Blog-azic

At Atlantic Beach, we walked into a sunset of vermilion red rays lighting up the sooty cloud bottoms - the last tendrils of sunshine reaching up from beyond the grave, with a spirit that seemed to refuse death. Eventually, though, there was purple dusk, deep blue water, and a hint of pure, new-bent, moonlight, before the final, cold darkness as we found our way back to the boardwalk. We ate burritos in Beaufort at a hip joint and threw away a couple quarters in an old arcade machine. Seems like we died no sooner than we started. Is that a metaphor for something else? At the Gloucester House, looking over Sleepy Creek, Down East in North Carolina, we ate farm fresh eggs. The yolks burst force fierce, tiger orange, creamy rich and running, pouncing, perfectly cooked with toasted whole wheat bread to sop it up and thick orange juice, full of pulp, to wash it down. We were all northern transplants in that kitchen - except the dog - and we jawed on about this and that: the husband

It seemed that the dry, desiccation of San Francisco followed me home. I flew through September on caked clay wings, ran on baked mud feet, with cool dew nights and pleasant, yellow days to soothe me, even as I worried about my thirsty gardens. I hunted paw paws on my birthday - a tradition and a gift to myself - where I saw a little school of fish circling round a shrinking pool of water, that hot, dry air threatening them with death. I planted a couple trees in the yard, a brown beauty magnolia and a rising sun red bud, struggling through the cemented clay and fill dirt, which were beset with river gravel and stone. At other times, Susan and I spun up tunes on our old piano, which we purchased from a thrift store as a joint birthday present. Finally, as September waned and Autumn's first moon waxed, my father came to visit ahead of a mass of hot, humid air. Both came from the south. The tropical storm (Nate) tracked up through the Gulf and Louisiana. My father, Jim, came from Am

I was becoming a wizard at fried bread, white rolls cut in two, fried in hot butter then topped with sharp cheddar and an egg. It was a Zen karma gift to my wife and hosts: many mornings of happy bellies to you. This day was bright and sunny. The fog was absent for the second day in a row, and we took advantage of the weather to climb up to the top of Bernal Heights Park where Rob, Kate, and Marley, the black wispy dog, were walking. They gave us a bird's eye tour of the city, everything that could be seen, which was north to the bay, east to Oakland, and west just to Twin Peaks. We made plans to visit the wave organ just east of the Presidio on a narrow jetty of land stretching into the Bay. Our driver wound through the streets until we reached the Marina District where we abruptly jumped out of the cab and walked down Chestnut street in search of food. When we settled, I ordered a big plate of Thai rice along with a glass of purple wine. The walk to the wave organ was ex

This morning at the bakery down at Ellsworth and Cortland, halfway down the Bernal Heights hill, I sat with a black, wispy, fog-haired, nervous, pacing dog and waited for Susan to get a mug of coffee. Across the street, St. Kevin's church, pink Spanish stucco, and church bell a-ringin', was open and three big, burly guys were exiting dressed fine, smiling somewhat and chatting, and a big black hearse was parked out front. They were also going for coffee, and it reminded me that a funeral, in the end, is more about life than it is about death. We grabbed a Lyft south to Pacifica to hike out to Mori Point, and we felt the summer, dry desolation hills, and the cross winds and heard the roaring ocean, and watched the kelp sway, and the birds hover in the air. I grabbed some dried out seeds from a dead yarrow and crushed them in my hand, and Susan did the same, and it was pungent spice perfume. The ocean was blue then grey with fog, and ghost ships were floating out near

Our hosts left early for a natal check-up. That first evening when they broke the news to us, I felt a warm rush of happiness. Children. There's great joy in a house of clean emotion and the thought of it growing like a garden is one to hold. After breakfast, we picked an Asian bakery near Geary and 2nd and went in for some dumplings - bloated, sweet-doughed, pork buns, little soup dumplings filled with shrimp, and balls of sticky rice and sesame seed with red bean paste inside. Umami delights. Tickling my senses and coaxing me to sleep on the long winding hills past Marin City. In fact, I really had to shut my eyes since the turns were making my head reel. We found our way to the National Monument. The great cathedral for the immortal tree, of the immortal trees. Always, sempre. The woods were truly stunning, familiar, foreign; immediate, far away. Later, at the beach, I sat cross legged and meditated on it all - and the biting wind - and just the idea of warmth to keep me

We rose joyful for another day of exploration. Down the hill, Susan and I bought coffee and bread. I heated pads of butter in a black iron skillet then fried white bread in the butter and topped it with sharp cheese and egg. Down Mission Street today towards Embarqadero. Sunday morning promise on the streets. Shops with doors wide. Yucca roots, waxy brown and creamy white. We missed the bus, and so, tried the BART instead, the banshee subway. The moan of an angel choir. Impermeable sound. Hollow, hot "oohs". I half wanted to cry in wonder and half wanted to yell in terror. I settled for a quick recording on my phone. I sat on the Sausalito Ferry, astern, and watched the churning water and the pier recede. The Bay Bridge seemed manic, long, jutting, spanning half the bay in two bounds, then linking with some island, and another bridge, and a causeway for the remainder. In Sausalito, we drank wine at a restaurant overlooking the water, feeling the Bay's expanse

The morning was shrouded in - what else - fog. The whole day was an undulation. Experience the breadth of the word. Topology. Contoured lines. Every perspective was skewed. Nothing was close. We stretched our legs. From Mission Street, we went to Delores park. Kids gathered on the lawn out front of the high school. It was textbook. Cider. Then, lifted up and down to China beach. Cold winds and the bridge was still in tatters of wispy bay fog. Cliffs melted: trees, juniper rugs, scree, to boulders. The ocean was grey to green. I could hardly stand it for the cold. So, we rose on a string of pearled houses. Blue iridescence spread out in the bay. Sunlight hit the magic angle. We saw depth and shallow in the water, or maybe they were kelp beds sheltering mermaid's purses and skate eggs. And finally, the old orange sentinel was uncovered, burnished, glowing. Jasmine tea. Burhma and Russia. Peru as the night went purple. Tart purple wine, too. Hominy. Ceviche. There was

When I came to Mexico City, there was music reverberating in my head - a song from my dreams - but as I wandered Avenida Insurgentes, the sound faded. I thought about the Metro instead. One day, I went to Zocalo in the rain. There were endless streets of shops with anything one could want: dresses, shoes, underwear, food (of course), trinkets, cowboy clothes, crafts, electronics, jewelry, baskets. The stalls went up and down alleys. It was a market en masse. There were people en masse, too, crowding on the Metro, pushing against me so that there was no need to hold on as the train moved. Falling was impossible. Another day, I rode the Metro to Candesa, and walked without a map. I wound through the streets, past El Universidad de los Americas, past an aqua duct, until I saw a golden angel floating above a grassy knoll, cars circling around it. I stopped for a chocolate drink in a rich, hip barrio. There were clubs blasting music, storefronts filled with half naked mannequins (male

We took a trip to Oak Island, NC a few weeks back with some UNC grad students and rented a beach house for a "writing retreat." I didn't have any writing to do, so I took a couple instruments and spent a lot of time at the beach. Benji and I sat for hours in the sun with a chilly breeze. He was quite patient and watchful and didn't mind my violin or tin whistle. I've been playing the violin for a couple years now (two in June). Even so, the instrument is tough and I find myself squeaking more than I'd like. I played "Marching Through Georgia" and thought about the triumphant march to Savannah by Gen. Sherman and his army. It's nice to play some northern songs. I find most of the tunes I am drawn to are Southern. Susan and I hung out with the kids in the evenings. Dinner at the Thai restaurant, an impromptu recital, home brews, etc. Sunday I fiddled with a little birdie (I am told). Before we left, we grabbed lunch on the beach and broke i

https://tomazicc.tumblr.com/post/159094486609/painting-the-house-wearing-my-bibs I've had weeks of painting since we bought our house. Rhinestone, Light French Gray, Oragami White - these are the colors of my dreams. I'm a ghost in coveralls, bibs too big for me, hand-me-downs from the elder Tomazic, larger than life. There's a Zen in painting, long, slow rolls of the brush, up and down. I'm tuned into the electromagnetic pulse of the radio waves playing in another room. I'm painting a waveform. I'm painting S Town, John B McLemore, immortilizing him on the walls. As the sun wanes, as the house heats up, as hunger rumbles, I gather the pup and leave, back to the little old rental on Rogerson. Just a couple more weeks, and we'll be in the new house for good.

There seems to be a flock of red wing blackbirds that gather around our little house on Rogerson Drive. I last heard them as the leaves were turning. Now, I hear them again as the days warm to 70F. For years, I've suspected that they were Red Wings - even reaching back in memory to West State Street Park in Athens, Ohio, where I would listen to the cackling rattles of hundreds in the Sycamore Trees, but I never could convince myself that the Red Wings would flock in such numbers. I'm more accustomed to them solitary on a cattail by the river side. Just this spring, however, I pulled out Susan's Monarch binoculars and peered into the pines across the street. Flashes of red on the wing! I also captured a quick audio snapshot while the flock ate at our feeder. https://soundcloud.com/christomazic/red-wing-blackbirds-and-dog-chain