Saturday, September 29, 2007
Here she is having a quiet moment with Annie, while holding a little puppy she's rescued from the SPCA. She feeds the pup from a baby bottle every 2 hours so she's very short on sleep. But not on heart. I see her someday with 20 rescued dogs on a big farm somewhere...
Thursday, September 27, 2007
One early morning with the mist still rising off the mountain there was a "tap tap tap" on my tent flap. It was Sally. "Come on", she whispered. She led me out into the huge field where we were camped. We spent our morning giggling and whispering through a yoga workout. "Sally," I whispered. "We're not supposed to be talking!" "The Buddha won't tell," Sally said. And for me in that moment with the rising sun shinning off her wise face she was the Buddha.
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
In November 3 state-owned airplanes will spray a synthetic scent of female moths across Santa Cruz in an effort to eradicate the brown apple moth.
Apparently "the spray doesn't hurt the moth. It just confuses the male moths to the point where they don't know where to fly or how to find the real female moths."
This article ran in the SC Sentinel this morning directly opposite the "Personals": Men seeking Women.
As if there isn't enough confusion. Sounds to me like the men and the moths better stay indoors in November...
Monday, September 24, 2007
Sunday, September 23, 2007
While Mom was busy with her Mixette we were in the living room with broken thermometers rolling the little beads of mercury around on the table top and watching how the drops divided and came back together again into perfect gleaming balls.
Or we were out by the side of our road chewing great wads of tar left over from a construction crew and marveling at how long the black goo held its shape in our mouths.
How have we as a people lasted this long?
Saturday, September 22, 2007
Friday, September 21, 2007
Thursday, September 20, 2007
Wednesday, September 19, 2007
Tuesday, September 18, 2007
We do it in the woods
and by pristine ponds
so blue the words
so green, our words drip algae
we do it with trees as witness
we are the bloodof sap made word
When we do it inside
each board, each brick
becomes a letter
the natural elements: trees and water
wood and stone and god as change
they choose the story tellers-
their poetry takes the raw materials,
the uncooked sense of our being
and polishes us into a diamond stylus
an alkahest able to mark a page with signs
that become primal matter
sounds we speak to one another
characters who run out of our mouths
and into the heart of any listener
who sits with us by a fire.
Monday, September 17, 2007
Years later in an attempt to leave my hippy days behind I sat at these very same tables drinking black coffee, circling the classified job section and reading George Orwell's "Down and Out in London and Paris". Now, though I could hear the shrill waitresses, the clack of dishes and through the dim lighting I could see the nozzle at the top of the waterfall and the macaw's cry had been replaced by musak.
Sunday, September 16, 2007
Customer: "How much do you want for this camera?" (with his toe he nudges an old Sony digital, the kind that took big floppy disks).
Vendor: "$10.00" .
Customer: "I used to have one of these but I gave it to one of my girlfriends when she left me. I give every woman who leaves me a consolation prize. I wonder what I'm going to give Harriet?"
Saturday, September 15, 2007
We first went into the building with the tomatoes and apples and celery, all withered because they'd been lying on little paper plates for over a week. Every year we say, "we should have entered our tomato".
Next are the little gardens people build with potted plants and sod grass.
We talk to the Democrats in their little booth.
Every year we see the pigs and watch the 4H kids hammer away at the bellies of these beasts with pieces of PVC pipe to get them to go in a certain direction. We watch the roping of steers and the miniature railroad.
We look at the black and white photos and the sculptures. Every year we say, "we could have done that".
And every year we eat baked potatoes, vegie burgers, (me), chicken tacos, (Irene), corn on the cob, root beer floats and two helpings of fried artichoke hearts.
Every year...no more, no less.
Friday, September 14, 2007
Anyone driving on Hwy 101 around Salinas and Monterey in California has probably seen the work of artist John Cerney. For more than 20 years he's been documenting the life of farm works in the field.
He lives simply in a corner of his workshop in a corregated metal warehouse in Salinas where he works 12 hours a day crafting these larger than life figures. He doesn't believe in galleries. His work is scattered along the farm country roadways.
I've never seen this one before. Looks a little like he's put his mom out to pasture...
Thursday, September 13, 2007
Wednesday, September 12, 2007
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
After working all week payday finally arrived but their boss could only promise them money "tomorrow".
The desert was infamous at the time as a place scoundrels went on the lam and hid out. All of us sitting around at the T-Bird nursing Joyce's watered down drafts were immediately suspicious, finally concluding the worm farm was a front for the mafia.
My sons didn't go back and not long after, the "worm farm" packed up its inventory and left town. To this day there are some who still believe the old mafia story, though in retrospect one might wonder why the mafia would go to a town of 200 in the middle of the Mojave to raise worms...
Thursday, September 6, 2007
Wednesday, September 5, 2007
Detail from "Crude Awakening"
Smoke ring and rising sun over tents
Near the end of a four hour sand storm with white-out conditions
The "Man" seen beneath "Truth"