patteren:
062308;540
series: magnificat;125
| patteren:
062308;540 |
| shellac2
Quincy’s mother was born and raised in San Francisco. The ‘forty-eight’ colors within a box of waxy Crayons were no match against her environment of pastel houses painted in cream orange, magenta, and lime-green with window trims and door frames in apricot, powder blue, and burnt sienna. In the first half of her upbringing, set in the Haight-Ashbury district, she watched her parents smoke joints, play music with deranged guitar sounds, braid their hair, and attend rallies. The rallies started out as mesmerizing and peaceful, but as time progressed, the spirit of the times did not; they often became chaotic and unfocused. For Quincy’s mother, they were a source of consternation and dread. She was in continual fear of losing her parents to the hypnotic beat of the crowd where they would become more dead than alive. In the second
half of her upbringing, her father got promoted to middle management in
a small publishing company. The family moved to the more staid Sunset
district. For Quincy’s mother, winter was never so cold as a foggy
summer night. Mark Twain’s pithy statement of The coldest winter
I ever spent was a summer in San Francisco was Quincy’s mother’s
hallmark quote to detect those with a perverted weather pride. Her parents,
fortunately, understood the condition of weather on a kid’s sanity.
And so, every summer from the age of nine until she enrolled in college
at Ann Arbor, Michigan, Quincy’s mother was sent to a summer camp
for ‘gifted’ individuals on a winery in the Napa Valley studying
delta-epsilon proofs to van Gogh’s Starry Night. From what flavors
oak barrels gave to wines, to how wines could taste spicy, by the time
she was seventeen, Quincy’s mother was also well-acquainted with
this ancient libation and its aromatic path to perfection. |
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