Rest in peace Koala Sam

Sam the little koala rescued by firefighter David Tree during Australia's devastating wildfires earlier this year died yesterday. She was euthanized during surgery after the veterinarian found the cysts that threatened her life were inoperable.


Sadness upon sadness, Sam's cysts were caused by stress and these days are very common among Australia's koala population. One bright spot is that her life, rescue and death have helped raise awareness and support not only for koalas, who are in serious trouble throughout Australia, but has also helped highlight the plight of wildlife worldwide. Bye-bye little Sam. I am so sorry it ended this way.

Full story here

Evening in León

Sometimes the camera does catch the mood of the moment. Or enough to remember it by. In any case, this is one of my favorites. And just to be clear, I did not tweek any of these photos, in any way. The light and colors appear exactly as they were, which really amazes me because they were so theatrical and painterly.

Evening in León - Nicaragua

It was one of four.

Bob Wilkins died today. :(


Nicaragua Leon evening street scene

All the lovely creatures...

Polar bears drowning
due to global warming

Now too the fireflies are disappearing from the earth. Like polar bears. Sarah Palin sued the US government this spring when polar bears were put on the endangered species list. What an idiot. I don't have the heart to make a list tonight but species are endangered and vanishing right and left, due to human pollution. We have got to do better. Even selfishly this is a disaster. Fireflies and polar bears are indicators of how pollution is turning our environment hostile to life as we know it. Humans are not immune however, in our hubris, we imagine ourselves above the laws of nature.

The wild, beautiful, fragile, exotic, wonderful, impossible creatures of earth...

"When the little glow bug
lights his lamp,
the air around
is surely damp."

vanishing .......

Baby bird and the brain drain

It's morning here in Nevada. The smoke from California fires has cleared some from yesterday and the sky is blue. Birds are coming and going at the Bird Park. I buried a baby quail this morning. I found him curled up in the water faucet dugout under M. Lee's window. So tiny. Looks like he got separated from his parents, tucked in and died waiting for them to return. Quail are doting parents. I'm sure they were desperate. First quail baby I've seen this spring. Sad. They define sweet innocence. I put him in the quail dust bath party park and lounge. Seemed right. It's their favorite place.


Otherwise, I've been pacing myself during this political season, wading through the online sewer of hype and lies in an attempt to follow the issues. I shudder to think about how deep the shit bog is in TV land by now. And it's only going to get worse. Once again, I am so glad we ditched the box, the agitation, staleness, the lies, the bullshit non-issues, the mind-numbing repetition. Gives me the spins just thinking about it . . .

In my neighborhood

so many brains docked at the
glowing white light
so many eyes
fluttering moths on the screen
so many hands
lifting food to
so many mouths munch munch
munching families all in a row
locked
in a one-way communication
from
them
it
life too
dreary too
disconnected too
long too
small too
ordinary too
overwhelming
to count
the people
gavaged like geese

only willingly

Bo Diddley done gone

Crap. Bo Diddley died today. I grew up with his music. Bye-bye, Bo Diddley. See ya' further on down the line.

RIP Eight Belles

Three-year old Eight Belles, moments
before being killed after she broke her
two front ankles in the Kentucky Derby.


I don't know what Eight Belles means to her owners but according to Wikipedia, "eight bells is a way of saying that a sailor's watch is over, for instance, in his or her obituary. It's a nautical euphemism for "finished". For the three-year old filly Eight Belles, her end was yesterday's Kentucky Derby after her stunning, second place victory resulted in BOTH her front ankles breaking. She was put down where she fell and I am outraged.

After her death, her trainer Larry Jones, told the media, "They put their life on the damn line. She was glad to do it." Bullshit, Larry! You are blinded by self-centeredness.

Three-year old BARBARO, fatally
injured in the Kentucky Derby, 2006

For however much this beautiful filly might have "loved to run", she is another victim of brutal, greed driven cruelty. Horse racing is just another example of how we exploit animals for our special "entertainment." It's touted as the "sport of kings" (only because it takes a king's ransom to foot the cost) but I rank right it right along with dog racing, cock fights, horse fights (a favorite in China), bull fights, circuses, zoos, and the rest of the animal entertainment industry and so-called "sports" which depend on us ruthlessly cross-wiring the animal's talents with the most basic instinct, one we all share, fight or flight. We provoke, force, train, taunt, strain, whip, starve and beat animals into extreme reactions to extreme conditions ... for our profit and amusement, not because the animals want to sacrifice themselves for us.

We bet on their lives. They always lose. Not just the ones culled early in the game, the ones discarded like trash before they ever make it to the limelight. "Winner" or "loser", none of them end well. What's with us? Seems to me, when all our other excuses fail, we use religion to dignify our cruelty and greed. "Dominion over the animals"? My ass. I agree with Ghandi, "The greatness of a nation and its morals can be judged by the way its animals are treated". About her death, winning jockey Kent Desormeaux said, "Eight Belles showed you her life for our enjoyment today. I'm deeply sympathetic to that team for their loss." Not my pleasure, bub. Rest in peace, baby girl.


Barbaro's fatal fall

The Rescue
by Robert Creeley


The man sits in a timelessness
with the horse under him in time
to a movement of legs and hooves
upon a timeless sand.

Distance comes in from the foreground
present in the picture as time
he reads outward from
and comes from that beginning.

A wind blows in
and out and all about the man
as the horse ran
and runs to come in time.

A house is burning in the sand.
A man and horse are burning.
The wind is burning.
They are running to arrive.

The Horseracing Industry: Drugs, Deception, and Death

Eight Belles Barbaro Kentucky Derby horse racing

Bicycle Day revisited or RIP Albert Hofmann?

Kumar's apartment bldg, NYC

According to a not yet now confirmed rumor on Reddit, Dr. Albert Hofmann, the inventor of LSD, who celebrated his 102nd birthday this last January, is dead. 102. Imagine that! If so RIP, Dr. Hofmann. Bon voyage and thanks again!

"In answer to my inquiry about the sourse of the news, a commenter replied that he learned of Hofmann's death in a personal email from Rick Doblin, head of MAPS (Multidisciplinary Association for Psychedelic Studies). Doblin wrote him that, "Albert had a heart attack at 9am at home and died a swift, painless death. RIP." I guess if anyone, Doblin is in a position to know.

Whatever the case, naturally I got to thinking about the good old days, especially in New York during the '60's when Tim Leary's old friend and former colleague, Ralph Metzner, brought us boxes of tiny vials of beautiful liquid amber LSD direct from Sandoz Lab in Switzerland, where Hofmann worked when he invented it, to Kumar's tiny apartment on W. 14th. Sacrament. It was great for a while but eventually it got complicated. You know how that goes. So.... anyway....

In honor of Dr. Hofman's discovery and the unending task/adventure of reducing ego and expanding consciousness, here's a recounting of his, the First Trip, otherwise known as Bicycle Day" (via Wikipedia).

Dr. Albert Hofmann holding a model of the LSD molecule

Bicycle Day

On April 19, Dr. Hofmann intentionally ingested 250 micrograms of LSD, which he hypothesized would be a threshold dose, based on other ergot alkaloids. After ingesting the substance Hofmann was struggling to speak intelligibly and asked his laboratory assistant, who knew of the self-experiment, to escort him home on his bicycle, due to the lack of available vehicles during wartime restrictions. On the bicycle ride home, Hofmann's condition became more severe and in his journal he stated that everything in his field of vision wavered and was distorted, as if seen in a curved mirror. Hofmann also stated that while riding on the bicycle, he had the sensation of being stationary, unable to move from where he was, despite the fact that he was moving very rapidly. Once Hofmann arrived safely home, he summoned a doctor and asked his neighbor for milk, believing it may help relieve the symptoms. Hofmann wrote that despite his delirious and bewildered condition, he was able to choose milk as a nonspecific antidote for poisoning. Upon arriving the doctor could find no abnormal physical symptoms other than extremely dilated pupils. After spending several hours terrified that his body had been possessed by a demon, that his next door neighbor was a witch, and that his furniture was threatening him, Dr. Hofmann feared he had become completely insane. In his journal Hofmann said that the doctor saw no reason to prescribe medication and instead sent him to his bed. At this time Hofmann said that the feelings of fear had started to give way to feelings of good fortune and gratitude, and that he was now enjoying the colors and plays of shapes that persisted behind his closed eyes. Hofmann mentions seeing "fantastic images" surging past him, alternating and opening and closing themselves into circles and spirals and finally exploding into colored fountains and then rearranging themselves in a constant flux. Hofmann mentions that during the condition every acoustic perception, such as the sound of a passing automobile, was transformed into optical perceptions. Eventually Hofmann slept and upon awakening the next morning felt refreshed and clearheaded, though somewhat physically tired. He also stated that he had a sensation of well being and renewed life and that his breakfast tasted unusually delicious. Upon walking in his garden he remarked that all of his senses were "vibrating in a condition of highest sensitivity, which then persisted for the entire day".

Update: In case you're interested, here is an extended quote from Rick Doblin's email.

"Albert died at home at 9 AM Basel time from a myocardial infarction, quick and relatively painless. Two caretakers were there with him at the time. The only people who were told were people from Burg, the village where he lived, and Peter and others were surprised the word of his death had gotten out so quickly. It's the age of the internet...

Albert had been increasingly thinking of death these last few months. He had stopped leaving his home, where he said he could feel the spirit of Anita, his wife who died December 20, 2007. He didn't come to the World Psychedelic Forum a month ago, but did entertain some visitors at his home. We spoke on the phone the day after the Basel conference and he was happy and fulfilled. He'd seen the renewal of LSD psychotherapy research with his own eyes, as had Anita. I said that I looked forward to discussing the results of the study with him in about a year and a half and he laughed and said he'd try to help the research however he could, either from this side or "the other side".

Now it even more falls on younger generations to transform LSD into a legal medicine and beyond that into a tool for personal growth legally available to all."

Rick

Source here.



Albert Hofmann LSD Bicycle Day RIP, Albert

Wednesday outtakes

Yesterday I ate lunch in the Carson City cemetery. I don't know if it's a casino driven policy but Carson City doesn't have a park. I've been in funk lately and, other than the library, the graveyard is the only place in town where a person can sit undisturbed for free. But I like visiting graveyards whatever my mood, puts things back in perspective. Plus tombstones, in few words, tell some interesting tales. Seems, like me, ol' Asa Wilson loved elephants and I couldn't help smiling at his epitaph. His sense of humor transcends his death.

A sourdough's word to wise

Conveniently, the senior center is located just across the street. I imagine over-medicated walker and wheelchair assisted patrons lunching in a dreamy haze, gazing out at the graves. It's an end of the line cafeteria and bus depot to the beyond combined with a convenient thrift store where travelers can check their worldly goods before departure.

Rules for the living

These dogs made my day.

Six dogs in a car

Maharishi Mahesh Yogi dies

Maharishi Mahesh Yogi, Indian guru

Born around 1918 - died February 5, 2008

It seems Maharishi has been old forever. He was old then but lived all the way up to this last Tuesday. Happy travels, sir.

From the Guardian UK

"In recent years, he became disillusioned that TM had become identified with the counterculture. In 1990 he moved to the former Franciscan monastery in Vlodrop, near the German border, and began speaking only by video even to aides in the same building. Last month, he retreated into silence. "He had been saying he had done what he set out to do."

A good ol' girl

To: Cairo * From: Asia * July 10, 1995

Cairo - my Baby!

I love you
Bark Bark
meow (just kidding)
He he
Grrrowl
*Pat – Pat*
*Rub – Rub*

Take a flea bath

Go to the Lake

I MISS you ---

momma

November 4th, 2007 - 12:27 pm

I shouldn't be surprised. Her health had been failing, the latest a tumor under the eye. Last night, suddenly, she started hemorrhaging and it was clear that her time had come. Still I am stunned that how between yesterday and today, she is gone.

Actually, that's a smile. Even as a pup Cairo had
a wacky, wonderful smile but in the beginning I insisted
she wear this mask when my daughter brought her over.
I felt really bad about it but it was the only way to keep her
from consuming the house plants.

From a letter dated 7/18/95

Aside to CAIRO

I had a dream with you in it. It involved boats, of course, and tides and travel. Strange dream. I remember you running around exploring, doing your own thing. You weren't constantly by my side but whenever I called you, you came running with your tail wagging. I miss you so very much. Often, when I'm out walking, I look down and imagine you trotting alongside me with your fur shining and your tongue hanging out the side of your mouth.



I love you.

Momma



I was always trying to photograph that smile, but whenever she broke into it, she was also wiggling too fast to "capture" it. This was about as close as I ever got. In the next second, when she was in a full grin, she had already hopped and wiggled out of range. She greeted everyone with complete joy although every now and then somebody would freak out thinking she was being aggressive. I felt bad for both of them but especially Cairo because animals always pay the price for our ignorance. Sometimes I thought I should hang a sign from her collar saying, "SHE'S SMILING AT YOU, STUPID!"

She lived with all of us at different times,
and was always ready for a road trip
but loved her Momma best of all.

Waiting for someone, anyone, to join her for a walk

or toss her a snowball

Cairo and her Momma.

Eventually Asia sent me a dog nose mask, as its teeth were a bit like Cairo's in full grin. I took a photo of that mask this afternoon, after Cairo died. I didn't plan to blur the shot for some arty effect. The photograph just came out this way so finally I see. Cairo's smile could no more be "captured" than the twinkling of a star.

Another Dog's Death
in
Collected Poems, 1953-1993
by John Updike
Knopf

For days the good old bitch had been dying, her back
pinched down to the spine and arched to ease the pain,
her kidneys dry, her muzzle white. At last
I took a shovel into the woods and dug her grave
in preparation for the certain. She came along,
which I had not expected. Still, the children gone,
such expeditions were rare, and the dog,
spayed early, knew no nonhuman word for love.
She made her stiff legs trot and let her bent tail wag.
We found a spot we liked, where the pines met the
field.
The sun warmed her fur as she dozed and I dug;
I carved her a safe place while she protected me.
I measured her length with the shovel's long handle;
she perked in amusement, and sniffed the heaped-up
earth.
Back down at the house, she seemed friskier,
but gagged, eating. We called the vet a few days later.
They were old friends. She held up a paw, and he
injected a violet fluid. She swooned on the lawn;
we watched her breathing quickly slow and cease.
In a wheelbarrow up to the hole, her warm fur shone.

At the end, livin' the good life with grandpa.

"More than just a dog, she is her own Era"
by her Momma

Vonnegut, last words

Kurt Vonnegut's last book, “A Man Without a Country”, was a collection of biographical essays. It concludes with his poem "Requiem" and so, in a public sense, these could be considered his last words.

on Comedy Central
excerpt from New York Times Book section

closing lines from....
Requiem
by Kurt Vonnegut

When the last living thing
has died on account of us,
how poetical it would be
if Earth could say,
in a voice floating up
perhaps
from the floor
of the Grand Canyon,
“It is done.”
People did not like it here.

Kurt Vonnegut dies Vonnegut last words

Threnody for a horse

NJ.com posted the following article today by Jerry Izenberg. I include here in full as newspapers regularly purge their content and if you grew to care about this horse as I did, it's one you won't want to miss.

Izenberg: Derby winner won the heart of America

Tuesday, January 30, 2007

BY JERRY IZENBERG
Star-Ledger Staff


MIAMI -- His name was Barbaro and he touched America, generating a tidal wave of hope and a prayer that far transcended its racetracks, its back-stretch ramblers and its tack rooms from Maine to California. He was a fallen hero, fighting for his life and his battle caught the nation's collective heartbeat and merged it with the cadence of his own.

Barbaro died yesterday at the New Bolton Center's George D. Widener Veterinary Hospital in Kennett Square, Pa., ending an eight-month struggle that dominated the hearts and minds of this country in a way that no other horse ever had...not Secretariat...not Seabiscuit...not Citation. They were providers of magnificent headlines. But Barbaro was the provider of incredible courage.

Technically, the medical reason was incurable laminitis, although Lord knows, the best in the business tried like hell to give him a fighting chance. The initial injuries were a broken cannon bone above the ankle, a broken sesamoid bone behind the ankle, a broken long pastern bone below the ankle. The pastern bone alone had shattered into 20 pieces.

And starting with that day when the 2006 Kentucky Derby winner broke down in the Preakness before a nation-wide television audience, the prayers, the hopes and the story-book ending that never happened became an American story.

Within five months, Michael Matz, his trainer, received a mountain of 43,000 e-mails. A wounded vet from Iraq sent him an American flag. A doctor named Margaret Goodman, once the medical chairman of the Nevada boxing commission found out what his favorite foods were and sent them along to the New Bolton Center. Elementary school kids wrote letters. Two-dollar bettors, who would step over a prostrate heart attack victim so as not to get shut out at the betting windows, greeted each other in simulcast rooms with "waddaya hear?" and for once they weren't asking "whodaya like?"

Battle-hardened racetrackers from touts to grooms will never forget it. Neither will those who never saw a horse race but who rooted for Barbaro to live.

For as long as Edgar Prado sits in the saddle, he will remember the feel of it ... the awful dread it generated ... and the way the rhythm of what rider and horse always share as one on every racetrack on the planet suddenly sent the wrong message, generating a threnody that hung over Pimlico Race Course like a nightmare in progress.

Prado felt the uneven bounce in the stride of the super horse beneath him. He saw the horse twist its head from side to side. He was now running at angle. Prado was dead certain that he had to stop the horse from doing what it was bred to do ... what his equine genes screamed out to do ... what the Derby, just two weeks earlier, mandated him to do.

Without Prado, this profile in courage would have ended that very day.

Look at a horse -- any horse -- see how ridiculously skinny the legs are and how wide the girth is. Ask yourself how in the world those pipe stem legs can support the body and the beating heart of a creature born to run regardless of balance or pain.

The jockey was there when the horse needed someone to intercede between logic and what he was bred to do.

That he lived as long as he did was a tribute to Prado's instincts and skill, a tribute to the medical staff in New Bolton, where he was taken that day of the Preakness, to the care and the financial generosity of the people who owned him.

Barbaro was supposed to be a super horse in waiting ... the heir to what Secretariat and Seattle Slew and Affirmed had left in their historic wakes ... winner of the Derby in ferocious style by more lengths (six and one half) than any other Derby winner since Assault (1946).

Prado won't forget. Neither will Matz, who raced toward the track the second he saw his colt racing almost obliquely. Barbaro began to shake his head and run crookedly toward a goal only he could envision.

In that instant, Prado's every thought and every muscle were directed toward keeping this horse erect and safe.

He stopped him and whispered to him and waiting hands reached out for the horse to stabilize him. On the other side of the track, horses jockeyed for position and the crowd thundered as a long shot named Bernardini took and held the lead.

Now the colt was still shaking, still wanting to run, trying to wobble forward because genetics demand it is what a thoroughbred race horse does. It is what horses do. And I will never, never forget the awesome wall that only the silence of 85,000 throats can generate.

Nor will I forget the same silence in the stable area as the big, white horse ambulance pulled away from Barn 40 with a police escort and swept the through the gate and headed toward the highway.

For the civilians who saw it, there was the silence the unknown triggered.

For the horsemen, there was the fear of what they knew.

And so the marriage between Barbaro's pain and America's hope began. By mid-July the people at New Bolton's greatest fear set in. Laminitis struck and 80 percent of his left hind hoof was removed. It was heartbreaking. Originally, they had pieced the breaks together with 23 screws in his leg and he had, incredibly, responded well.

But the ghosts of similar situations past and the unforgiving risks of equine anatomy were never very far away from this courageous horse. He was fighting a losing battle. America responded to each slice of encouraging news but the vets knew and so did the horsemen.

There are those who will say that Barbaro was just a horse, but the truth is that to so many he was also a symbol of hope ... of courage ... and the selflessness of the man who trained him and rode him and the people who stood beside him in the winner's circle on Derby Day.

But maybe the shared joy of his survival that later turned to shared suffering when he couldn't make it is not really that hard to understand. He was an athlete with an athlete's heart. His courage was self-explanatory in an age when America grows weary of big-money athletes who have exhausted their intelligence with their whining.

Any way you look at it, an American hero died yesterday.


Jerry Izenberg appears regularly in The Star-Ledger

Barbaro threnody

America that was

Obituary for America

Military Commissions Act of 2006
Bush's Torture Bill

"You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to be speak to an attorney, and to have an attorney present during any questioning. If you cannot afford a lawyer, one will be provided for you at government expense."

Remember our Miranda Rights? Today, Tuesday October 17, 2006, the Republicans revoked our Miranda Rights, silently turning America into a police state.

Until now, America promised freedom from despotic governments that pluck citizens off the street, out of our homes and lock us up in secret prisons ... indefinitely ... even torture us to death without having to ever make or prove any charges because today our Miranda Rights and all but one of our Constitutional Rights were wiped out by the signature of George W. Bush. In our cowardly fear of "terrorism" we have abandon our freedom and now cower behind the NeoFascist dictatorship of the Republican Party.

What a shock Bush's Torture Bill will be to the couch potatoes for whom nothing is real until it happens to them.


There is nothing I can say that will make a difference but I can't let this sad moment pass unnoticed. Seems Eliot was right.

Hollow Men
by T.S. Eliot (1925)


I

We are the hollow men
We are the stuffed men
Leaning together
Headpiece filled with straw. Alas!
Our dried voices, when
We whisper together
Are quiet and meaningless
As wind in dry grass
Or rats' feet over broken glass
In our dry cellar

Shape without form, shade without colour,
Paralyzed force, gesture without motion;

Those who have crossed
With direct eyes, to death's other Kingdom
Remember us -- if at all -- not as lost
Violent souls, but only
As the hollow men
The stuffed men.

II

Eyes I dare not meet in dreams
In death's dream kingdom
These do not appear:
There, the eyes are
Sunlight on a broken column
There, is a tree swinging
And voices are
In the wind's singing
More distant and more solemn
Than a fading star.

Let me be no nearer
In death's dream kingdom
Let me also wear
Such deliberate disguises
Rat's coat, crowskin, crossed stavesr
In a field
Behaving as the wind behaves
No nearer --

Not that final meeting
In the twilight kingdom

III

This is the dead land
This is cactus land
Here the stone images
Are raised, here they receive
The supplication of a dead man's hand
Under the twinkle of a fading star.

Is it like this
In death's other kingdom
Waking alone
At the hour when we are
Trembling with tenderness
Lips that would kiss
Form prayers to broken stone.

IV

The eyes are not here
There are no eyes here
In this valley of dying stars
In this hollow valley
This broken jaw of our lost kingdoms

In this last of meeting places
We grope together
And avoid speech
Gathered on this beach of the tumid river

Sightless, unless
The eyes reappear
As the perpetual star
Multifoliate rose
Of death's twilight kingdom
The hope only
Of empty men.

V

Here we go round the prickly pear
Prickly pear prickly pear
Here we go round the prickly pear
At five o'clock in the morning.

Between the idea
And the reality
Between the motion
And the act
Falls the Shadow

For Thine is the Kingdom

Between the conception
And the creation
Between the emotion
And the response
Falls the Shadow

Life is very long

Between the desire
And the spasm
Between the potency
And the existence
Between the essence
And the descent
Falls the Shadow
For Thine is the Kingdom

For Thine is
Life is
For Thine is the

This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
Not with a bang but a whimper.

Longest day, shortest night

We got to the mountains before sunrise, which basically coincided with the exact moments of the solstice, and found a good place to set up. It was a great morning. We chanted, consulted the oracles, read poetry and feasted. We stayed almost 3 hours then went to a coffee shop to discuss and read more poetry and settle on an new project. Excellent morning.





















I recently learned that Tony Seldin the Vagabond Poet died so we included a remembrance of him this morning as well. I met Tony at a poetry reading in Ashland Oregon several years ago and, naturally, we became one of the friendly houses along his road. Tony was unique, a true underground legend, a poet hitchhiking with a bust of Einstein and about a ton and a half of poetry books, scrapbooks and tattered posters from Haight Ashbury's glory days. Mr. Lee found the article. We've both been wondering why he hadn't showed up here since we moved to Nevada. Now we know. Ramble in peace, Tony.






Door near the coffee shop.














What a day. The PETA chicken was in Carson City today to picket the KFC and got friendly waves from some, criticism from others. The usual. KFC must be the 13th hell in hell's underside. Even the Dali Lama has petitioned KFC to stop their gratituous cruelty with no success. If you have a heart, don't eat there.



I'm going in for knee surgery in the morning, torn minescus and possible ACL replacement. It's the knee I injured skiing this spring. Not much warning, it got scheduled on Monday, but sooner the better so it's a another early morning so g'night.











Tony Seldin Vagabond Poet summer solstice peta chicken

Tombstone Stories, Reno

I've taken a lot of photos of graves in the Nevada outback. They are scattered throughout my Nevada Journal along with other quirky pictures from the region. The graves in the desert are generally from the 1800's and have mellowed into colorful, anonymous history. The wind and grinding sand have rubbed names away but not the sense of a journey with high hopes and strong bonds.

This memento beside Interstate 395 near Reno's Hilton Casino marks a different end along the road that came later, after the pioneers and explorers carved a path through the west and vanished along it. These stones mark the end of a hopeless journey that, as the story goes, no one took to nowhere.

Anniversary

Tonight is the 27th anniversary of my mother's death.
That day I memorized the high, broken white clouds
glaring from the ice blue sky above her window.

Deadman's best friend

"A man died of a seizure five days ago
-- and his dog has stayed by his side ever since --
at a gas station in the Gentilly Woods area of New Orleans."
(Sept. 1st, by Andrea Bruce -- The Washington Post)

Road's end

At first I rode aimlessly around town, then at last came upon the intriguing and lovely Gasoline Alley. Naturally I took it, enjoying its 10 foot hollyhocks and weathered shacks. It was a wonderful distraction but unfortunately, very short. However, in another few blocks and I found myself near the cemetery, a place I'd been meaning to visit ever since we moved here four years ago. I generally feel peaceful in graveyards. It's one of the few places outside the fray. So in I went.

I recognized some of the names. Stodick has a park named after them, the Ruthenstroths a particular part of the valley but I was drawn to a lonely looking white picketed grave in the back corner. It turned out to be the resting place of a boy who died when he was fifty days old. I'm guessing that his parents have since left the valley because the paint was curled, pealing and half gone. I sat nearby and watched the clouds turn from dark gray to pale lavender and finally got centered. After a while I took out my notebook and finished a poem I've been working on for months called "Presence of Mind". It's part of a longer piece that's really perplexing me so making progress was a huge relief.

By this time, the Pine Nut mountains in the east were ghost white beneath a purple sky. Before I left, I strolled around a bit and read some of the tombstones. The saddest was a tiny little grave from the beginning of last century. It was piled with rocks the size of small fruits and measured from the tips of my fingers to the curve of my elbow. It had a cheap aluminum marker the size of a postcard; a pauper's grave. The individual letters were slotted in rather than engraved. The first two, U and n, had fallen out. I looked among the rocks but couldn't find them. The marker simply said "_ _ known Baby Boy".

This evening the clouds were an astounding shade of tangerine. Even the dirt reflected their glow.

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

 

Here's to you, Bubba.

However sentimental people may be about Muffy, proud of Rex, or vindicated rooting for the underdog, the idea of animal rights for the masses is generally considered weird or silly. On matters of life and death and what's for dinner, the minister, rabbi, priest or mullah have final say. That means the members of other species are generally shit out of luck.

Rest in Peace, old boy.

Bubba the Leviathan Lobster, as he was called, died today before making it to an aquarium at a Ripley's Believe It or Not museum. His size generated enough interest and support that he escaped the grim fate of lobsters that fall into human hands. PETA (People for the Eating of Tasty Animals) battled PETA (People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals) and kindness won the day. But Bubba died anyway. They don't know why. My guess...fear. I suppose that's better than being boiled alive Here's to you Bubba and all the others.