. Say what you will about evacuating—it's not boring. Devacuating on the other hand is all of the lifting, none of the adrenalin.

Why am I not skipping home with my uncharred treasures? I suspect it's because I've become a deadline junkie. Like most writers and editors, I don't do anything without a deadline. It's gotten so bad that I've become to think of myself as two distinct people.

Deadline-me and sans-deadline-me probably resent sharing the same body, since non-deadline me won't stick to a diet. Without deadline-me, non-deadline me would be chillin' on section 8 housing and disability. Maybe knockin back some 40s. Non-deadline-me shakes her fist towards heaven, cursing deadline-me for being so damn functional--more realistically she'll get around to shaking her fist whenever she hears that the earth has turned to the exact point where Santa Barbara is facing Jesus in his heavenly throne. Non-deadline-me doesn't like any wasted effort. Even deadline-me likes efficiency, right? Right?

As an example, when the Jesusita evacuation warning arrived last week, I had the car loaded and a friend's car loaded right away. When Goleta Valley Mini Storage (a company so awesome I will be trumpeting testimonials until my own long-term storage date), that is to say, Goleta Valley Mini Storage offered free storage for evacuees, I was on it. Unloaded the car with the help of a friend, and made a second trip. I had the animals evacuated. I was On It.

When the mandatory evacuation order arrived, I was ready. Dogs in the car, overnight bag packed and tucked behind the driver's seat, material goods in storage, full tank of gas, and cash in my wallet. If everything at the house was burned up, I would have been fine. Good thing, since the fire got pretty close. I gotta say, deadline-me is made for evacuations.

So now, the fire is—hurray!—over, and as great as deadline-me was for evacuating, she's nowhere to be found for devacuating. Paintings, paperwork, boxes of emeralds and rubies, etc. drum their nails waiting for a ride home from Goleta Valley Mini Storage.

I'd hoped to post some pictures, but the cord that connects my camera to the computer is still at Goleta Valley Mini Storage. It might be awhile...

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Quit Stahling

I feel like a pretty moderate person in most things. I eat healthy food, but also lots of cookies. I go to yoga, but only once a week. I own a car, albeit somewhat reluctantly, and use commercial shampoo, unlike many people I admire. Things like that make me feel a little like a mainstream sell-out, but after hearing Leslie Stahl suggest that it's a luxury to teach kids how to prepare food, I feel like a 100% pure, organic, microwave-free hippie. Kinda diggin' it. Rock on, Alice!



Thanks, Trekking Left, for sending the link.

Newt in town

Last week, Newt Gingrich was in town, speaking at the Young America Foundation. On Tuesday, I sat across from someone who had attended. When he first mentioned he was going, I wisely stopped myself from saying, "Seriously?" He was 100% sincere about it. A true Newt fan. Seriously!

At some point in the last few years, my political views became much more focused. A side effect is that it takes less time than before for me to decide that someone is a doof. That seems like a step back in some ways; one might hope to become more tolerant and compassionate of others' views as one matures. That's one of my goals, at least: to gain wisdom and perspective with age, the kind of deep calm which seems to bring with it a certain mellowness and even humor about the strange dance that is American politics.

Worse, I can't claim to be much better informed than I was when Newt was on the Big Stage. To be honest, I don't know the specifics of Newt's ickiness, just that his ideas have been presented as a point of contrast to ideas I support. What happened to listening? What happened to being open to the possibility of goodness?


All this by way of introducing a blurry photo of one of my favorite tiny creatures, this one found in the yard today. I love these little guys. They're easy to mistake for earthworms at first. They're about the same size as an earthworm and they have a passably-wormish brown-red color. Their little legs are tiny, with little newt toes that look like the world's tiniest jazz hands. So cute, the newt. Finding one of these little guys hiding under a flower pot seems absolutely magical to me. Even the fact that he's actually a California slender salamander doesn't keep from thinking this is the best newt in town.

This is what an activist looks like

As an activist knitter, I believe in showing up to bitch in person about things I don't like. I've attended my share of political protests and rallies.

So, last night, I took a [ridiculously over-scented, sorry about that] candle down to the S.A.M.E. vigil to encourage the California court to overturn Prop. 8.

I'm not going to go into the reasons why. If you're reading this blog, you probably already know them.

There were a lot of cameras there, which is great news for a protest group. There were at least two professional video crews, plus some pretty serious looking photographers. Lots of documentation of all sorts. As I kinda tall woman, standing toward the front of the group, I expect I was in more than a few shots.

So, where the heck does all this photo data and video footage end up? I was photographed, I was filmed, but where is the result? I haven't seen any online coverage. Since I don't have a TV, that limits things. Many times in my life a friend has seen me on the news or found my picture in the paper. I wonder where I'm showing up this morning.

I don't think I'm paranoid or extraordinarily vain. It's just odd to know that somewhere I'm part of someone's permanent record, yet I don't know whose record or where it's kept.

Supposedly, people in isolated tribes worried that having a photograph taken meant one's soul might be taken as well. That might be a legend. Yet it seems a little part of activist me has split away to lead a new life, forever holding a [smelly] candle in a group of hopeful people, willing to stand for something. If anyone looks, I'll be there. Maybe I'll see me someday.