Blue Moon New Year

The photo is from Beaver Dam Wash. We don't go there anymore. The one road in washed out. Only the moon goes there now.

Mexico revisited

I needed a graphic today

and ended up going through my photos for hours.
After that, I felt pretty useless.



Three of Cups, reversed.



Maybe I'd feel better about myself

if I were an Escritorio Publico

but my customers would have to speak English.

Mexico is a beautiful but sad country.

On this particular trip, M. Lee drove 10,000 hard miles



and I took 10,000, mostly blurry, photos.

The rest of this batch is at flickr.

Robohamster

Ladies and Gentlemen, and children of all ages.....

Meet Robohamster from ekai on Vimeo.

Here on earth

The gulp of magpies just left after a quick breakfast of peanuts and cookie crumbs. We picked out the chocolate. Bad for birds. They came late this morning, after the longest night. The regulars will return throughout the day. The rest go I don't know where, wherever magpies go on their winter foraging route. The way they shoot up from the east at day break like a fighter squadron, I like to think the Bird Park is their first stop.

Writing is a tough job. For me. Seems words prefer a different part of my brain than that part I use when writing them down. Writing makes me self-conscious. Critical. I have given it up ten million times ten million times. Still the words want out so I write again and the process repeats itself. At this moment, I loathe myself for being so analytical. Welcome to my morning.

It is a lack of faith. Not religious faith. Screw that crap. No need to explain further. After all, this is, for the most part, a time lapse conversation with myself and I already know what I mean.

I wrote one poem while in Costa Rica and plan to submit it to The Midwest Quarterly. Their listing in Poet's Market states they are looking for poems that use "intense, vivid, concrete, and/or surrealistic images to explore the mysterious and surprising interactions fo the natural and inner human worlds." We shall see.

I hope your morning/day/night is going well. The winter solstice is among my favorite times of year. End and beginning. Darkest night. It is not just a moment but a season. It's message this year? Lighten up.

Happy Winter Solstice

photo via Story Midwife

Maybe the Moment with voice

I have been a fan of Ken Nordine, master of Word Jazz, since high school. Anyway, at 89 he is still doing wonderful things like this video which he posted on youtube last spring. It is not only funny, strange, poetic and lateral as always, it is actually poetry, and not because it is rhymed. It is poetry because, well, it is a poem, a rare bird these days.

Maybe the Moment with voice


And speaking of birds, hawks and eagles are beginning to arrive in the Carson Valley which is a wintering ground and nursery. One pretty little hawk has taken to hanging out at the Bird Park but he's a real party pooper. Everybody takes off the minute he arrives. The neighborhood cats also hunt here, fat bastards. The magpie alerts me when they show up, lots of squawking, but they don't have much to say about the hawk. So it goes.

Magpie Snow Day Breakfast

Maggie and her tiding enjoy a breakfast of toast and peanuts in the Bird Park after a night of snow. Little wonder "gulp" is one of the names for a group of magpies.


PS. I'd appreciate hearing from you if you happen to know the name of the composer of the piano piece. I would like to add the attribution. I didn't note it at the time and now I've forgotten. 

Issa and Thoreau on compassion

No human being, past the thoughtless age
of boyhood, will wantonly murder any
creature, which holds its life by the
same tenure he does. The hare in its
extremity cries like a child.
...............................- Henry David Thoreau




All the while
I pray to Buddha
I keep on killing
Mosquitoes.
...................- Issa

The squirrel that you kill in jest, dies in earnest..- Henry David Thoreau

Local news at 9:14

Pothole in Costa Rica

I posted a couple of poems at annasadhorse, if you're interested in that kind of thing. Otherwise, just move along. Watch out for the potholes.

Local news at 10:42

We're home. When we left for Costa Rica, I was unimpressed by the Paul Tzanetopoulos pylon light display, and the US in general, dirty politics, the Christian Talivangicals, Wall Street, our gross consumption, all the bullshit but returning I glimpsed how, to the world, we still hold out hope. In spite of it all, the US is still a very cool place. I even liked Tzanetopoulos' lights.

Anyway, we are leaving for Oregon this morning to spend the holiday with family. The details of our trip are quickly fading but I do want to write a bit about the crazy BnB we stayed at but for all the ups and downs, when we left, everyone came out to wave good-bye, along with two of the very sweet street dogs I'd been feeding. It was very nearly tearful.

Reflection

Giant moth.
Costa Rica

Morning conversation

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

Thinking into midnight

Eye over Costa Rica

What happens when things change, when a part of you, or your life, breaks off, slips away? I don't mean the big things that rearrange the world into Before and After. I mean the little things that quietly remind us of where we are, where we have been, that make us unique to one another. Time changes or deepens those things in it's course but what happens if you do it to yourself, out of sequence, and you need to talk about it with someone and you realize that, other than family, and thank the gods for them, you have spent a lifetime parsing out bits of yourself, that you never told anyone the whole story, that you haven't allowed friendships to flourish, that you have lots of acquaintances but, when you need someone to talk to, there is no one you are willing to call because you'd have to catch them up first, or you'd have to leave parts out, or you just don't call because, well, really it isn't that bad yet, is it? What do you do? Wait it out? This too shall pass? What the hell is the matter with me?

I have friends who would get mad, or worse, hurt if they read this. What could I say to them? Oh, I didn't mean you, or feelings aren't facts, or I just needed to vent? I should have called you. That's all true so what is true? I'm not alone. I have a wonderful family. I know I'm wallowing. I know everything but how to get through this gracefully.

Message in a bottle

View from inside the front door


I really feel trapped at Casa Lunatic today. The woman who runs the place is kind of sweet and tough but falls into these long monologues about herself. We have heard her whole life story, plus the litany of daily woes, but that doesn't stop her from reciting them again, or trying to. This morning I had to hide in our room to get away from it and, while I was up there taking my "nap", everyone went out, taking all the keys with them. That turned this place into a virtual prison.

Most houses around here are like small fortresses or prisons, depending on how you look at things. I say prisons. I derive little comfort from bars. They are surrounded by towering, spiked iron fences, often topped with razor wire, and/or barbed wire, and/or electric wire, and/or a narrow roof discouraging would-be intruders from getting in and me from getting out. When all the doors and padlocks in this house are locked, it takes three or four keys, depending which combination of gates you choose, to reach the street. It's bad enough that I'm already stir crazy. I only recently started talking little walks around the block, but today there was nothing I wanted to do more. At least there's this.

Show-n-tell

Why do words vanish when I attempt to write them down? All day they flutter around me like butterflies. They are frolicking in the air when I wake up in the morning. They float nearby when I am eating, walking, driving, working, even at the most unlikely times and places images, ideas, and themes present themselves, promising more to come. But they lie. When I finally pick up a pen or sit at the keyboard... poof silencio nada.

I wanted to tell you about the colony of vultures riding the currents over the canyon, crossing, lifting, diving, swooping. But now I don't know where to start, how to frame it, how to make it worth your time. Now that I am sitting here, all I can think to do is blurt out, "Oh hi. I saw vultures flying over the sad river today". I feel like I'm doing kindergarten show-n-tell. I suppose this is why I write poetry. No matter how hard I try to settle on a point of view, images, words, sounds, ideas, events, thoughts spontaneously rearrange and realign themselves, take on different proximities, shift gravity, turn inside out, take on new meaning or lose meaning entirely. Poetry is the best way I know to reconnect whatever dots are left.

So... while I'm at it, I might as well mention the pandemonium of parrots that fly over the house morning and evening. Perhaps I will take a photo of them tonight. So far I haven't bothered because they are smallish and green, not flaming red, yellow, blue, orange parrots and, being the rainy season, and don't look like much against the drab gray sky. But they are very very loud, all squawking at once and constantly. No wonder pandemonium is the word used to describe them as a group.