News at 3:52 PM

Time to roll this thing forward. We're in So. Oregon at the moment and driving to the Bay Area in  the morning. More family business. A couple of years ago M. Lee's sister had a sudden, baffling break with reality. For her own safety, we had to move her out of her apartment and into assisted living and ever since, and till death do us part, we must monitor her care. It's been a couple of hard years for her but the good news is lately things have been getting better. New meds, thanks entirely to M. Lee who never gives up.

Generally this is a turn around trip but this time, after such a sad Christmas, we're staying a few extra days for some RnR. We've rented a house by Lake Temescal in N.E. Oakland. It's a million dollar place M. Lee found on AirBnB. It costs less than it would to stay at our usual crappy, noisy, worn out motel. If you haven't heard of airbnb, check it out. It's definitely a game changer.

Oh, and happy Martin Luther King day. BTW, what's up with it being in January? January is a crappy time to have a Day. Who wants to go to a BBQ in January?

Moment before dawn

Burfi by Srivalli

6:43 AM: Breakfast is out. The world is quiet. The Bird Park emerges from the dark. I am waiting for the birds to arrive. This morning there is burfi.

7:16 AM: Even the grackles came.

No One Sees You Like Your Dog Does

Jean-Paul Sartre Cookbook

Marty Smith

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Credit goes to M. Lee for digging up this article posted by Paul Vincent Spade, Professor of Philosophy at Indiana University. I did a little research on its author Marty Smith. Seems he's currently playing guitar for the Portland band Slutty Hearts. The Free Agent, one of Portland's many fine but unfortunately now defunct alternative newspapers, published it in 1987 and Utne Reader, now Utne, republished it in 1993. Maybe to appreciate it you have to be a depressive type like me but I think it's hilarious.

The Jean-Paul Sartre Cookbook

Happy New Year!

Buon 2012!

Thea Bella, Madonna of the Bath

Even in this sad time there is light and joy. Thea and her Mom are visiting us for a few days. Funny how I so naturally think of my daughter as her mom but there you have it. The generations roll on and so do the years so here's to all Raphael's angels. Felice anno nuovo!

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