Today was a classic Venice Sunday, and the final one I will be experiencing for awhile.

Classic in that I awake early to a blue sky and decent temps even though most of the rest of the country is experiencing snow and a winter wonderland. I call my aunt in Iowa.

“We’re having a blizzard,” she says. Here is a picture of her yard.

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Classic in that I call Mike, my local coffee buddy. We meet at Abbott’s Habit, one of my local coffee shops. After a two hour heated discussion on the paradigms of the information age, we decide that . . . we’re hungry. So, we step over two shops to Abbott’s Pizza Company, one of the best pizza joints in all of LA, and only one block from my house! We get a couple of slices and sit on the sidewalk since all the tables are taken. Local dogs try to snatch the crusts off our paper plates. We abide.

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Later, I think about roller skating the boardwalk for my last Venice Sunday (for awhile), but the Venice boardwalk gets more foot traffic than Disneyland on a sunny Sunday. Unless you get down there early, it’s almost too many people to skate through. Being 3PM, I decide to walk and snap some pics.

As I walk down my street, I can’t help but smile because I love my neighborhood. You’ve got one house with a meticulously manicured yard, doors wide open and jazz blaring on one side of the street and a tricked-out Yukon thumping club music on the other side of the street. One house has a Delorian parked in the drive. Another house has alot of kids and almost as many pit bulls playing in a grassless front yard. The pit bulls know me and don’t bark at me anymore.

Approaching the boardwalk, I see that, as suspected, it’s a busy day in Venice. The boardwalk is almost viscerally overwhelming on days like this - a mish-mash of tourists, whistles, color, seagulls, bums, shouts, bike horns, incense, blue sky, ocean, performers, music, skateboards and dogs. The boardwalk is like this every day actually. However, on sunny Sunday afternoons, the masses are multiplied until the strip is fully congested, the people appear as one wriggling mass from afar.

I head down to the beach, to the rocks and the ocean that is the end of my street. I wonder what will be at the end of my new street in Albuquerque?

I walk past groups of people huddled on the sand, talking and laughing and watching the waves. I’m a bit disturbed by the beach today because of the endless stream of trash lining the shore, from doll heads to milk jug caps, endless bits of unnatural bright colors. And the most amazing part to me are all the people frolicking all along the trail of junk.

I head up to the spraypaint wall. The walls in this park are a constantly changing surface for spraypaint artists. The walls are never the same from day to day or sometimes, from hour to hour. I’m eager to see what today’s messages are on this last Venice Sunday (for awhile). This is my pick for the day!

I’m content to head home before sunset because I’ll have a few low-traffic days to enjoy the sunset this week. On my walk home, again, I break into a smile because as the wind blows in from the beach, it brings with it the faint sound of hundreds of drumbeats from the Sunday drum circle on the beach. My classic Venice Sunday is complete.

1. I don’t own an I-pod.
The ubiqitous billboards advertising them are enticing, yes, but I already live in my own colorful world. I’d rather be plugged in to real life when I’m walking down the street.

2. I don’t own a high-tech phone . . . ie, Blackberry, I-phone
In fact, I just last year got a new/used cell phone that can accept ur txt msg. Besides, I lose stuff, so better it be someone’s old cell phone from Craigslist than an expensive portable hard-drive.

3. I don’t own a TV.
And don’t miss it. I figure when I move to a retirement center, I can catch up on “Friends”. That’s right, if you hang out with me, we actually have to talk.

4. My car is older than the year 2000.
According to “The Millionaire Next Door”, most people who have amassed any sort of wealth do not have car payments. Or in my case, if you want to work less and live more, having no car payment is the way to go.

5. I walk/bike when/where I can.
To an extreme even, meaning that oh my god, yes, I will brave the Los Angeles Mass Transit System, which is a complete joke, when I can. Besides, sometimes seeing the world flee past in a car is just too fast. I need to be able to stop and smell the jasmine!

6. Never used Netflix.
Nope, not once. I still walk down to Windward Circle and pick out my videos, which I must mention is a rare activity as I probably only do this a few times a year. Keepin’ it local. Think about all the fuel energy it takes to ship that stuff to you. I’d rather have face-time with a real human at the video store. I’m shocked that Main Street Video in Venice is still open. Remember to support your local small businesses!

7. I got library cards in several major metropolitan areas and I know how to use ‘em!
Yes, it helps that I have a few librarian friends, including MightyBob, but I swear I acquired the Chicago Public Library Card legit and without his help! Anyway, borrowing books is much less expensive and there’s no gamble - if the book sucks, you’re not out-of-pocket.

8. Most chain grocery stores, especially Whole Foods, scare me.
People! I grew up on a farm in the Midwest. I know what real produce looks like and it ain’t at your local chain store, no matter how many ‘organic’ stickers they slap on that melon. Real tomatoes are bulbous and irregular in shape and never mealy. Real produce is not perfect and not-surprisingly, it actually has flavor! Get up early on Farmer’s Market mornings and support your local small farmer. They need it more than anybody else.

9. Never met a thrift store I didn’t like.
Most of the time I can find better and more unique clothes while thrifting than in a department store. Same for yard sales. I’m a sucker for older well-made items.

10. Cooking from scratch rocks!
If you need some tips, my friend’s Food Rockz site will convince you that food indeed, does rock. Our interface with food is important. Slow down, taste the satisfaction of knowing that you are feeding yourself by way of your own actions. It’ll taste better than anything you will ever find from a shiny bag, a labeled can, or a glossy box. And you will be giving yourself the timeless gift of less stress and more time to do the things you love.

. . . . a kind of ultimatum note. For myself that is.

Holy hot damn! I’ve only got seven days before shipping out to the Seattle area for the Naraya dance. And then flying back into LA, collecting the cat, and the very next day getting in the car for twelve hours. I’ve got alot to do before leaving. It’s gonna be nutty. Buddy.

I suppose my body just told me who is really in charge. Got smacked down hard yesterday with the flu and have not been able to leave the bed. Which brings me to my point, I suppose. I realized I’ve been so hyper-crazed and trying to get so many in-depth projects finished that I haven’t been taking care of myself very well. Hmfph! Guess I’m not invincible.

I’m kinda relieved to be off my own hook on this one as I must admit that a good dose of fuck-it-I-don’t-care-about-anything has been the best medicine! Not to mention the flu-tastic effect of quickly losing those unwanted holiday pounds.

V is for victory.

Make love your daily history!

Earlier today I blogged about birds.

About two hours later, as I was walking home from the coffee shop, a bird flying by pooped on my head. I’ve done a bit of internet-based research and have found that in some cultures this is considered to be good luck, but only if the bird poops on your head. Apparently other body parts don’t count. The bird poop hit my hat, so I wonder if my good luck still counts . . .

I spend a lot of time in my kitchen. Sometimes, I just stand in there and hang out and look through the window, where my view is a little pocketed slice of blue sky. Yesterday afternoon, as I was finishing up some dishes, I hear a flutter of wings about 6″ away on the other side of the window . . . . I look, and sure enough! They’re back! It’s like greeting old friends, and I suppose in a sense they are. This will be the fourth season that a bird family has built a home literally right in front of me.

And what perfect timing! I’ve been spending much time around the bungalow, having the handyman fix endless little annoyances, and not two weeks ago did I have him remove the old abandoned nest, which had been sitting up there for three years. It had become tattered and ragged from three seasons of use. Besides, after what happened last summer I wasn’t sure if any birds would ever return.

It’s been an interesting three years for the bird families living on the other side of my window. Sadly, only one of three years has shown successful breeding. But they are fascinating to watch and to just be near. I go about my business as I normally would, which includes sometimes standing in front of the window. The birds don’t seem to mind and they, too, go about the business of singing, nesting and eating a mere six inches in front of me. Frank the cat sits on the kitchen floor all season long watching my bird friends too. Sometimes he will cry like he wants to get them and when he does it’s a clicking sort of meow, a completely different kind of sound than any other time.

The birds sing in the window occasionally, and the sound carries as though it’s in the house. It’s like having my own personal random cuckoo clock. The songbirds hop from the protection of the latticework covering my patio, down onto a lamp wire strung below it and directly into their nest. Because of their unique front door, I see a window into their life. And what drama!

The first year was the most successful, with a brood of constantly squawking hatchlings by midsummer. I came to enjoy the sound of the babies; they grew quickly and soon their cries were no longer constant. The second year, in the middle of night - BOOM! I hear the sudden pound of an animal on my roof and loud thumps of feet bounding across it. Two seconds later I hear one solitary sharp half-squawk from the nest. And then dead quiet. If my cat weren’t curled up at the bottom of my bed when this happened, I would have blamed him for sure. But no, he is just as curious as I about the noise and is crying to get outside.

I flick on the back porch light just in time to see a long, grey furry paw reach through the lattice, trying to get to the nest. Rushing out the back door, I shove a broomstick up through the lattice and yell to scare the animal. I shine my flashlight onto the roof. A curious raccoon face greets me with blue eyes and a serene look, which seems to say, “Hey, I was just tryin’ to get some lunch . . . ”

The next morning Frank the cat is hot to get outside. I let him out and he immediately comes back with a dead baby bird. The eyes aren’t open yet.

They look like cartoony bulges and I imagine them as black X’s. The scene in the garden is a sad one - the birds twittering all around, looking for any sign of their offspring. Soon they leave and do not return all summer.

And then there was last year - a bad year for Daddy birds. Frank, who also hangs out in the garden, showed up one day with this in his mouth . . .

While I don’t expect the birds in my window to sew or salivate in order to build their new nest, like the birds in this article, (make sure you scroll to the bottom of the page), it will be fascinating to watch them rebuild from scratch. My granny always taught me to put the hair from my hairbrush outdoors so the birds can line their nests with it. I’m going to try it and see if it really works.

During the Heartland Roadtrip of January, my sister and my Dad performed a DNA test to satiate their long-standing curiosities regarding the issue of whether or not my dad is my sister’s sire as well. We definitively know who her mother is, and we do have the same mother. We know who her father is not . . . . He is not the large black man, who, in addition to my father, also used to frequent our mother’s apartment. Well, we don’t think that’s her daddy, but you never know. . .

Anyway, the results have not come back just yet, but here’s a little taste of what’s to come . . .

That would be a pamphlet from the DNA company in sister’s hand . . .

Everybody seems to think she looks just like the rest of us . . .

Seriously, though, we all talked about this as a family and we did agree that the results don’t really matter. We are family. We love one another anyway, despite the fact that we all seem to have some sort of odd facial twitch. That’s what counts.

Late winter is the best time to plant seeds within yourself. That’s what I’ve decided to do. I’ve been nesting over the winter at home in Venice, working diligently on some personal projects that mean alot to me - building this blog, setting up my art studio, consciously taking better care of myself and getting organized - just to name a few. The Vernal Equinox, which is the herald of spring, falls on March 20 . . . so the bursting of new tree buds is just around the corner . . . another winter survived. (’Cept mine wasn’t so hard because I was mostly in SoCal - sorry to all my winter-weather-enduring peeps!)

And now that I’m about to ride off into the sunrise for a bit and venture away from what I’ve built here at home, it occurs to me that the least I could do is give myself a road map. Upon my return, I’ll be the same ole Anna, but slightly different - and some perspective will be nice. So, I’m going to write a letter to myself within the next couple of days, seal it up and tuck it away in my studio for later perusal. I urge you to undertake this experiment as well.

Now is the perfect time to sow the seeds for later in the year. I plan on reading my letter to my future self in November, which is the height of harvest time. There’s no right or wrong way to write a letter to yourself. Lay out your dreams, hopes and goals for the year. Shower yourself with love and affection. Decorate it, stow it on your altar, squirt it with perfume, put it in a plastic bag and bury it in your yard . . . whatever you want to do with it is fine. This is personal, and most importantly, should be a fun exercise! I’m going to begin my letter with “Dear Future-AnnaBananaFanna,” decorate it with something sparkly and/or strange and tuck it away in a very safe, non-disclosed place that makes my heart feel all mushy when I think of it.

So, right now - get to writing to your future self. And don’t forget to write down a date in your calendar to remember to read it later! Or you can just check back here in November. I’ll remind you to find your letter when I’m rediscovering my own.

I rented some art studio space at the end of December. I was super excited because I’ve never had my own art studio space. It’s a little sliver of a space that I share with someone else. My area is probably about six feet wide and twenty feet long, but it seemed like a mansion to me.

Then the next day I was offered the job in Albuquerque.

For the past month, I’ve been storing a few bulky items in the studio while deciding whether or not to keep the space since I won’t be using it for more than half a year. One of those items is a five-foot round, furry, white shag rug. About a week ago I decided to keep my studio space. This past week I’ve finally been officially moving in, knowing that I really won’t have a chance to create in there just yet, but happy to set it up and get it ready to go for when I get back.

I took my friend Nan over to see the space just before I began my official move-in. Nan is a great friend. One of the reasons I love her so much is that she will tell you what you need to hear, even if what you need to hear isn’t necessarily what you want to hear.

“Of course,” I said as I showed her the space, “I still have to DO something with it . . . ”

“Yeah,” she said, “Like more than store your rug you mean?”

“Fuck you, Nan.” I said, smiling.

So, today, I’ve officially moved into my space and I’m DO-ing something with it. I’ve got a desk set up and an area for painting and an area for puttering around. I’ve got all my tools, paints, pencils and papers ready and within reach. It’s all very exciting, even if I’m leaving it all behind in ten days.

I’m still storing my rug there, though. And it’s being used. That’s right. Today was my first official day of hanging at the studio. And today’s first order of business in Anna’s Art Studio was to spread out my beloved shag rug . . . baby . . . and take a disco nap!

Wow! I was offered a chance to go to the Pacific Northwest to be part of a dance at the end of February. All winter long, I’d been looking forward to the chance to go. Then, I was offered the job in Albuquerque and my start date was to be one week before the big dance.

I didn’t say anything to my boss, because she is already extremely generous to me in my requests for off-time. I was content knowing that maybe I could go next year. But I prayed that maybe my start date would get pushed by one week.

And . . . AND! I got the call this morning. I will be starting work two weeks later than planned. Now, I’m all in a-flurry . . . . getting plane tickets, making phone calls and getting prepared to do the work required for the dance.

Earlier this morning I was a bit confused because I am not only packing to move for eight months, but I’m also in the midst of setting up my art studio this week. Now, I’m packing, setting up my art studio, and planning a detour on an island in Puget Sound. Then I’ll come back to Venice, pack my car and road trip to ABQ! Somehow, I have more energy now that there is suddenly more on my plate. I don’t know how, but there is.