Stick Bug Goes to Hollywood

Ran into this guy up in Griffith Park.  He got comfortable with us real quick ...

Fall

To those that say Los Angeles has no seasons, I say, well, you must have never lived under a persimmon tree.

It's been downright chilly here the past few weeks, with night time walks producing visible puffs of breath.  The trees in the yard are shedding, letting new light into the house.  The cats are permanently stationed by the heaters.  And my attic studio, a sweatlodge in summer, has become the perfect hideout. It's going to be a great winter.

Wilder

I need more print magazines in my life.  Even though mostly East Coast related, this one will soon be gracing my shelves.

Wilder Quarterly

Finds

My latest find – a set of petite engraved notes for different occasions (59¢ at a thrift store that will remain anonymous).  I have more invitations to Cocktails than I could ever have use for.

Owly Cohort

No longer lonesome on his shelf, this Snowy Owl, found abandoned in a charity shop in Hampshire, now has some friendly neighbors visiting from the middle of England.  That is, at least, until they get sent off to greet another friend in the post.  His ornery look, I'm afraid, is here to stay.

Owl print card by John Dilnot from Ancient Indsustries.

Sadscaping

Sometimes I see patches of plants (can't bring myself to call them gardens) that are just so sad.  I'm all for things looking a little wild and unkempt, but sometimes you can just tell when a plant or group of plants feels unloved and unwanted.  Poor dears.  So I've started taking pictures of them to share with you.

BONUS: variegated pittosporum wave?  This is a weird haircut.  Part of me likes it.

Camellias

We have yet to experience a full seasonal cycle at our new house, so I keep getting little surprises like this camellia.  Our house, which as built in 1906 (before much of Los Angeles), is surrounded by large camellia bushes.  I do not know when they were planted, but they're old enough to be elders of the yard.

In memory of Marge

 

There are so many pleasures my grandmother taught me, either directly or through my mom: searching for beach glass, a nice cold coke, big house parties, labradors, Cleveland, mid century design, big silver jewelry, hikes, good scotch, strong tea, oatmeal raisin cookies, classical music, birds of all kinds but especially cranes, warm lap-cats, old american antiques, red fingernail polish, red lipstick, anything red.

Missing you today, Grandma.

Don't forget the postbox

It seems like lots of beautiful things come from Swans Island, Maine.  These blankets and the cards above are prefect examples.  Saturn Press is so old school, they don't have a website or email address – you have to write to them to request a catalog. Their cards can be found at a lot of stores, including Papersource, but you never quite know what selection they'll have.  So when you stumble across one that you love, it's like finding an old friend that you can't leave the store without. 

I would buy all of their cards if I could.  The ones above are my top picks, and if you're one of my nearest and dearest, expect one in your mailbox this holiday.

The above selection is available here: Cronin and Company.

Prized Birds

I bought some antique medals several years back on a trip to Edinburgh, and have since been collecting them.  They make great pendants, and are usually engraved with the name of the winner, the date, and whatever the competition was.  I don't know what these medals were for, as the ebay listing doesn't show the backside.  Prettiest bird?  Homeliest Pigeon?  They're pretty pricey these days -- I got my old ones for 15 quid, a far cry from the $200+ these are asking.  Maybe if there was one with a friendly owl on it, I'd be willing to cough up that much.

Visitors in the Night

It was a year ago that my lovely grandmother had the stroke that pretty much was the end for her.  While she hung on for another week, she had one foot in the other world during that time.

Back in college, one of my mom's friends told me that when her grandmother was older, she made sure to ask her to send some kind of sign after she had died.  I think she asked for butterflies.  I don't know if she ever saw the flock of butterflies that was meant to signal her passing into a different realm, but the thought stuck with me.

When my other granny died, she spoke through the night and through the distance between the hospital and her home.  My grandad heard her call out, and wandered the apartment looking for her before he realized what had happened.

I'm not sure about what world we have this overlap with, but I do believe that our spirits separate from our physical selves.  Where they go or what they can inhabit is still a glorious mystery to me.

A few nights ago we had a visitor.  It was the coldest night yet here in LA, somewhere in the mid-40s and the neighborhood was surprisingly quiet.  We heard a loud and warm series of hoo's out in the night.  After walking to the front yard and craning our necks we could see a lump of something at the top of the very tall cypress tree.  As his head turned, the moonlight caught his white collar, and with binoculars we could faintly make out his little horns.

I'm not trying to insinuate that the spirit of my grandmother sent this owl on the anniversary of her stroke, but experiences with the wild can feel like encounters with another world.   In urban L.A., where we more often hear gunshots than owls, we truly felt like our presence was graced. 

Photo above by The Firefly Forest.

Indeed.