Gary's good-bye

"Same. Smaller. Quieter."

That's how my daughter described her dad when I inquired how he was doing yesterday then, this afternoon, to the same question she wrote, "He died this morning. About an hour ago."  I wish he'd lived a happier life but his death was not as lonely as it might have been—she was sitting beside him—had been all morning—nor was it particularly sad, coming as it did after a long illness, cancer not covid.

So . . . yesterday afternoon as the nest full of baby birds under the roof tiles chirped away at the top of their shrill little voices, and I was painting an illustration for one of my poems while listening to music with headphones on, Gary dropped in from America to say good-bye. He was wispy and floating and mostly transparent (imagine something between a whitish horizontal veil-like form with flagella and a thin floating, mostly transparent sea creature) and kind of stand-offish as always, but he was there.¹ My eyes got blurry for a bit but I saw him clearly in my mind's eye . . . he in thin air, me in afternoon light, us remembering what our dreams had been back then (did he chortle?) and who we'd been for each other. We forgave each other. He lingered a few moments more then said good-bye.

Portugal . . . about an hour ago . . .

¹· No. I wasn't stoned or drunk nor do I claim this moment to be a "Fact". Just sharing my subjective experience.

Blue bucket

Naples, Italy

Why take the stairs when you have a blue bucket? Daily life in an old world.

Basel lion and the strange drifting refrains

Basel, Switzerland


This "music" was coming from within
a 700 year-old cathedral where this lion was embedded in the door.

They say life is what you make of it. Yes, it's an irritatingly simplistic saying, an elitist platitude but, even at that, there is something to it otherwise we are dupes only, powerless to shape or influence our reality. So what do I make of life? A favorite view of mine is the surreal. I enjoy dark, ironic, absurdist and/or stupid humor and thrive on life's strange details hidden in plain sight. No wonder then, when I heard creepy organ music wafting from the nave of the 700 year-old built and rebuilt Münster (cathedral) in Basel I had to stop, listen and watch.

Supermoon over Bangkok

Hello moon . . .

. . . old friend.

Moments

Beautiful sunset tonight. The cicada are singing. August is their time. A frog joins them; another welcome voice as summer draws to a close.

At the moment, I'm resisting photographing the clouds. I've been photographing everything around me for so long . . . colorful scenes, unusual moments, perspectives, common wonders . . . whatever catches my eye. I need to sit this one out just to prove to myself I can.

The cloud colors run from grays, light pinks and lavenders to shades of purple the color of new bruises.

Now the glow has faded. The pinks and lavenders are gone but the cicada sing on under the darkish clouds, mixing their voices with low rumbling thunder from somewhere beyond Alligator Creek.

And now it's night. The cicada are silent again. So is the frog. Lightning from a far distant storm occasionally flashes the dark.

Coffee with oracles

The neighbor's roof line, dark against a lightening sky, high streak cloud catching pink. I am on my second cup of coffee. The magpies are early this morning, accompanied by a noisy crow.

Morning conversation

Now or never squawk the parrots flying over the house. I yell back, then never!

Parallel world

I'm melancholy tonight so I came here to sit under the palm fronds and tangled wisteria vines embracing the cafe terrace just off the boulevard. I am barely visible to others but from here I can see the street and the beach and the stars and for the moment I have found a measure of peace among the nuanced conversations wisping in the breeze.

Tonight

A flame is quietly wavering above the clear pool of melted wax cupped in the top of the stubby green candle on my desk. A new nova was discovered only a few days ago in the constellation Scorpius. It will be visible to the naked eye tomorrow morning just before dawn.

One February

No one is coming, Mother.
It is a long way up the hill to visit her. I don't know how many times I have made the trip in my mind.

She is lying on her bed. She is yellow. The TV is so very loud on the other side of the curtain. Too loud for such an important time. She leaves the room when we aren't looking.

Dog days

I'm frazzled from going in circles all day so I'm off for an evening bike ride. Maybe it will help.

Nugget's hot August night

I can only take so much of even my own ire, the yelling camp to camp, idea clashing against bloody idea, the frenzy of who is right, who is wrong. Like they say, what counts is who is left. Here I have to take the long view. "It" won't go like any of us say, think or feel, right or wrong. Of that I am sure. That's how life is and for me that's a relief.

When I get sick of it all, as I do on a very regular basis, I think about our sun burning out, imploding on itself and becoming ... a dark star? a black hole? an event horizon? ... and I visualize the atoms of our bodies, worlds and "possessions"..... being drawn back into Maha Vishnu's body, perhaps not forever because the idea of forever is a material calculation, but for longer than any of us fussing around in this shit storm can ever have any hope of even beginning to comprehend or respect. It helps me get my perspective back.

So...it's a lovely, peaceful hot August night here in Nevada, and I'm taking a break from it all with my friends Nugget and Delicata. You can join us if you like for Nugget's midnight adventure.

Inchworm on a friend's grave

She was my first friend when I left home.


She had an indomitable spirit and kind heart.

Michael Ferguson and Lynne Hughes
The Charlatans, 1965
photo credit: Sam Andrew

It was strange visiting her grave years later.




After he died they buried her dog at her feet. She'd of liked that.

Lynne and her faithful companion

 

Mid night ramblings

Couldn't sleep. Too many ideas running around my head. So I got up, made a cup of cinnamon tea and dinked around on the synthesizer for a while. That was comforting. Now it's just me, the keyboard and candle and, beyond the window, black night . . . edge of the starry, lapping sea. Listen closely. Words cannot go past this point.

Spring and molting

I hate beginning with "I" but that's where I am at tonight, in my head, mulling things over. I've been getting rid of more clutter; books, furniture, clothes, points of view, expectations, resistance. Everything is under review, not just because it's spring, although spring always drives me out of my mind, but because it's time. Everybody knows when it's time.

It took me a long time to get one thing straight. I can't put into words exactly what that was but since then I compare everything to it and that's what I'm going on now. The latest things to go were the poems on my website. They were among the least viewed pages anyway so I doubt they'll be missed. I'm going to start submitting them, like everyone else does, to those obscure poetry mags no one has ever heard of, including me. If one gets published, I'll re-post it but not until then. It's a good day. I am making peace with a certain irrevocable sense of loss that is bitter as it is sweet.

Tides

I put the two black pens back in the cup. The green pen is still out but has moved. It is now laying in the small pool of light coming from the desk lamp.

Friday night

My office is a mess. I pick up a piece of paper and move it to another part of my desk. A green pen rests precariously on a pad of paper. Two more pens lay beside the mouse pad. They are both black.