Laddu and the crow

Yesterday was Janmashtami, Krsna's birthday, and we attended the festivities which were held at a Buddhist temple in Reno. Great food. Interesting mix of people, mostly Indians. Seems the majority were there for the Rishi, a tiny, handsome, songbird of a fellow in town for the week raising money for his charity in India. We were there because some ISKCON devotees, in town for Burning Man, were sharing the evening and the microphone. Couldn't resist.


There was kirtan (chanting). I played my kartals (brass hand cymbals). That was a treat even though it all stayed pretty tame. And we endured a couple of canned lectures, the most egregious being the devotee from ISKCON. I know the phony Indian accent and hand-me-down metaphors are considered parampara but really... the less talking, the more chanting the better. Anyway, the feast was delicious.

Then, just as we were leaving, M. Lee got into a conversation with a young guy from Krishna Camp, the group attending Burning Man. He was born in ISKCON. His parents are still there. Nice fellow. Clear-eyed. Friendly. Curious. Turns out I know, knew, his guru, before he became a sannyas. Radanath. Krishna Camp is his creation. M. Lee did a little online research this morning. Seems I, as one of the Brijbasi Players theatre troupe, was part of Radanatha's first road tour. That was at the Rainbow Festival, precursor to Burning Man et cetera. 1980. Ironically the following year, when eight of us, the press, were preparing to leave the movement Radanath, who later became known as the Rainbow Swami, was sent by the temple to dissuade us, knowing we trusted him. We left anyway. Long story. Dangerous times. Then the temple authorities sent him to New York to track us down. Last night, for me, was 27 years later.


Janmashtami kirtan, Reno



~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~



I brought home a laddu from the feast for the birds. Prasadam. Holy food. If the story is true, one bite guarantees a human birth in the next incarnation. That would explain Bush, Cheney, McCain, Gonzo and the rest of those bastards. In their last time around they were probably a pack of alley rats with a dumpster behind a Krishna temple on their rounds and nibbled a crumb or two of prasadam along the way. Anyway, the crows were wild about the laddu. Charlie clucked and cajoled all morning demanding more. He finally gave up on sweet talking me and just sat in the poplar tree squawking at my window. Clown. I had to go out and tell him to cool it. Neighbors, ya know. Gets us both in trouble.

River dog's life

River dog riding the bus for a day on the river.

Jeff Heathcock really gets it right. If I ran the world, this is exactly how things would be.

"I just want them to feel like they are having their own life".

It's a dog's life.

Red River Canoe Rental

Spiders and bees

I felt like this all day.










Why did the bee die in the flower? Photo from my garden. No. I do not use pesticides.

Old Guy Hills

I suspect that the quail the hawk made off with the other morning was the mother of one of the families in the Bird Park. Yesterday, after the hawk grabbed someone, the quail laid low all day but today one of the families made an appearance in the afternoon lured, I imagine, by the tasty thistle seed the sparrows drop on the ground. But there was no mother in the covey. The father kept watch alone and when the family was done eating and perched on the fence, he climbed back up into Old Guy Hills and walked its ridges, back and forth, looking, listening, waiting. Quail mate for life so, if she is dead, it is his great loss and I am sad for him.

His mood reminded me of an elderly gentleman I met in a park when I was a young girl, just married. He had recently buried his wife. We talked briefly. I wanted to comfort him but he was inconsolable. He was so polite. Thanked me. I sputtered a few trite things like, "I'm sorry" and went on my way.


Why should calamity be full of words? - Shakespeare

Dirty business

A friend emailed me this little fable the other day which seems worthy of passing along.

Young Chuck, moved to Texas and bought a donkey from a farmer for $100.00. The farmer agreed to deliver the donkey the next day. The next day he drove up and said, 'Sorry son, but I have some bad news, the donkey died.'

Chuck replied, 'Well, then just give me my money back.'

The farmer said, 'Can't do that. I went and spent it already.'

Chuck said, 'Ok, then, just bring me the dead donkey.'

The farmer asked, 'What ya gonna do with him?

Chuck said, 'I'm going to raffle him off.'

The farmer said, 'You can't raffle off a dead donkey!'

Chuck said, 'Sure I can. Watch me. I just won't tell anybody he's dead.'

A month later, the farmer met up with Chuck and asked, 'What happened with that dead donkey?'

Chuck said, 'I raffled him off. I sold 500 tickets at two dollars a piece and made a profit of $898.00.'

The farmer said, 'Didn't anyone complain?'

Chuck said, 'Just the guy who won. So I gave him his two dollars back.'

Chuck grew up and became a corporate lawyer.

***

I changed the ending. Originally it went, "Chuck grew up and now works for the government." I think the new ending is more reflective of the times. After all, corporations now run America through their lobbyists and lawyers are siphoning off everything, nailed down or not.

It's been trying to rain all day but the desert never does get much of a break. The wind came up. It grew dark. Temperatures dropped. A few drops fell then it passed. Even that was some relief. Not many birds came by today. No quail. Now at sunset the Pine Nut range to the west and the clouds sweeping overhead are both orange against a blue sky and the wind is up again but still no rain. The neighbor across the street comes out like the coo-coo from a clock to hand water his lawn. His face is red as raw meat. He doesn't notice me sitting in the grass. He looks like he somehow managed to swallow a large fitness ball then re-inflated it. His stomach and ass are one perfectly round protuberance. And so he stands, hose in hand, swaying in the grass. Still no rain.

Life and death in the Bird Park

Lots of commotion in the Bird Park this morning after a hawk burst out of a tree. By the keen lament that followed, I'd say she managed to grab one of the quail. Currently, a couple of large families spend a lot of time here. These guys scurry after one another in a constant effort to stay together. They define the tight-knit family. The youngsters even nap cuddled in row touching, as their parents keep watch. So this morning the family huddled beneath the lilac bush and mourned and we mourned with them, coffee cups in hand, watching through the window, knowing somewhere the hawk was feeding her children, and that was good, but taking no pleasure in any of it.


Quail dust bath party, 2006

Thornburg Canyon

I'm beat. We did an eight hour hike in the Sierra today, eleven miles over a 2500 ft. elevation gain. That's slow but I don't care. It's not like I punch a time clock in the forest. Today's destination was a saddleback at 8400 ft located at the top of Thornburg Canyon. Great views of valleys and mountains beyond mountains. Even a cobalt blue lake nestled in a far away forest. I found some petrified wood along the ridge, a generally unfriendly place for trees given the beating of wind and weather, but who knows what conditions were like there a million years ago? I picked up four chunks but on our way down gave one to a mammoth tree under which we stopped to rest. This tree must have been at least thousand years old itself and still robust. It is an honor to take shelter of a being who has witnessed the passing of so many centuries. I felt very safe and extremely small, like a firefly. Photos to follow but at the moment I am lying on the bed with my laptop ... winding down ... listening to crickets .... looking forward to sleep.

After five

Tonight, having written nothing new, all I have for today is a fragment from a notebook sitting nearby.

Photo source: Trevor's Blog

half in
half out
turning around
to better see
who
what
I am becoming
or is that you
coming after
consuming me
as I go?

Insane

Seattle walkabout, part 4

Fisherman's Terminal - Salmon Bay, Seattle

The docks at Fisherman Terminal   were home briefly in my twenties.
It wasn't a good time in my life

so during our recent trip to Seattle

I had to visit the place again,

put old ghosts to rest or perhaps

bring them home.

They are welcome with me.

"Glorified One" by Leo Kenney
Taken at Seattle Art Museum, July '08

Salon mouseover madness

Slate has published a very cool mouseover diagramming the roles a few people in the Bush Administration played in five of the many high crimes and misdemeanors committed during the Republican reign of terror. It's fun, in a gallows humor kind of way. Check it out.


Slate mouseover crimes and misdemeanors Bush Gonzales Cheney

Dog years

See it? Don't miss it.

Synopsis: "Ben 39, Leo, castrated mongrel needs love, G.S.O.H essential."


DOG YEARS


Link to Dog Years 2. "It's definitely a dog day afternoon for one mutt who gets a surprise visit from his vet's finger."

Official Dog Years site here.

Sink hole

Whew! I thought my camera died this morning but this test photo confirms otherwise. I did, however, fail the first maxim of troubleshooting. Always begin at the simplest, most obvious point. After much mucking about, M. Lee came in, pulled the battery and reseated it. Thank you, Mr. Lee.

And it's not just me that gets in a cluster fuck over thinking things. I knew a guy who drove himself beyond despair wrestling with a fucked up computer. He couldn't, wouldn't, take a break and come back fresh the next day. He had wrestled with it for three long days by the time I dropped by. I can take no credit for solving the problem. It was pure luck and, in fact, it even seemed to make matters worse when I happened to notice that the damn thing was just switched off.


But sadly, half way through the year, I have blown my New Year's resolution to keep my office organized. My other desk is in no better shape. In fact, I am surrounded by desks and they are all cluttered. This is very bad. My office is a sink hole. I had a little reprieve in Seattle but the minute we got back home, I fell into my old ways, go to Huffpo and comment, check my blog stats, back to Huffpo, comment, Daily Kos, stats, tinker with photos, stats, blog post, stats, email, stats... It was so much easier in Seattle. I actually made some progress on a poem I've been working on for a while. I am in big fat RUT. When I'm alone, I'm in bad company. Set it here. Lay it there. Pick it up in a minute. Lies. All lies. And I fall for it every time. I hope that when, if, we go to Central America this fall, I will shake off some of this crust. When all else fails, travel.

Lonesome George

We're home from Seattle to Lonesome George calling from the rooftop. I've never mentioned him before, though I've meant to. Lonesome George is the one poor fellow who does not have a mate this year. He spends a lot of time on the rooftops calling out over the valley while the quail couples wiggle and snuggle in their dirt baths below. The one mitigating thought I have is that Lonesome George could fly away and win a mate somewhere else if he wanted to. Perhaps he likes his home more? It is pretty sweet between Dwayne's giant, sprawling willow tree of life and the Bird Park. It is good to be home.