Frostie the Snow Goat

Sadly sweet, plucky little Frostie the snow goat died suddenly a couple of days ago of complications from spinal injuries. Nevertheless, the kindness of those who rescued him and his love of life and determination to thrive is a heartwarming story for us all. Farewell, little guy.

Frostie the Snow Goat from Edgar's Mission Farm Sanctuary on Vimeo.

Charles Barsotti, bye-bye

Source: The Bark

Charles Barsotti. I loved the cartoons but knew nothing of the man until today, reading his obituary in his hometown paper, the Kansas City Star. Damn. Now I really really miss this guy.

Artist and nice guy: Charles Barsotti

Then and Now

The photo is from an album my mother wanted with her on her death bed. She is the girl sitting on the dock. I wrote this poem for her. Today is the 35th anniversary of her death.

Sweet Lorraine's magic silver polishing trick

"It really works."
- Lorraine

Mostly I'm posting this (again?) for myself so I will have it. If nothing else, this blog is my file cabinet. But you can use it too. This very excellent, oh so easy, silver polishing trick even cleans the kind of silver jewelry with intricate designs that turn black deep down in the little crevasses and are impossible to reach. Compliments of dear sweet Lorraine. RIP my friend.




Ingredients:
1 tablespoon salt
1 tablespoon baking soda
1 sheet of aluminum foil
1 quart water

Add dry ingredients to 1 quart boiling water.
Submerge foil in water.
Drop silver onto foil.
Tarnish will immediately disappear.
Remove silver from water.
Place on drying cloth.
Allow to dry.
To enhance affect, gently rub silver but it's not necessary.
It will come out of the water shiny as new.*

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If you're thinking about trying this recipe out, I suggest you also check the comment section of this article. There are some interesting pro/con comments on this technique.

RIP, Aaron Swartz

God damn it! Aaron Swartz committed suicide yesterday. Among his many accomplishments, we especially owe him a huge debt for all that he did in his short 26 years to protect Internet Freedom. Now, more than ever, it is up to us.

Never heard of him? Full article here.



RIP, Aaron

To the extent possible under law, Cory Doctorow has waived all copyright and related or neighboring rights to "RIP, Aaron Swartz."

Little birds in a random universe

Commenting on my earlier post today, Roy wrote... "I'm sorry. Sometimes the universe is too random for the little guys like that."

Wise words, cold comfort but they help. 

I went out this afternoon to bury the little bird who died in my care sometime over the night. I was not prepared for what I found. Last night I thought he had snuggled safely into the folds of the big blue towel I padded the terrarium with. I checked before I went to bed. All seemed well. He was safe from predators. I left him with a pile of tasty sunflower and thistle seeds and watermelon to stay hydrated. All tucked in for the night. Warm evening.

Upon opening the screen this afternoon, I saw that at some point he got tangled up in a long loose thread in the towel, twisting and turning so violently that the string wrapped several times around his neck and broke it. I am heartsick. I buried him in the tiny graveyard that has developed in the Bird Park by the aspen trees. So it is; life and death in a universe that is sometimes too random for us all.

Lonesome George, RIP

So sorry, Lonesome George.

I really hate to see you go. Forever.

Adrienne Rich

So sorry to see you go. 

"We are, I am, you are
by cowardice or courage
the one who find our way
back to this scene
carrying a knife, a camera
a book of myths
in which
our names do not appear"

—

Adrienne Rich, "Diving into the Wreck" (excerpt)

May 16, 1929 – March 27, 2012

Jim

"How strange a vehicle it is, coming down unchanged from times of old romance, and so characteristically black, the way no other thing is black except a coffin—a vehicle evoking lawless adventures in the plashing stillness of night, and still more strongly evoking death itself, the bier, the dark obsequies, the last silent journey!" -Thomas Mann

M. Lee's Dad passed away two days before Christmas.
At his Mom's request we disassembled his music room.
Gig over. It was a bleak obsequy.

At twelve, Jim played bass in the Chicago Symphony.
At fifteen, and well on his way to 6'9", he played
professionally in Chicago clubs but from
behind a curtain because he was white.

In his early twenties he moved to San Francisco
and caught the end of the 50s North Beach Bebop scene.

Elvis wanted Jim to join him. So did the Jefferson Airplane.
He refused. He was a purist.

He left the Baby Grand to Nolan,
his piano player for the last forty years.

WINTER
for Joe & Jim

In the evening we
carry down our dead
they leave our hands willingly
above Dog Star watches
cold, white
as on ancient evenings,
Dog Star
bringer of rain.

excerpt from Dead Reckoning by asha

Winter Solstice 2011

Okay. It's nearly midnight but I don't like to see a Winter Solstice pass without wishing you a good day and new year. Of course this Solstice marks the beginning of the final countdown to the end of the Mayan Long Count Calendar (5125 ears long) and some say the end of time and life on earth. It's always something.

And tonight I learned that Al Linde, an old friend, died about a week ago. Seems he was on blood thinners following knee surgery in preparation for the new baseball season, suffered a freak accident blow to the head and just bled out. WTF, Al?!

Baxter Blackwell

Not Baxter
but you get the idea.
Source

Roy commented on a previous post that all my Bird Park lacks in complexity is a stray dog and complimentary dog catcher which brings us to the subject of one Mr. Baxter Blackwell. I take a lot of photos, some might say an insane number of photos of the passing parade, the Great Circus, the Theatre of the Absurd and Wonderful to which I say...why not? M. Lee has created what is, in practical terms, a Bottomless Pit of Storage and I have a fine camera so I take it as a personal responsibility to try and fill it. But, and I say this with much sadness and regret, I do not have one photo of the rag-a-muffin darling of our neighborhood, the fickle and fanciful, the wayward and whimsical, the ever and absolutely uncontainable hairy Houdini of scruffy little mutts, the one and only Mr. Baxter Blackwell (regrettably deceased).

I can't remember the number of times I scooped Baxter up and returned him to his home and family, who did not even realize he'd slipped out again only to see him, within the hour, trotting down the sidewalk on yet another walkabout. What mystery did he seek, this inscrutable lover of the open road? Was he driven by a mere doggie's thirst for adventure or was he under the glamour of a faerie spell? I tended toward the latter but, in any case, Baxter was a beautiful woolly gypsy soul. Whenever I saw him trotting by, whether or not I could capture him, I wished and prayed that the world were a safer place. Baxter was far too small and completely irrepressible. Unfortunately, it didn't end well. Not long after his death the couple divorced, sold the house and moved, as we say in these parts, back East. Happy trails, Baxter Blackwell, wherever you are.

Rest In Peace, lIttle Bella

Tarra & Bella

Remember Tarra and Bella, the elephant and dog who were inseparable friends? Bella was the flamboyant little stray who showed up at the Elephant Sanctuary in Tennessee about eight years ago and she and Tarra, the Sanctuary's founding elephant, quickly became completely devoted to one another. Last Wednesday, as Sanctuary residents often do, Tarra and Bella spent the night in the hills. The caregivers at the Sanctuary believe that Bella must have briefly wandered away from Tarra's side and was attacked by coyotes. Of course Tarra rushed to her rescue and drove them off but, sadly, Bella died anyway. I don't hold it against the coyotes. They have to eat too but Bella, sweet sweet Bella, I mourn for her and Tarra and the purity of the love they shared.

The following day, caregivers noticed Bella was missing, she's always near Tarra so, fearing trouble, launched a search for her. They found the little dog's body by the Asian elephant barn Tarra and Bella share with a few other elephants. During the night Tarra had carried her friend home.

Happy days

More Tarra and Bella videos here.

Steve Jobs, RIP

Frida Kahlo the Squirrel RIP

This is a post I did not want to write. I've been putting if off for weeks as though writing it would make it so. But we're leaving Florida in the morning and heading back to Nevada so it's time to wrap things up around here.

Frida stashing a nut

I am very sad to report that Frida Kahlo the squirrel is MIA and almost certainly dead. And I'm feeling pretty guilty because I played a part. I've been feeding a lot of squirrels and birds all summer and, of course, the inevitable happened. A hawk noticed and started hanging around. Then Frida vanished.

Frida stashing a nut

She's gone. It's been weeks. We both really miss her and feel the great big empty place she left behind. That probably sounds odd. After all, what kind of relationship can you have with a squirrel? But we got really attached to her. Frida had moxie. I'm embarrassed to use that word, it's corny, but it fits her. Every morning, while the other squirrels were busy chasing each other around the yard arguing over who could have a peanut, Frida was busy licking then stashing all the peanuts, one by one, into separate hiding places.

Frida enjoying a morning peanut.

And when I threw peanuts down from the balcony, all the squirrels took off except Frida. She'd look me in the eye, cup her hands and wait for the toss.

Frida ascends her pineapple palm.

Then, once everything was done and tucked away, she'd scamper up into her pineapple palm to savor a peanut in peace. No one dared approach her in her tree. Frida Kahlo the squirrel was like Frida Kahlo the painter... as they say... una perra nacida... born a bitch.

Frida Kahlo savoring a peanut in her favorite pineapple palm tree

That tree was hers and hers alone, and even though she's gone, it's still empty.

Ghost of Frida Kahlo visiting us.

That is except recently one morning. M. Lee call me to come quick to the window, that the ghost of Frida Kahlo had come back to say goodbye. It looked like her. It felt like her. And no, we haven't seen her since but I get the feeling that, wherever she is, Frida Kahlo is doing just fine.

Amy Winehouse, RIP

Sorry it had to end this way.

Uploaded by RustlingRagazza on Jun 19, 2011

The last song Amy Winehouse performed in concert during her short life. Technically, she performed four days prior to death whens he joined her goddaughter on stage, but this was the last song she perofmed on her own
concert, for a large audience.

These are the original videos (copied many times by many) from Amy Winehouse's last ever concert held in Belgrade, Serbia on 18th June 2011. Rest in peace.

Disappearances

A friend of mine died last Saturday. She went fast, one week start to finish with everything the hospital could do. Unbeknownst to her, the cancer had returned. I sat with her several times during that last week and was there when she died. She didn't complain once but was instead both accepting and gracious. Everyone who visited was touch by her spirit.

I've only experienced human death once before, my Uncle John. He died very peacefully. He also went fast. The nurse phoned in the middle of the night and said she didn't know what happened. He was fine when she went home after her last shift but that if I ever wanted to see him alive again I better come right away. I immediately set out for Portland. I sat with him all day, took a short break in the afternoon and when I returned it seemed as though things were on pause. A strange but kind old woman in the break room, who said she was only at the rest home making her rounds, told me he was waiting for me, that he need to know I'd be okay. I took her very seriously. A strange but kind old woman had visited my mother in her hospital room the morning she died.

His room was sunk in a deep dim light. The roommates were gone. He was alone behind the curtain. We sat. I made some amends, thanked him for looking after me all those years then told him he could go. That grandpa was waiting for him. I'd be okay. He whispered in my mind, "say that prayer about 'now and at the hour of our death'". I did, my forehead touching his as he sat in bed, slumped slightly forward, to all appearances unaware. But he was. We breathed together in ... out ... in ... out ... . then when I breathed in he stayed out. That was also on a Saturday.

Kathy died a little harder. A death rattle, her body heaved and pitched a couple of times then pushed or was pressed back hard and to the side as the last of her evaporated away.

Philip John Chance, RIP

He died on Halloween and his memorial was on a blue moon and that seems about right.

source

We went to my cousin Philip's memorial in Lafayette today. He was recuperating from a cycling accident in August then died from a blunt force trauma to the head in the nursing home. He was 53. Police are investigating.

The program from the memorial reads...

"Thank you for coming to remember Philip, the good, the living on the edge, and that he had the courage to even survive as long as he did. We ask that you awaken and practice moments of kindness."

He was brilliant, alcoholic, often homeless (unless you accept the fact that the forest was his home) and apparently lost (unless you accept that he followed his drummer through the Arizona mountains for last 30 years of his life on his bicycle because wanting to and having to were the same thing). I just don't believe it has to cost you your life.

When words slip away

In the course of dying from a rare affliction which will first rob him of language, art critic and artist Tom Lubbock recently published excerpts from his memoir of the experience in the Guardian. It is well worth reading and, especially, I think, if you are a writer. Over the course of his disease he reverts to pure poetry, the first and last link, the voice of the soul.

Postscript:
Tom Lubbock died 9 January 2011. His obituary was published in the Guardian UK. If you do nothing else, read the end, Tom's final words.

Harvey Pekar, RIP

RIP Harvey Pekar

Thanks for the memories. You're right. It matters anyway.

So... I dedicate today's inane Bird Park video to you. Baby crow had a good morning. In case you're wondering, the baby in this clip is the one flapping his wings and chasing after his mother with an open mouth. So whatever death is, I hope you had a good morning too.

Toulouse Lautrec

Today is the 108th anniversary of Toulouse Lautrec's death.

The artist

He died of complications from alcoholism and syphilis at the family estate in Malromé at the age of 36. A couple of years before his death he tried "drying out" but soon returned to hard drinking, despite a series of paralytic fits. According to Wikipedia, his last words were, "Le vieux con!" ("The old fool!") This was his goodbye to his father.

Self-portrait

I liked his work the minute I first laid eyes on it back in high school. And I suppose his glamorous depiction of the seamy Parisian nights in Montmartre, its brothels and, in particular, the Moulin Rouge, helped lock in my childhood notion that to be an artist one must be willingly and tragically lost. Certainly the fascination helped him to an early death. At least I avoided that.

Self-portrait at the Moulon Rouge

Salude Toulouse.