—Alfred, Lord Tennyson
Sunday, December 31, 2006
On the Eve of the New Year...
"Hope smiles on the threshold of the year to come, whispering that it will be happier."
Saturday, December 30, 2006
Friday, December 29, 2006
Just what we need...another blog!
But hey, this is a good one! We just started it. Tell all your gardening friends! Check it out at:
http://gardenchat.blogspot.com/
Write something dirty!
http://gardenchat.blogspot.com/
Write something dirty!
Monday, December 25, 2006
Christmas in Uniontown
I have to say, in this, the year of the inflatable front-yard snowglobe, the tastefully restrained decorations in Uniontown are quite charming. The preferred "historically authentic" decorum is fresh greens and a single candle in each window. A few folks couldn't restrain themselves and wrapped white lights around their evergreen garlands, but that's OK; a few with independent streaks on the edges of town put up colored (!) lights. But by and large, it's a very elegant, cheerful display. As for myself, my wreath actually made it onto the door this year, though I don't have candles in the windows. I was about to buy some, but fiscal panic set in before I did.
Here at Brambly Hedge, the presents are wrapped, the pumpkin pies are baked and the sweet potato souffle is ready to go in the oven in the morning. So gentle readers, as the clock is about to strike midnight on Christmas morning, I hope this day brings you things that are good for you, and that your hearts are filled with the peace and joy of the season. Good will to you all, and to all, good night!
Here at Brambly Hedge, the presents are wrapped, the pumpkin pies are baked and the sweet potato souffle is ready to go in the oven in the morning. So gentle readers, as the clock is about to strike midnight on Christmas morning, I hope this day brings you things that are good for you, and that your hearts are filled with the peace and joy of the season. Good will to you all, and to all, good night!
Saturday, December 23, 2006
Such beautiful ornaments!
I've got a nice collection now. It's always nice to unpack them and enjoy the surprises of the ones you forgot. Only had to use a few traditional colored balls to fill in the gaps.
Another view...
We're just about all done getting ready for the holiday here in Uniontown, not that much was done besides put up the tree. The dogs have gotten their Christmas baths. The shopping's all done, just need to wrap. The wreath is still sitting on the porch waiting to get hung on the door. (Last year as I recall, it never did make it onto the door.) Wrap, make the sweet potatoes and pumpkin pie, and I'll be done.
The most beautiful Christmas tree!
...and I've learned it's darned hard to photograph a Christmas tree!
Friday, December 22, 2006
Do you doubt climate change?
It generally seems pretty abstract. Sure, it's warm this December, but some years are colder, some warmer than others. I remember more snow when I was a kid, but then, everything was better when I was a kid!
Here's the reality, though: The National Arbor Day Foundation has just "re-issued" the USDA's plant hardiness zone map, and it shows the real impact of global warming. Here in Carroll County, I've always figured us to be a 6 to 6.5. Now, we're clearly a 7. That's a big difference on a scale of 10.
Look your zone up here. The USDA, too, is revising its map, but hasn't released it yet.
As reported in the New York Times: "Cameron P. Wake, a research associate professor at the Climate Change Research Center at the University of New Hampshire, said that winter temperatures in the Northeast have increased an average of 4.3 degrees over the last 30 years."
It's good news and bad news for us gardeners. On the good side, barring the inevitable cold snap, we can shave a week or two off our earliest safe planting times, and get a week or two more out of the season. And it means we can grow some varieties that previously were too risky.
On the minus side, less cold means more insects overwintering, less successful kill-off of harmful disease-causing bacteria and fungi such as apple scab, and more vigorous growth of invasive species including poison ivy, Japanese honeysuckle and English ivy. For us allergy sufferers, too, it means exponential growth in the release of pollen — 10x as much from ragweed as in the old, cold days.
I've always felt that good, long freezes are critical in our area to keep the plant cycles viable (from a human perspective, to serve our needs, of course) and also to kill off germs that make us sick.
So, we'll see how the rosemary does — that should be a good test. We'll know in the Spring.
Here's the reality, though: The National Arbor Day Foundation has just "re-issued" the USDA's plant hardiness zone map, and it shows the real impact of global warming. Here in Carroll County, I've always figured us to be a 6 to 6.5. Now, we're clearly a 7. That's a big difference on a scale of 10.
Look your zone up here. The USDA, too, is revising its map, but hasn't released it yet.
As reported in the New York Times: "Cameron P. Wake, a research associate professor at the Climate Change Research Center at the University of New Hampshire, said that winter temperatures in the Northeast have increased an average of 4.3 degrees over the last 30 years."
It's good news and bad news for us gardeners. On the good side, barring the inevitable cold snap, we can shave a week or two off our earliest safe planting times, and get a week or two more out of the season. And it means we can grow some varieties that previously were too risky.
On the minus side, less cold means more insects overwintering, less successful kill-off of harmful disease-causing bacteria and fungi such as apple scab, and more vigorous growth of invasive species including poison ivy, Japanese honeysuckle and English ivy. For us allergy sufferers, too, it means exponential growth in the release of pollen — 10x as much from ragweed as in the old, cold days.
I've always felt that good, long freezes are critical in our area to keep the plant cycles viable (from a human perspective, to serve our needs, of course) and also to kill off germs that make us sick.
So, we'll see how the rosemary does — that should be a good test. We'll know in the Spring.
Thursday, December 21, 2006
Does he speak for Iran?
This from the New York Times, reporting on a recent speech by Iran's president at the same university that spawned the revolutionaries who took the hostages in 1979:
"At one point, the head of a moderate student guild complained to Mr. Ahmadinejad that students were being expelled for political activities and given three stars next to their names in university records, barring them from re-entering. The president responded by ridiculing him, joking that the three stars made them sergeants in the army.
"At one point, the head of a moderate student guild complained to Mr. Ahmadinejad that students were being expelled for political activities and given three stars next to their names in university records, barring them from re-entering. The president responded by ridiculing him, joking that the three stars made them sergeants in the army.
The president was eventually forced to cut his speech short and leave. But angry students stormed his car, kicking it and chanting slogans. His convoy of four cars collided several times as they tried to leave in a rush. Eventually the students were dispersed."
Elsewhere, the article quoted students saying nuclear technology was Iran's right, but may not be worth the price. The protests are in response to crack-downs on moderates, reformists and liberals on the campus and elsewhere. Seems like Ahmadinejad has a hard time speaking about anything important without ridiculing something or somebody. If only he were just a figment of the imagination, as he claims the Holocaust is.
Incidentally, one of the slogans the students chanted was "Death to the dictator!" Is death the only option?
Welcome Winter!
It arrives 12/22 at 0:22 GMT; this evening, 12/21 at 7:22 p.m. EST. This from The Writer's Almanac with Garrison Keilor, which/whom you often find quoted here:
"In the northern hemisphere, today is the Winter Solstice, the shortest day of the year and the longest night. It's officially the first day of winter and one of the oldest known holidays in human history. Anthropologists believe that solstice celebrations go back at least 30,000 years, before humans even began farming on a large scale. Many of the most ancient stone structures made by human beings were designed to pinpoint the precise date of the solstice. The stone circles of Stonehenge were arranged to receive the first rays of midwinter sun.
Ancient peoples believed that because daylight was waning, it might go away forever, so they lit huge bonfires to tempt the sun to come back. The tradition of decorating our houses and our trees with lights at this time of year is passed down from those ancient bonfires."
If you'd like to visit The Writer's Almanac, click the title of this post (there's another good Robert Bly today) or point your browser here:
http://writersalmanac.publicradio.org/
Tuesday, December 19, 2006
Praising Manners
We should ask God
To help us toward manners. Inner gifts
Do not find their way
To creatures without just respect.
If a man or woman flails about, he not only
Smashes his house,
He burns the whole world down.
Your depression is connected to your insolence
And your refusal to praise.
If a man or woman is
On the path, and refuses to praise — that man or woman
Steals from others every day — in fact is a shoplifter!
The sun became full of light when it got hold of itself.
Angels began shining when they achieved discipline.
The sun goes out whenever the cloud of not-praising comes near.
The moment that foolish angel felt insolent, he heard the door close.
To help us toward manners. Inner gifts
Do not find their way
To creatures without just respect.
If a man or woman flails about, he not only
Smashes his house,
He burns the whole world down.
Your depression is connected to your insolence
And your refusal to praise.
If a man or woman is
On the path, and refuses to praise — that man or woman
Steals from others every day — in fact is a shoplifter!
The sun became full of light when it got hold of itself.
Angels began shining when they achieved discipline.
The sun goes out whenever the cloud of not-praising comes near.
The moment that foolish angel felt insolent, he heard the door close.
—Robert Bly
Monday, December 18, 2006
Do You Have A Prayer?
Ran across this interesting description:
"I've heard various descriptions of how prayer works. Some say God listens, some say our thoughts affect the energy of the universe and create change; some say that we're conditioning ourselves to transform our own attitudes, and that attitudes, good and bad, are contagious. It's a mystery but it does work."
I agree.
"I've heard various descriptions of how prayer works. Some say God listens, some say our thoughts affect the energy of the universe and create change; some say that we're conditioning ourselves to transform our own attitudes, and that attitudes, good and bad, are contagious. It's a mystery but it does work."
I agree.
Sunday, December 17, 2006
Ouch! Did You Have To Tell Us?
"Bush is another president we deserve. He, too, is often accused of betraying Americans — by campaigning as a humble man and governing as something else. But this is also wrong. Bush has governed as he promised to — with the kind of phony-demotic cocksureness that many people like in pickup-truck commercials and think of themselves as embodying. When he let it be known that he didn’t “do nuance,” it was an invitation to say: “Good. Neither do we.” But this banty self-assurance — our self-assurance — appears not such a great trait when it leads you into a bloodbath in Iraq. The feeling circulating since the election is relief — relief that this unflattering mirror is a bit closer to being taken away. It should not surprise us that this feeling is as strong among those who supported the president as among those who did not."
Christopher Caldwell is a contributing writer for the New York Times magazine and a senior editor at The Weekly Standard.
Another Successful Hunt!
Well, daughter unit and I didn’t come close to our record of two years ago — twenty minutes start-to-finish — but in just under an hour this morning we were driving away from Sewell’s Tree Farm with a fine, tall Frasier Fir in the truck. $40, not bad. It’s a little on the narrow side, and mighty tall, over 8’ to be sure, maybe pushing 9. It was a fine morning to be tree-hunting, sunny and crisp but not too cold. Lights go on it tomorrow. Monday, the traditional Chinese food and tree-trimming. I guess there is a tradition or two that endure.
Speaking of tradition, I’ve started my Autumn ritual reading of Faulkner’s The Bear, a little late this year. Year after year, I’m in abject awe of the lambency of that man’s writing. A chronic alcoholic, whose wife tried to commit suicide on their honeymoon (not sure at what point he became an over-drinker, but that was probably enough to get him started!). A man who called the King of Sweden to tell him he wouldn’t be attending the ceremony to receive his Nobel Prize because it was hunting season. Would that I could be so true to my being!
The vocabulary lesson for me from his liquid, seamless flow of pearls:
lambent: 1. playing lightly on or over a surface: flickering 2. softly bright or radiant 3. marked by lightness or brilliance especially of expression. Latin lambent-, lambens, present participle of lambere to lick
abject: 1. sunk to or existing in a low state or condition 2a. cast down in spirit 2b. showing hopelessness or resignation 3. expressing or offered in a humble and often ingratiating spirit . Middle English, from Latin abjectus, from past participle of abicere to cast off, from ab- + jacere to throw
Priam: the father of Hector, Paris, and Cassandra and king of Troy during the Trojan War. Latin Priamus, from Greek Priamos
Speaking of tradition, I’ve started my Autumn ritual reading of Faulkner’s The Bear, a little late this year. Year after year, I’m in abject awe of the lambency of that man’s writing. A chronic alcoholic, whose wife tried to commit suicide on their honeymoon (not sure at what point he became an over-drinker, but that was probably enough to get him started!). A man who called the King of Sweden to tell him he wouldn’t be attending the ceremony to receive his Nobel Prize because it was hunting season. Would that I could be so true to my being!
The vocabulary lesson for me from his liquid, seamless flow of pearls:
lambent: 1. playing lightly on or over a surface: flickering 2. softly bright or radiant 3. marked by lightness or brilliance especially of expression. Latin lambent-, lambens, present participle of lambere to lick
abject: 1. sunk to or existing in a low state or condition
Priam: the father of Hector, Paris, and Cassandra and king of Troy during the Trojan War. Latin Priamus, from Greek Priamos
Saturday, December 16, 2006
Caffe Trieste
I saw the man’s picture
on the post while I waited
in line at the Caffe Trieste.
He would be reading
November first, but I
would be two days gone
by then. Pity.
And while I waited
I witnessed what seemed
to me
to be
a supreme feat of pan
handling, not twenty-five
cents for the bus or
the burger but
five dollars for the
grande cappuccino
(it’s come to this?)
but he promised to pay
her back next week
(did he know her?
perhaps by sight)
and she said if not
the week after was OK
(did she know him?
perhaps by plight)
(I’ve seen so much pan
handling this week
past huddled hordes
with ratty
blankets piled and
tarps and shopping
carts)
And I moved several
places up in line
and looked over
there, next to the
girl with the painted
geisha face and
black hair with a
stick in it or two
and there he was
the man in the photo
bristled white eyebrows
and snow-white goatee
cheeks a bit flushed
(some vision of Christmas?)
nursing a stemmed
glass with a last toast
of shining red wine.
There was wisdom on
his face and in his eyes
and I wanted to ask
if it was really him?
I was happy to find him
and then a bit sad
that this would never
be me
enjoying the spoils
of age and some small
notoriety in a stemmed glass.
Perhaps something frothy
for me instead
(if I’ve not been banned
from even coffee)
and if not recognition
then maybe reminiscence
of something worth reading
out loud. Then
to come home to you, Khanoum
with tales of the characters
I’ve seen
to read out loud to you
again.
29 October 2006
on the post while I waited
in line at the Caffe Trieste.
He would be reading
November first, but I
would be two days gone
by then. Pity.
And while I waited
I witnessed what seemed
to me
to be
a supreme feat of pan
handling, not twenty-five
cents for the bus or
the burger but
five dollars for the
grande cappuccino
(it’s come to this?)
but he promised to pay
her back next week
(did he know her?
perhaps by sight)
and she said if not
the week after was OK
(did she know him?
perhaps by plight)
(I’ve seen so much pan
handling this week
past huddled hordes
with ratty
blankets piled and
tarps and shopping
carts)
And I moved several
places up in line
and looked over
there, next to the
girl with the painted
geisha face and
black hair with a
stick in it or two
and there he was
the man in the photo
bristled white eyebrows
and snow-white goatee
cheeks a bit flushed
(some vision of Christmas?)
nursing a stemmed
glass with a last toast
of shining red wine.
There was wisdom on
his face and in his eyes
and I wanted to ask
if it was really him?
I was happy to find him
and then a bit sad
that this would never
be me
enjoying the spoils
of age and some small
notoriety in a stemmed glass.
Perhaps something frothy
for me instead
(if I’ve not been banned
from even coffee)
and if not recognition
then maybe reminiscence
of something worth reading
out loud. Then
to come home to you, Khanoum
with tales of the characters
I’ve seen
to read out loud to you
again.
29 October 2006
Wait, don't wait!
Two years in the U.S. Senate sure...and a bunch in the Illinois legislature. 4 out of the 5 most recent presidents went to the White House with only state, no national credentials. Conservative media trying to scare America (again)? (And how much experience did our current president have?)
Friday, December 15, 2006
American Values
As if all this holiday consumerism wasn't bad enough, this from the New York Times. Analysis of census data describes college freshmen's reasons for going to college:
"In 1970, 79 percent said their goal was developing a meaningful philosophy of life. By 2005, 75 percent said their primary objective was to be financially very well off."
Not even just well off...very well off. There's a life philosophy for you! And something tells me it's not a uniquely American phenomenon, either.
"In 1970, 79 percent said their goal was developing a meaningful philosophy of life. By 2005, 75 percent said their primary objective was to be financially very well off."
Not even just well off...very well off. There's a life philosophy for you! And something tells me it's not a uniquely American phenomenon, either.
One Year Update
Well here it is a year-plus later since I moved into “Brambly Hedge” in Uniontown. Ai, what a year!
The wall and patio sit unfinished. Memorial Day 2007, that’s the deadline now, with some kind of party to inaugurate it. I’d like to get at least the kitchen painted this winter, maybe a new counter and sink. Upstairs bathroom needs paint, too, but I’m not that optimistic.
It’s still a great house, and a great yard. I finally got the office more-or-less settled. Last week, the seed catalogs started arriving, first Territorial, then a bunch more — one just tomatoes, one just beans!
Definitely: Blueberries. A pair of short and a pair tall, to form the wall and doorway to the far “room” of the yard. I’m thinking maybe two semi-circular beds behind them, maybe one all lavender. A center shape with the angel is pretty much a given. I need to move a couple hydrangeas, boxwoods, and a yucca or two. Lots of rearranging (that’s cheap!). Can’t decide if I have a place for strawberries. Have to get out those initial sketches and dust them off.
And of course, the more I read, the more compelled than ever I feel to grow as much of my own food as possible.
And so Christmas approaches. Going to go cut a tree down tomorrow. The whole damned season is bittersweet (yet again), still another Christmas without a life-mate. I think this is what it’s going to be. Not that it’s bad, but the holidays are a perennial challenge.
Worse this year because of serial trauma. But it will get better. Sorry for the downer. Meantime, there are poems to write, gardens to plan, prayers to make, blessings to count…many, many blessings to count. Count yourself as one, dear reader!
The wall and patio sit unfinished. Memorial Day 2007, that’s the deadline now, with some kind of party to inaugurate it. I’d like to get at least the kitchen painted this winter, maybe a new counter and sink. Upstairs bathroom needs paint, too, but I’m not that optimistic.
It’s still a great house, and a great yard. I finally got the office more-or-less settled. Last week, the seed catalogs started arriving, first Territorial, then a bunch more — one just tomatoes, one just beans!
Definitely: Blueberries. A pair of short and a pair tall, to form the wall and doorway to the far “room” of the yard. I’m thinking maybe two semi-circular beds behind them, maybe one all lavender. A center shape with the angel is pretty much a given. I need to move a couple hydrangeas, boxwoods, and a yucca or two. Lots of rearranging (that’s cheap!). Can’t decide if I have a place for strawberries. Have to get out those initial sketches and dust them off.
And of course, the more I read, the more compelled than ever I feel to grow as much of my own food as possible.
And so Christmas approaches. Going to go cut a tree down tomorrow. The whole damned season is bittersweet (yet again), still another Christmas without a life-mate. I think this is what it’s going to be. Not that it’s bad, but the holidays are a perennial challenge.
Worse this year because of serial trauma. But it will get better. Sorry for the downer. Meantime, there are poems to write, gardens to plan, prayers to make, blessings to count…many, many blessings to count. Count yourself as one, dear reader!
Tuesday, November 28, 2006
Three Deer Day
It was a good morning for Dom and I — three deer down. Another unseasonably warm day, but nice and overcast. Dom hunted behind the house, and I in the usual spot by the lower pond. I had deer on the ground and Dom had hit one but not recovered it yet. He came down and got me and we went to find or flush the little doe he had shot. We walked through the high brush, about 30 yards apart; I was closest to the big field below the house. Dom called that he found it, but it jumped up and started off. I saw it jump and head toward the fence, and figured it would probably head back toward the mountain. I was by a fence post, standing, and braced myself against it. I shouldered my rifle and looked through the scope, but everything was too close, so I dialed it back. I found the doe, angling at a run (not a sprint, just a run) and tracked her for a few strides then fired. She crumpled on the spot. So go figure — I manage to hit a running doe at 75+ yards, standing braced against a fence post, but yesterday morning, I couldn’t hit a buck at 30-40 yards, standing still, me sitting with my rifle resting on a railing. I would say today’s shot was a lot of luck, though I don’t really believe in luck. Anyhow, we were glad we got that deer, and I had a 6-point as well.
Dom had a job interview this afternoon, so I borrowed his truck and took one of the deer in to the butcher in town. The other two, I skinned and quartered and put in the fridge. Two deer — one, one of the bigger ones I’ve shot, and the other a little tender one — and barely filled two shelves in the refrigerator. Tomorrow we’ll cut them up for the freezer.
It’s been a physically demanding couple of days, and I am sadly feeling my age. Yesterday I helped Dom and Kenny load hay on a trailer. After 80 bales or so, the dust totally got to me; my throat started closing up and my voice got real high. I quit and came down to the house and took an antihistamine and drank a bunch of water. Since then, I’ve gotten winded quickly with just the slightest exertion.
It doesn’t help that I’m way overdressed. I knew it was going to be warm, but this is ridiculous! I didn’t pack any of my lightweight hunting clothes. The only blaze orange I brought to wear was my winter coat and bibs. I could go without the bibs, but I really had to wear the coat, including when I was field-dressing the deer. Ugh!
Didn’t see a thing tonight. It was a beautiful night, though, warm, completely still, with a sky completely covered with wispy, puffy, floating clouds.
Tomorrow morning will be the last PA hunt for me this year (more than likely), then chores, then back to Uniontown.
Dom had a job interview this afternoon, so I borrowed his truck and took one of the deer in to the butcher in town. The other two, I skinned and quartered and put in the fridge. Two deer — one, one of the bigger ones I’ve shot, and the other a little tender one — and barely filled two shelves in the refrigerator. Tomorrow we’ll cut them up for the freezer.
It’s been a physically demanding couple of days, and I am sadly feeling my age. Yesterday I helped Dom and Kenny load hay on a trailer. After 80 bales or so, the dust totally got to me; my throat started closing up and my voice got real high. I quit and came down to the house and took an antihistamine and drank a bunch of water. Since then, I’ve gotten winded quickly with just the slightest exertion.
It doesn’t help that I’m way overdressed. I knew it was going to be warm, but this is ridiculous! I didn’t pack any of my lightweight hunting clothes. The only blaze orange I brought to wear was my winter coat and bibs. I could go without the bibs, but I really had to wear the coat, including when I was field-dressing the deer. Ugh!
Didn’t see a thing tonight. It was a beautiful night, though, warm, completely still, with a sky completely covered with wispy, puffy, floating clouds.
Tomorrow morning will be the last PA hunt for me this year (more than likely), then chores, then back to Uniontown.
Monday, November 27, 2006
The Buck Doesn't Stop Here!
Saturday I shot a doe in Maryland in the morning. Today was opening day in Pennsylvania. I was ready to shoot buck or doe, as I have expensive tags to fill, and didn’t shoot anything in Pennsylvania last year. Early, about 6:40 a.m., I had a deer come across the field in front of me, casually grazing and walking in the grass. I couldn’t tell what it was, other than an adult deer. I thought it was a doe, and was getting ready to shoot, but then I saw a glint of antler. Damn! I had to figure out if it had 3 points on one side, the legal minimum now in PA. It kept moving along, slowly, then went through the fence and that was when I could tell it had a nice basket rack. It was now traveling though, between me and the pond, walking. I got it in the scope, then grunted softly. Didn’t stop. I grunted more loudly and then it did stop. I was a bit too far back on it, so I swung the rifle forward a bit, and squeezed. He took off into the woods and down the hill. I heard him crashing through for what I guess was about 30 yards or so into the woods, and then it was quite again. Awesome, I thought, he’s lying down there waiting for me. I didn’t want to get out of the stand and mess things up for Dom, and I wanted to see what else might come along. A couple little ones came right underneath me, and that was it. About an hour later I got out, went down to where I thought I hit him. Nothing. Went to the woods where he went in, walked back and forth, nothing. Did a grid search in the field, nothing. Not a drop of blood anywhere. Went into the woods, and I could see clearly where he went straight down the hill, stiff-legging it and skidding. Nothing. A clean miss. Damn.
So I took the long way out of the woods, came back up the hill, went back and looked again, still in disbelief. Oh, well. Hooked up with Dom and we started heading back. Near the top of the road, I spied a nice buck heading down into the field at about 75 yards. We couldn’t shoot because he was right in front of the neighbors’ houses. We watched him work down behind a rise — just antlers over the hill, then disappeared — and waited for him to come out the other side of the rise. Meantime, we moved down some, I laid down on the ground and made a shooting rest with my pack. He crossed over and went into the field we call the oat field, even though it hasn’t been planted in oats in some years. It was 350 yards or more, but we each took a couple shots; it was, after all, a really nice buck! No luck, of course. He continued trotting into the woods, right underneath the stand I had been in an hour earlier.
So I took the long way out of the woods, came back up the hill, went back and looked again, still in disbelief. Oh, well. Hooked up with Dom and we started heading back. Near the top of the road, I spied a nice buck heading down into the field at about 75 yards. We couldn’t shoot because he was right in front of the neighbors’ houses. We watched him work down behind a rise — just antlers over the hill, then disappeared — and waited for him to come out the other side of the rise. Meantime, we moved down some, I laid down on the ground and made a shooting rest with my pack. He crossed over and went into the field we call the oat field, even though it hasn’t been planted in oats in some years. It was 350 yards or more, but we each took a couple shots; it was, after all, a really nice buck! No luck, of course. He continued trotting into the woods, right underneath the stand I had been in an hour earlier.
Thursday, November 23, 2006
Giving Thanks
I am thankful for all the people I've known, and all the people I will come to know...for the people I thought I knew but didn't know, and that I don't know some people anymore whom I did know...for friends and family and all the friends of Bill.
I am thankful for creatures of all kinds — food and friends, pests and pets. For all things that grow and flower and fruit, I am grateful. For rocks and the dirt they become.
For this roof over my head and my warm bed and full belly.
For prayers heard and prayers answered. For the angels Therese, Michael, Malachi, and Jezebel.
For artists of all types and the misery they bring.
For bifocals.
For rhythm of all kinds — the cadence of words and music, the flow of the seasons, the rhythm of two bodies meeting. For lightness and for darkness. For ebb and flow. For all sorrows and the lessons they bring. For joys that can be shared. For gentleness and the brutality of life and death and all creatures. Most of all for forgiveness. Because of that, I am able to be thankful for everything. No exceptions.
And of course, for you, gentle reader, I am most grateful.
I am thankful for creatures of all kinds — food and friends, pests and pets. For all things that grow and flower and fruit, I am grateful. For rocks and the dirt they become.
For this roof over my head and my warm bed and full belly.
For prayers heard and prayers answered. For the angels Therese, Michael, Malachi, and Jezebel.
For artists of all types and the misery they bring.
For bifocals.
For rhythm of all kinds — the cadence of words and music, the flow of the seasons, the rhythm of two bodies meeting. For lightness and for darkness. For ebb and flow. For all sorrows and the lessons they bring. For joys that can be shared. For gentleness and the brutality of life and death and all creatures. Most of all for forgiveness. Because of that, I am able to be thankful for everything. No exceptions.
And of course, for you, gentle reader, I am most grateful.
Friday, November 17, 2006
Monday, November 06, 2006
Excuse ME!
This is for real, from the 11.6.06 New York Times. Why not just stay home? Or put on a latex glove and slap anyone who gets too close?
The Excuse Me flag is a little yellow banner mounted on a lightweight pole, which is attached to one’s waist so it swings back and forth in front of the wearer during walking. Any other pedestrian who walks too close will be slapped in the face by the pole or the yellow flag, which reads “Excuse Me.”
The Excuse Me flag is a little yellow banner mounted on a lightweight pole, which is attached to one’s waist so it swings back and forth in front of the wearer during walking. Any other pedestrian who walks too close will be slapped in the face by the pole or the yellow flag, which reads “Excuse Me.”
“It generates a cubic yard of free walking space between you and a sneezer,” Ms Beck, a former New Yorker, said from her home in Delaware. “It makes it so you don’t have to touch anybody or talk to anybody in New York.”
Tuesday, October 31, 2006
Go west, old man!
I have seen California at last. My first glimpse of the Pacific Ocean was on Friday, October 27, 2006, in Santa Monica.
The first five days of my trip were spent in L.A. From the very first, as the plane flew over the city to land, I wondered why anyone would want to live there. My opinion changed little throughout my stay. I stayed in Hollywood (not my choice), and saw some the L.A.’s worst neighborhoods. More on that later.
On Saturday, October 28th, I took the Coastal Starlight train from Los Angeles to San Francisco/Oakland. It should have been called the Coastal Daylight, at least until sunset, as it departed at 10:15 a.m. But I suppose there was plenty of starlight for those going on to Oregon and Washington.
What a magnificent ride! A couple hours along the coast with a fabulous view of the ocean — beaches, cliffs, dolphins, seals, surfers. On the other side, brown corrugated mountains, not dissimilar to many I’ve seen in New Mexico, although the vegetation was different. (Not dissimilar to those I’m flying over now, east of Lake Tahoe, although these appear from 39,000 feet to be completely devoid of vegetation.)
Shortly into the ride I discovered the observation car, with glass all around and outward-facing seats. What a wonderful way to travel! A few hours into the trip, somewhere around San Luis Obispo, the route turned slightly inward and became a mix of those mountains and farmland in the valleys. We passed fields of cauliflower, broccoli, onions, strawberries (that went on a ways, but not forever) tomatoes, lettuce, lemon trees, grapes, a bunch of green things I couldn’t identify, and one field of flowers. Interestingly and not surprisingly, in most places the green and cultivated fields were surrounded by browness, a sure sign that nature did not intend this place to be America’s produce market. There was a field or two of organic tomatoes, distinguished by the abundance of weeds.
Most of the fields and mountains were, in fact, brown. The National Park Service guide (a retired gentleman, volunteer; the first third or so of the journey included interesting narration of the sights) explained that after the rains (Jan/Feb) everything turned green, but it didn’t sound like it lasted long.
Training was so much more pleasant than planing. You could move around and there was lots of room (it was not full). People talked to each other; there was even a fight, a young couple, punky/ghetto, drinking; she ripped his shirt off. They were greeted by police in San Luis Obispo. At one point, my ticket stub fell out of my pocket, which was somewhat disconcerting. I didn’t need it, but wanted it as a souvenir. I retraced my steps — back to the coach, down to the bathroom, back to the observation car, down to the lounge, back to the observation car to a different seat. I chatted it up a little bit with the remaining ghetto drinkers (one an aspiring filmmaker, the other a musician), and about a half hour later some guy came up and handed me a folio and asked if it was my ticket stub. Sure enough, it was.
Lunch and dinner in the dining car, seated with strangers. An entertainment lawyer from L.A., a mental health worker from Oregon, a retired (at 20-something, injured but fine) Army photographer from San Diego going to Oregon to photograph her brother’s wedding. The food was not bad, not great, kind of expensive.
I had brought books, work, the computer, lots of diversions (plus planned sleep) to pass the time on an 11-hour train ride. Once we left the station in LA, they all sat ignored for 11 hours. It was that good.
San Francisco was, of course, fantastic. I was staying below Oakland (the train came into Oakland, and I needed to be near the airport for this morning’s 7:15 flight). I took a cab to the BART and the BART to the city, getting off in the Mission District sometime before 10 a.m. Visited Mission Dolores (oldest building in SF, dedicated to Saint Francis of Assisi), then wandered down to one of the alleys to see and photograph the murals. I didn’t go as far as the one with the real Hispanic political murals; it was another 8 blocks or so, and I was trying to pace myself. Then back onto the BART to head downtown, on the trolley car (not the cable car, I learned the difference eventually) to the waterfront, past most of the tourist traps. I did go out on the pier by the Cannery to get a view of the Golden Gate, Alcatraz, etc. It was a beautiful, sunny, breezy day. I half thought about hiking up that incredibly steep hill to see Lombard Street; one-quarter thought about it, actually, before I turned around and headed back down to scope out a cable car.
So this was a tourist trap, catching the cable car at the turnaround. It took at least a half an hour or more to get a much more expensive ticket and wait in line for the car. The whole time serenaded by the world’s worst street musician, a grizzly pony-tailed old guy playing electric guitar, approximating (vaguely) some of the great rock hits of the sixties and seventies. Reminded me of the time I almost learned a song on the guitar.
The cable car, although packed, was a good idea. Up way steep, down way steep, up way steep, etc. I got off in Chinatown, wandered around, randomly picked a place and ate some very bad Chinese food. The marketplaces of the streets were teeming, fascinating, and stinky. As I was working my way out of Chinatown, I thought they were having a parade for me, but it turned out to be a marching band leading a funeral. Nice way to go!
So, then North Beach to the City Lights bookstore (pilgrimage), haunt of the beats. Then, climbed up the incredibly steep hill to Coit Tower, with magnificent views of the whole Bay area — bridges left and right, mountains, the city, wow! I was just a bit too late; the sun was still lighting the Oakland/Sausalito side, but not the rest. Twenty minutes earlier would have been perfect.
Back down the incredibly steep hill to have cappuccino at Caffe Trieste (see separate post), then up to Saints Peter and Paul church (beautiful) for prayers, then wandering around narrating the sites to my love over the cell phone. Waiting in the Steps of Rome for Farideh and Joseph, who picked me up and gave me an after-dark (but not nightlife) tour. Up to the “twin peaks” to see the lighted city laid out below, down through the Presidio to the Golden Gate (the park beneath) which was just magically lit. Around through town, here and there, down the switchbacks of Lombard Street, to end up, surprise! at the North Beach Pizzaria. Faradeh and Joseph were delightful, entertaining, and absolutely gracious. I’d never met them before, and I would not normally do that sort of “arranged” thing, but I was glad I did. (See, I can still try new things and learn!)
Enough of this for now. I need to sleep; only got four hours last night. No mood to write about homelessness now, but I will later. Now, it won’t be long until I am in welcoming and long-awaited arms.
It was a great trip. Especially the last part. And coming home.
P.S. You packed me so well, but you forgot the hand sanitizer!
30 October 2006
The first five days of my trip were spent in L.A. From the very first, as the plane flew over the city to land, I wondered why anyone would want to live there. My opinion changed little throughout my stay. I stayed in Hollywood (not my choice), and saw some the L.A.’s worst neighborhoods. More on that later.
On Saturday, October 28th, I took the Coastal Starlight train from Los Angeles to San Francisco/Oakland. It should have been called the Coastal Daylight, at least until sunset, as it departed at 10:15 a.m. But I suppose there was plenty of starlight for those going on to Oregon and Washington.
What a magnificent ride! A couple hours along the coast with a fabulous view of the ocean — beaches, cliffs, dolphins, seals, surfers. On the other side, brown corrugated mountains, not dissimilar to many I’ve seen in New Mexico, although the vegetation was different. (Not dissimilar to those I’m flying over now, east of Lake Tahoe, although these appear from 39,000 feet to be completely devoid of vegetation.)
Shortly into the ride I discovered the observation car, with glass all around and outward-facing seats. What a wonderful way to travel! A few hours into the trip, somewhere around San Luis Obispo, the route turned slightly inward and became a mix of those mountains and farmland in the valleys. We passed fields of cauliflower, broccoli, onions, strawberries (that went on a ways, but not forever) tomatoes, lettuce, lemon trees, grapes, a bunch of green things I couldn’t identify, and one field of flowers. Interestingly and not surprisingly, in most places the green and cultivated fields were surrounded by browness, a sure sign that nature did not intend this place to be America’s produce market. There was a field or two of organic tomatoes, distinguished by the abundance of weeds.
Most of the fields and mountains were, in fact, brown. The National Park Service guide (a retired gentleman, volunteer; the first third or so of the journey included interesting narration of the sights) explained that after the rains (Jan/Feb) everything turned green, but it didn’t sound like it lasted long.
Training was so much more pleasant than planing. You could move around and there was lots of room (it was not full). People talked to each other; there was even a fight, a young couple, punky/ghetto, drinking; she ripped his shirt off. They were greeted by police in San Luis Obispo. At one point, my ticket stub fell out of my pocket, which was somewhat disconcerting. I didn’t need it, but wanted it as a souvenir. I retraced my steps — back to the coach, down to the bathroom, back to the observation car, down to the lounge, back to the observation car to a different seat. I chatted it up a little bit with the remaining ghetto drinkers (one an aspiring filmmaker, the other a musician), and about a half hour later some guy came up and handed me a folio and asked if it was my ticket stub. Sure enough, it was.
Lunch and dinner in the dining car, seated with strangers. An entertainment lawyer from L.A., a mental health worker from Oregon, a retired (at 20-something, injured but fine) Army photographer from San Diego going to Oregon to photograph her brother’s wedding. The food was not bad, not great, kind of expensive.
I had brought books, work, the computer, lots of diversions (plus planned sleep) to pass the time on an 11-hour train ride. Once we left the station in LA, they all sat ignored for 11 hours. It was that good.
San Francisco was, of course, fantastic. I was staying below Oakland (the train came into Oakland, and I needed to be near the airport for this morning’s 7:15 flight). I took a cab to the BART and the BART to the city, getting off in the Mission District sometime before 10 a.m. Visited Mission Dolores (oldest building in SF, dedicated to Saint Francis of Assisi), then wandered down to one of the alleys to see and photograph the murals. I didn’t go as far as the one with the real Hispanic political murals; it was another 8 blocks or so, and I was trying to pace myself. Then back onto the BART to head downtown, on the trolley car (not the cable car, I learned the difference eventually) to the waterfront, past most of the tourist traps. I did go out on the pier by the Cannery to get a view of the Golden Gate, Alcatraz, etc. It was a beautiful, sunny, breezy day. I half thought about hiking up that incredibly steep hill to see Lombard Street; one-quarter thought about it, actually, before I turned around and headed back down to scope out a cable car.
So this was a tourist trap, catching the cable car at the turnaround. It took at least a half an hour or more to get a much more expensive ticket and wait in line for the car. The whole time serenaded by the world’s worst street musician, a grizzly pony-tailed old guy playing electric guitar, approximating (vaguely) some of the great rock hits of the sixties and seventies. Reminded me of the time I almost learned a song on the guitar.
The cable car, although packed, was a good idea. Up way steep, down way steep, up way steep, etc. I got off in Chinatown, wandered around, randomly picked a place and ate some very bad Chinese food. The marketplaces of the streets were teeming, fascinating, and stinky. As I was working my way out of Chinatown, I thought they were having a parade for me, but it turned out to be a marching band leading a funeral. Nice way to go!
So, then North Beach to the City Lights bookstore (pilgrimage), haunt of the beats. Then, climbed up the incredibly steep hill to Coit Tower, with magnificent views of the whole Bay area — bridges left and right, mountains, the city, wow! I was just a bit too late; the sun was still lighting the Oakland/Sausalito side, but not the rest. Twenty minutes earlier would have been perfect.
Back down the incredibly steep hill to have cappuccino at Caffe Trieste (see separate post), then up to Saints Peter and Paul church (beautiful) for prayers, then wandering around narrating the sites to my love over the cell phone. Waiting in the Steps of Rome for Farideh and Joseph, who picked me up and gave me an after-dark (but not nightlife) tour. Up to the “twin peaks” to see the lighted city laid out below, down through the Presidio to the Golden Gate (the park beneath) which was just magically lit. Around through town, here and there, down the switchbacks of Lombard Street, to end up, surprise! at the North Beach Pizzaria. Faradeh and Joseph were delightful, entertaining, and absolutely gracious. I’d never met them before, and I would not normally do that sort of “arranged” thing, but I was glad I did. (See, I can still try new things and learn!)
Enough of this for now. I need to sleep; only got four hours last night. No mood to write about homelessness now, but I will later. Now, it won’t be long until I am in welcoming and long-awaited arms.
It was a great trip. Especially the last part. And coming home.
P.S. You packed me so well, but you forgot the hand sanitizer!
30 October 2006
Thursday, October 26, 2006
Wednesday, October 25, 2006
Requiem: Self-Service
Did you prepare for this?
How well and how long?
You must have packed
silk pajamas and leather slippers
Your hair neatly trimmed and
smoothed, shiny, clean shaven
nails precisely rounded
(even in these small ways
the wisdom of your plan was
coming to fruition, with little left
to be done but dab a little
make-up on your face and
lift and place you into your box
arms still folded across your chest;
but still you left them to pick out
your suit and carry your pajamas home
in what kind of bag?)
Surely you broke your voluntary
if imperfect abstinence
and picked a wine from the hotel’s
cellars, a vintage you would know
and of which the sommelier would
nod his approval. Did you sip it
as you jotted a few last details
or did you leave it all to us?
What thoughts did you have?
What were you thinking?
Or did you ask the wine’s
forgiveness and drink it far
too fast, chasing away those
pictures that would force their
way in front of you like a screen
in a darkened theater?
Her jet black hair and pale silken
skin, his smiles and squeals of glee
on a swing, her blossoming into
womanhood, carrying the boxes into
her first apartment, his first Little
League hit, and him, the first time
(not that long ago) that he said
daddy.
Two pills, then three then four
finding their way on a velvet red
river with earthen overtones
another glass, five-six-seven-eight
no pictures now, all effort focused
on the task at hand: bottle, glass,
bottle, nine-ten-eleven-twelve
Concentrate! Head up, hand
steady, get this done now, don’t
screw this up, enough, more than
enough has been screwed up already
finish this at this desk, finish!
Make sure it is enough
and this finally, finally thank god
will finally be enough
enough at last
stumble to the bed, lay down now
lay your head gently on the
pillow, smooth the silk of
your pajamas, lay your head
down and lay your arms
gracefully, peacefully on
your chest.
There.
All is done at last.
Lay you gently down now
Little lamb, God made thee
God keep thee, God
take thee
Take thy troubles from thee
and leave them here
with us
We’ll take care of everything
We’ll take care of you
You are safe here now
as you have always been
unbeknownst to you
Little did you know
how much we wanted you here
(little did we know how much
we wanted you here)
Little do you know now
how much you still are here
in the empty spaces that
find thoughts of you
in the hearts you’ve left
with nothing but
yearning for you.
Farewell! Sweet dreams!
May the angels keep you well.
23 October 2006
How well and how long?
You must have packed
silk pajamas and leather slippers
Your hair neatly trimmed and
smoothed, shiny, clean shaven
nails precisely rounded
(even in these small ways
the wisdom of your plan was
coming to fruition, with little left
to be done but dab a little
make-up on your face and
lift and place you into your box
arms still folded across your chest;
but still you left them to pick out
your suit and carry your pajamas home
in what kind of bag?)
Surely you broke your voluntary
if imperfect abstinence
and picked a wine from the hotel’s
cellars, a vintage you would know
and of which the sommelier would
nod his approval. Did you sip it
as you jotted a few last details
or did you leave it all to us?
What thoughts did you have?
What were you thinking?
Or did you ask the wine’s
forgiveness and drink it far
too fast, chasing away those
pictures that would force their
way in front of you like a screen
in a darkened theater?
Her jet black hair and pale silken
skin, his smiles and squeals of glee
on a swing, her blossoming into
womanhood, carrying the boxes into
her first apartment, his first Little
League hit, and him, the first time
(not that long ago) that he said
daddy.
Two pills, then three then four
finding their way on a velvet red
river with earthen overtones
another glass, five-six-seven-eight
no pictures now, all effort focused
on the task at hand: bottle, glass,
bottle, nine-ten-eleven-twelve
Concentrate! Head up, hand
steady, get this done now, don’t
screw this up, enough, more than
enough has been screwed up already
finish this at this desk, finish!
Make sure it is enough
and this finally, finally thank god
will finally be enough
enough at last
stumble to the bed, lay down now
lay your head gently on the
pillow, smooth the silk of
your pajamas, lay your head
down and lay your arms
gracefully, peacefully on
your chest.
There.
All is done at last.
Lay you gently down now
Little lamb, God made thee
God keep thee, God
take thee
Take thy troubles from thee
and leave them here
with us
We’ll take care of everything
We’ll take care of you
You are safe here now
as you have always been
unbeknownst to you
Little did you know
how much we wanted you here
(little did we know how much
we wanted you here)
Little do you know now
how much you still are here
in the empty spaces that
find thoughts of you
in the hearts you’ve left
with nothing but
yearning for you.
Farewell! Sweet dreams!
May the angels keep you well.
23 October 2006
Saturday, October 14, 2006
A President and a Poet: Two Quotes
"Every gun that is made, every warship launched, every rocket fired, signifies, in the final sense, a theft from those who hunger and are not fed, those who are cold and are not clothed."
"To be nobody-but-yourself—in a world which is doing its best, night and day, to make you everybody else—means to fight the hardest battle which any human being can fight; and never stop fighting."
— Dwight D. Eisenhower
"To be nobody-but-yourself—in a world which is doing its best, night and day, to make you everybody else—means to fight the hardest battle which any human being can fight; and never stop fighting."
— e.e. cummings
Thursday, October 05, 2006
Islamic Thought
"Have mercy on that which is on earth, so that which is in heaven will have mercy on you."
Roger's thought:
"If the children of Islam are not happy, your children will never be happy."
And I suspect that, no matter what happens, the children of Islam will not be happy.
Roger's thought:
"If the children of Islam are not happy, your children will never be happy."
And I suspect that, no matter what happens, the children of Islam will not be happy.
Friday, September 29, 2006
Suddenly...
Would it not take one
Who slept alone to know it?
Who could have told you
That the nights in autumn
Are indeed extremely long?
Who slept alone to know it?
Who could have told you
That the nights in autumn
Are indeed extremely long?
— Takashina Kishi
Wednesday, September 20, 2006
Monday, September 18, 2006
Yes, that's what I want...
"Success is getting what you want. Happiness is wanting what you get."
— Heard on the radio; I missed the source.
Saturday, September 16, 2006
Press on!
"Nothing in the world can take the place of persistence. Talent will not; nothing is more common than unsuccessful men with talent. Genius will not; unrewarded genius is almost a proverb. Education will not; the world is filled with educated derelicts. Persistence and determination are alone omnipotent. 'Press on!' has been and always will be the answer to every human problem."
Calvin Coolidge
Thursday, September 14, 2006
Long Afternoon at the Edge of Little Sister Pond
As for life
I'm humbled,
I'm without words
sufficient to say
how it has been hard as flint,
and soft as a spring pond
both of these
and over and over,
and long pale afternoons besides,
and so many mysteries
beautiful as eggs in a nest,
still unhatched
though warm and watched over
by something I have never seen—
a tree angel, perhaps,
or a ghost of holiness.
Every day I walk out into the world
to be dazzled, then to be reflective.
It suffices, it is all comfort—
along with human love,
dog love, water love, little-serpent love,
sunburst love, or love for that smallest of birds
flying among the scarlet flowers.
There is hardly time to think about
stopping, and lying down at last
to the long afterlife, to the tenderness
yet to come, when
time will brim over the singular pond, and become forever,
and we will pretend to melt away into the leaves.
As for death,
I can't wait to be the hummingbird,
can you?
I'm humbled,
I'm without words
sufficient to say
how it has been hard as flint,
and soft as a spring pond
both of these
and over and over,
and long pale afternoons besides,
and so many mysteries
beautiful as eggs in a nest,
still unhatched
though warm and watched over
by something I have never seen—
a tree angel, perhaps,
or a ghost of holiness.
Every day I walk out into the world
to be dazzled, then to be reflective.
It suffices, it is all comfort—
along with human love,
dog love, water love, little-serpent love,
sunburst love, or love for that smallest of birds
flying among the scarlet flowers.
There is hardly time to think about
stopping, and lying down at last
to the long afterlife, to the tenderness
yet to come, when
time will brim over the singular pond, and become forever,
and we will pretend to melt away into the leaves.
As for death,
I can't wait to be the hummingbird,
can you?
– Mary Oliver
from Owls and Other Fantasies: Poems and Essays
from Owls and Other Fantasies: Poems and Essays
Lord, It Is Time
Lord, it is time. The summer was very big.
Lay Thy shadow on the sundials,
and on the meadows let the winds go loose.
Command the last fruits that they shall be full,
give them another two more southerly days,
press them on to fulfillment and drive
the last sweetness into the heavy wine.
Who has no house will build him one no more.
Who is alone now, long will so remain,
will wake, read, write long letters
and will in the avenue to and fro
restlessly wander, when the leaves are blowing.
Lay Thy shadow on the sundials,
and on the meadows let the winds go loose.
Command the last fruits that they shall be full,
give them another two more southerly days,
press them on to fulfillment and drive
the last sweetness into the heavy wine.
Who has no house will build him one no more.
Who is alone now, long will so remain,
will wake, read, write long letters
and will in the avenue to and fro
restlessly wander, when the leaves are blowing.
Rainer Maria Rilke
Wednesday, September 13, 2006
Autumn in the Air
How quickly the change comes —
A few cool nights
And suddenly the deer
can’t get enough to eat;
they come out earlier and
linger later, hurrying to
put on fat against the winter.
The night sounds, too, go on through
these overcast days, insects
frantic for mates, for offspring.
Me, I consume peaches voraciously
peach dumplings, peach pie
fists full of peaches, not ready
to give them up, not ready yet
to embrace apples. Reluctant
like the trees whose chlorophyll
begins its slow bleeding toward
the roots, already a shade paler
but green still, still thirsting for
the sun. I know that thirst,
I know that draining feeling,
that anxious urge to take in more,
just a little more
against the chill
and the quickening days,
reluctant to let go of a
lifelong season of dreams and desires
and face the inevitably waning light.
12 September 2006
A few cool nights
And suddenly the deer
can’t get enough to eat;
they come out earlier and
linger later, hurrying to
put on fat against the winter.
The night sounds, too, go on through
these overcast days, insects
frantic for mates, for offspring.
Me, I consume peaches voraciously
peach dumplings, peach pie
fists full of peaches, not ready
to give them up, not ready yet
to embrace apples. Reluctant
like the trees whose chlorophyll
begins its slow bleeding toward
the roots, already a shade paler
but green still, still thirsting for
the sun. I know that thirst,
I know that draining feeling,
that anxious urge to take in more,
just a little more
against the chill
and the quickening days,
reluctant to let go of a
lifelong season of dreams and desires
and face the inevitably waning light.
12 September 2006
Monday, September 11, 2006
9/11
Grant them rest, grant them peace, grant us peace...
For the Falling Man
I see you again and again
tumbling out of the sky,
in your slate-grey suit and pressed white shirt.
At first I thought you were debris
from the explosion, maybe gray plaster wall
or fuselage but then I realized
that people were leaping.
I know who you are, I know
there's more to you than just this image
on the news, this ragdoll plummeting—
I know you were someone's lover, husband,
daddy. Last night you read stories
to your children, tucked them in, then curled into sleep
next to your wife. Perhaps there was small
sleepy talk of the future. Then,
before your morning coffee had cooled
you'd come to this; a choice between fire
or falling.
How feeble these words, billowing
in this aftermath, how ineffectual
this utterance of sorrow. We can see plainly
it's hopeless, even as the words trail from our mouths
—but we can't help ourselves—how I wish
we could trade them for something
that could really have caught you.
For the Falling Man
I see you again and again
tumbling out of the sky,
in your slate-grey suit and pressed white shirt.
At first I thought you were debris
from the explosion, maybe gray plaster wall
or fuselage but then I realized
that people were leaping.
I know who you are, I know
there's more to you than just this image
on the news, this ragdoll plummeting—
I know you were someone's lover, husband,
daddy. Last night you read stories
to your children, tucked them in, then curled into sleep
next to your wife. Perhaps there was small
sleepy talk of the future. Then,
before your morning coffee had cooled
you'd come to this; a choice between fire
or falling.
How feeble these words, billowing
in this aftermath, how ineffectual
this utterance of sorrow. We can see plainly
it's hopeless, even as the words trail from our mouths
—but we can't help ourselves—how I wish
we could trade them for something
that could really have caught you.
by Annie Farnsworth from Bodies of Water, Bodies of Light
© Annie Farnsworth. Courtesy of the Writer's Almanac
© Annie Farnsworth. Courtesy of the Writer's Almanac
Wednesday, August 30, 2006
Monday, August 14, 2006
A Beautiful Garden Poem
...courtesy of the Writer's Almanac.
Touch Me
Summer is late, my heart.
Words plucked out of the air
some forty years ago
when I was wild with love
and torn almost in two
scatter like leaves this night
of whistling wind and rain.
It is my heart that's late,
it is my song that's flown.
Outdoors all afternoon
under a gunmetal sky
staking my garden down,
I kneeled to the crickets trilling
underfoot as if about
to burst from their crusty shells;
and like a child again
marveled to hear so clear
and brave a music pour
from such a small machine.
What makes the engine go?
Desire, desire, desire.
The longing for the dance
stirs in the buried life.
One season only,
and it's done.
So let the battered old willow
thrash against the windowpanes
and the house timbers creak.
Darling, do you remember
the man you married? Touch me,
remind me who I am.
Touch Me
Summer is late, my heart.
Words plucked out of the air
some forty years ago
when I was wild with love
and torn almost in two
scatter like leaves this night
of whistling wind and rain.
It is my heart that's late,
it is my song that's flown.
Outdoors all afternoon
under a gunmetal sky
staking my garden down,
I kneeled to the crickets trilling
underfoot as if about
to burst from their crusty shells;
and like a child again
marveled to hear so clear
and brave a music pour
from such a small machine.
What makes the engine go?
Desire, desire, desire.
The longing for the dance
stirs in the buried life.
One season only,
and it's done.
So let the battered old willow
thrash against the windowpanes
and the house timbers creak.
Darling, do you remember
the man you married? Touch me,
remind me who I am.
Stanley Kunitz
from Staying Alone, Real Poems for Unreal Times
Wednesday, August 09, 2006
Catching Up
Where to begin? With apologies for being so long.
August is fully here, and so few words about the garden so far! It seems I haven’t spent much more time gardening than blogging, although the results far outweigh the efforts. The one semi-perennial border I put in along the west fence has done amazingly well, with all my old favorites — Russian sage, achillea, rudbekia, santolina, salvia, sage, rosemary, thyme, and the annuals Mexican heather, eucalyptus, basil, parsley, red-leafed lettuce, a couple tomatoes (insurance), a pepper and an eggplant. Petunias in the shed window box. A few scattered pots of coleus, double-petunia, two leftover poinsettias from Christmas, and the scented geranium moved out to the front porch.
The vegetable patch — not big enough to be a garden — yielded some cabbages and broccoli early, and now is a dense, tall thicket of tomatoes. Neighbor Fred made fun of my “oil derrick” tomato towers when I first set them out over the young plants. (It didn’t help that they blew over in a storm before I had them anchored.) But now! Several plants have topped out at 7’. They are dense and lush, putting the neighbors' plants to shame. The only ones bigger all season were my Mom’s, but now mine have eclipsed even hers. Fried tomatoes for dinner tonight, the second time this season. The fruits are beautiful and heavy — the new favorite, pineapple red, and large lemon yellows, smaller lemon boy, tasty green zebra, and a massively sprawling volunteer red currant (the tiny South American variety; it must have sprouted from the compost). Plenty of fruit. I just hope it lasts into the Fall. I never have paid close enough attention to maturity dates to extend the crop, although I remember one year getting lucky and having tomatoes right up to Thanksgiving.
If I get time and motivation, I’d like to pull out that red currant and plant some beets, turnips, kale, and another crop of lettuce. My salad has been delicious but pathetically thin. What can I say? My attentions have been divided…
…as is evidenced by the project from hell, the patio retaining wall. I had to laugh when I walked by it this evening. There it was, half done, with the rest of the stones scattered all over the patio area. I could fill in the gaps with sand and I’d have a finished patio. It’s tough to get anything done when I am away every weekend.
August already, and I have spent hardly any time just sitting out back. When I think back to Taneytown, just a short year ago, with morning coffee outside on the porch or in the garden every day, and the sunset behind the mountains every evening from the porch swing. (sigh)
A couple weeks ago I was complaining that the night sounds had not yet started. This evening, sitting out back at dusk with my book, it was so loud it was almost painful. What a lovely cacophony of insects, although still not loud enough to drown out the yapping of Farmer Sebastian’s mutts coming up from the hollow. The full moon was making its way up through the trees. I was hoping a deer would come in, as I’ve seen once or twice this summer, but no luck. I’m sure I’ll see them again coming after my apples and my neighbor’s.
Other news of the summer: a bout of Lyme disease, which seems to have been knocked out with a nasty course of antibiotics. Daughter unit worked a six-week gig at summer camp. No steady employment for the son. The dogs are beginning to show their age, especially Trixie. I need to be more religious in walking her.
Oh, I started re-reading The Contrary Farmer tonight. I thought of it after I heard something about Wendell Berry the other day, thinking he wrote it. It was funny how I went right to it among the hundreds of books on the bookcases. I was mistaken, it is written by Gene Logsden, but it starts with a long Wendell Berry poem. Has it been years already since I first read it? Four? Five? Six? His simple wisdom still resounds with me, perhaps more than ever. Encouraging and depressing all at once. It would be such a better world if we held such simple, straightforward values. But we will never go back, or forward, to that. The only way to do it is to be…contrary. I shouldn’t mind being that.
August is fully here, and so few words about the garden so far! It seems I haven’t spent much more time gardening than blogging, although the results far outweigh the efforts. The one semi-perennial border I put in along the west fence has done amazingly well, with all my old favorites — Russian sage, achillea, rudbekia, santolina, salvia, sage, rosemary, thyme, and the annuals Mexican heather, eucalyptus, basil, parsley, red-leafed lettuce, a couple tomatoes (insurance), a pepper and an eggplant. Petunias in the shed window box. A few scattered pots of coleus, double-petunia, two leftover poinsettias from Christmas, and the scented geranium moved out to the front porch.
The vegetable patch — not big enough to be a garden — yielded some cabbages and broccoli early, and now is a dense, tall thicket of tomatoes. Neighbor Fred made fun of my “oil derrick” tomato towers when I first set them out over the young plants. (It didn’t help that they blew over in a storm before I had them anchored.) But now! Several plants have topped out at 7’. They are dense and lush, putting the neighbors' plants to shame. The only ones bigger all season were my Mom’s, but now mine have eclipsed even hers. Fried tomatoes for dinner tonight, the second time this season. The fruits are beautiful and heavy — the new favorite, pineapple red, and large lemon yellows, smaller lemon boy, tasty green zebra, and a massively sprawling volunteer red currant (the tiny South American variety; it must have sprouted from the compost). Plenty of fruit. I just hope it lasts into the Fall. I never have paid close enough attention to maturity dates to extend the crop, although I remember one year getting lucky and having tomatoes right up to Thanksgiving.
If I get time and motivation, I’d like to pull out that red currant and plant some beets, turnips, kale, and another crop of lettuce. My salad has been delicious but pathetically thin. What can I say? My attentions have been divided…
…as is evidenced by the project from hell, the patio retaining wall. I had to laugh when I walked by it this evening. There it was, half done, with the rest of the stones scattered all over the patio area. I could fill in the gaps with sand and I’d have a finished patio. It’s tough to get anything done when I am away every weekend.
August already, and I have spent hardly any time just sitting out back. When I think back to Taneytown, just a short year ago, with morning coffee outside on the porch or in the garden every day, and the sunset behind the mountains every evening from the porch swing. (sigh)
A couple weeks ago I was complaining that the night sounds had not yet started. This evening, sitting out back at dusk with my book, it was so loud it was almost painful. What a lovely cacophony of insects, although still not loud enough to drown out the yapping of Farmer Sebastian’s mutts coming up from the hollow. The full moon was making its way up through the trees. I was hoping a deer would come in, as I’ve seen once or twice this summer, but no luck. I’m sure I’ll see them again coming after my apples and my neighbor’s.
Other news of the summer: a bout of Lyme disease, which seems to have been knocked out with a nasty course of antibiotics. Daughter unit worked a six-week gig at summer camp. No steady employment for the son. The dogs are beginning to show their age, especially Trixie. I need to be more religious in walking her.
Oh, I started re-reading The Contrary Farmer tonight. I thought of it after I heard something about Wendell Berry the other day, thinking he wrote it. It was funny how I went right to it among the hundreds of books on the bookcases. I was mistaken, it is written by Gene Logsden, but it starts with a long Wendell Berry poem. Has it been years already since I first read it? Four? Five? Six? His simple wisdom still resounds with me, perhaps more than ever. Encouraging and depressing all at once. It would be such a better world if we held such simple, straightforward values. But we will never go back, or forward, to that. The only way to do it is to be…contrary. I shouldn’t mind being that.
Tuesday, August 08, 2006
It is this...
But what is happiness except the simple harmony between a man and the life he leads?
— Albert Camus
Tuesday, July 18, 2006
Night Songs
Tonight
you have to listen through
the hum of air conditioners
to hear the crickets sing
and those other insects
whose names I don’t know
cicadas? locusts?
Beats me.
What I do know is
that for many years now
these night songs of
unnamed insects have
serenaded me and
echoed in my bones
Because for many years now
all of them, in fact
I have never been far from trees.
17 July 2006
you have to listen through
the hum of air conditioners
to hear the crickets sing
and those other insects
whose names I don’t know
cicadas? locusts?
Beats me.
What I do know is
that for many years now
these night songs of
unnamed insects have
serenaded me and
echoed in my bones
Because for many years now
all of them, in fact
I have never been far from trees.
17 July 2006
Wednesday, June 21, 2006
Day of the Sun
We praise You, Lord, for all Your creatures,
especially for Brother Sun,
who is the day through whom You give us light.
And he is beautiful and radiant with great splendor,
of You Most High, he bears your likeness.
Laudato sie mi signore cum tucte le tue creature spetialmente messor lo frate sole. lo quale iorno et allumini per loi. Et ellu e bellu e radiante cum grande splendore. de te altissimo porta significatione.
especially for Brother Sun,
who is the day through whom You give us light.
And he is beautiful and radiant with great splendor,
of You Most High, he bears your likeness.
Laudato sie mi signore cum tucte le tue creature spetialmente messor lo frate sole. lo quale iorno et allumini per loi. Et ellu e bellu e radiante cum grande splendore. de te altissimo porta significatione.
— St. Francis of Assisi
Tuesday, June 20, 2006
Summer, By My Calculation
According to the U.S. Naval Observatory, the 2006 Summer Solstice occurs 12:26 GMT on June 21. By my calculation, that means it occurs tonight, 6/20, at 8:26 p.m. EDT.
It's the perfect time to get your bearings. Observe where the sun sets (@ 20:29) tonight, and note that direction as true west. Starting tomorrow, it will take the first step on its journey south (yes, I know the sun isn't really moving, it's the Earth's tilt, but just go with it, OK?) and the days will begin getting shorter again. :-(
Happy Summer!
It's the perfect time to get your bearings. Observe where the sun sets (@ 20:29) tonight, and note that direction as true west. Starting tomorrow, it will take the first step on its journey south (yes, I know the sun isn't really moving, it's the Earth's tilt, but just go with it, OK?) and the days will begin getting shorter again. :-(
Happy Summer!
Tuesday, June 13, 2006
Another Great Bumper Sticker
"If you voted for Bush, a yellow ribbon isn't going to make up for it."
Tuesday, June 06, 2006
Eight Thumbs Up!
It was a big week for movies. Last weekend, the holiday, my betrothed and I made the trek to suburban D.C. to see Water, since it didn't seem like it was ever going to play in Baltimore. We got there too late for the show, so instead we saw The Lost City, a family story set during the revolution in Cuba that brought Castro to power. Andy Garcia starred and directed. There were a few weak moments, but overall a really nice film. Garcia's love for his subject matter showed.
From there, on to the traditional Chinese symphonic concert in Rockville. It was quite good, but too lullabye-like; we didn't make it past the intermission, and instead headed back to Bethesda for Water. This Indian movie was powerful and very well-done.
The next day, The da Vinci code. Much better than the reviews. And I was proven wrong in my ranting about casting Tom Hanks. I still think it could have been better-cast, but he did fine. Enjoyed it. And Audrey Tautou was quite good. She earned this role from her stellar performance in Amelie, and I'm sure a bunch of other movies I have not seen. It didn't bother me that her hair was not red.
Last but not least, go see it even if it's so inconvenient you have to travel: An Inconvenient Truth. Took three of the kids to it Saturday. They were not particularly moved. But it was informative and compelling. It's real, and urgent. Made me think Al Gore should try to get re-elected in '08.
From there, on to the traditional Chinese symphonic concert in Rockville. It was quite good, but too lullabye-like; we didn't make it past the intermission, and instead headed back to Bethesda for Water. This Indian movie was powerful and very well-done.
The next day, The da Vinci code. Much better than the reviews. And I was proven wrong in my ranting about casting Tom Hanks. I still think it could have been better-cast, but he did fine. Enjoyed it. And Audrey Tautou was quite good. She earned this role from her stellar performance in Amelie, and I'm sure a bunch of other movies I have not seen. It didn't bother me that her hair was not red.
Last but not least, go see it even if it's so inconvenient you have to travel: An Inconvenient Truth. Took three of the kids to it Saturday. They were not particularly moved. But it was informative and compelling. It's real, and urgent. Made me think Al Gore should try to get re-elected in '08.
Coincidence?
A story on NPR this morning reported that psychiatric professionals have codified "rode rage" as "Intermittent Explosive Disorder," or IED. These initials have also become familiar in the reporting from Iraq, referring to "Improvised Explosive Devices," the most common roadside bombs. Coincidence? Maybe we should just stop driving.
Monday, May 15, 2006
A Waste of Energy
From the New York Times:
David Pimentel, a professor at Cornell University, published a paper in 2005 with Tad W. Patzek of the University of California, Berkeley stating that the corn-to-ethanol process powered by fossil fuels consumes 29 percent more energy than it produces. The results for switchgrass were even worse, the paper said, with a 50 percent net energy deficit. “I’m sympathetic, and I wish that ethanol production was a net positive and a help to this nation,” Dr. Pimentel said in an interview. “But I’m a scientist first and an agriculturalist second. I don’t think the U.S. will meet its goals with biofuels.” He also said the United States did not have enough agricultural land to displace gasoline with biofuels. “Even if we committed 100 percent of the corn crop to making ethanol, it would only replace 7 percent of U.S. vehicle fossil fuel use,” he said.
Tuesday, May 09, 2006
Friday, May 05, 2006
What is a poet?
"An unhappy person who conceals profound anguish in his heart but whose lips are so formed that as sighs and cries pass over them they sound like beautiful music."
— Soren Kierkegaard,
born this day in Denmark 1813
born this day in Denmark 1813
Wednesday, May 03, 2006
"Eat Your View"
I wish I could get that bumper sticker, seen in Europe. It’s quoted in Michael Pollan’s latest, The Omnivore’s Dilemma. I would put it on both my vehicles. What a beautifully succinct phrase of protest and sustainability all in one.
By all means, if you are reading this, go out and get the book and read it. He is an outstanding writer. I immensely enjoyed his two earlier books, The Botany of Desire (thank you Aimee) and Second Nature/A Gardener’s Education. This one, though, while being entertaining and highly informative, leaves me mostly…disturbed.
I feel further from Taneytown than ever. There, many a meal was prepared and consumed entirely with the fruits of the farm and woods, except for some spices and condiments. I had actually eliminated store-bought meat from our diet, between the broilers I raised, the deer, and an annual ration of pork from the hog or two Scott butchered in the spring. And of course, the eggs. And everything from the garden. With some help canning and preserving, the garden could have fed us all year long.
So now I read this book, and it painted a more vivid picture of industrial agriculture than I needed to have. Truly, I don’t want to eat factory meat anymore. I still have plenty of venison. And there is a local producer of grass-fed beef I intend to patronize. There are other local growers to be found, I’m sure, short of heading down to Polyface Farm in Shenandoah to buy from Joel Salatin. And there are the farmers markets I used to frequent, and intend to frequent again. But most I look forward to the day when I can again get firmer control over my own food destiny. That day will come.
But read the book. You’ll learn a lot. Including that Whole Foods and Trader Joe’s and so-called organic and free-range aren’t close to the answer. And that the price we pay for our food is never high enough.
Think about it: If we paid what we should for our food; if we paid what we should for our gas (which we are beginning to, but unfortunately just to profit the oil companies), then many fewer people could afford those McMansions…and the view might once again be good enough to eat.
By all means, if you are reading this, go out and get the book and read it. He is an outstanding writer. I immensely enjoyed his two earlier books, The Botany of Desire (thank you Aimee) and Second Nature/A Gardener’s Education. This one, though, while being entertaining and highly informative, leaves me mostly…disturbed.
I feel further from Taneytown than ever. There, many a meal was prepared and consumed entirely with the fruits of the farm and woods, except for some spices and condiments. I had actually eliminated store-bought meat from our diet, between the broilers I raised, the deer, and an annual ration of pork from the hog or two Scott butchered in the spring. And of course, the eggs. And everything from the garden. With some help canning and preserving, the garden could have fed us all year long.
So now I read this book, and it painted a more vivid picture of industrial agriculture than I needed to have. Truly, I don’t want to eat factory meat anymore. I still have plenty of venison. And there is a local producer of grass-fed beef I intend to patronize. There are other local growers to be found, I’m sure, short of heading down to Polyface Farm in Shenandoah to buy from Joel Salatin. And there are the farmers markets I used to frequent, and intend to frequent again. But most I look forward to the day when I can again get firmer control over my own food destiny. That day will come.
But read the book. You’ll learn a lot. Including that Whole Foods and Trader Joe’s and so-called organic and free-range aren’t close to the answer. And that the price we pay for our food is never high enough.
Think about it: If we paid what we should for our food; if we paid what we should for our gas (which we are beginning to, but unfortunately just to profit the oil companies), then many fewer people could afford those McMansions…and the view might once again be good enough to eat.
Tuesday, April 18, 2006
Canticle of Spring
This landscape is taking on its verdant mantle
Given by You, Lord
Full, rich, lush
Calling my hands
And I cannot resist
The temptation to shape it
To my own will and desire and sustenance.
Give me this one indulgence, Lord
Bear with my audacious attempts
To embellish Your handiwork
Cede me this bit of Earth
To create a humble oasis —
A place for me to welcome your angels
And rest in Your presence.
Given by You, Lord
Full, rich, lush
Calling my hands
And I cannot resist
The temptation to shape it
To my own will and desire and sustenance.
Give me this one indulgence, Lord
Bear with my audacious attempts
To embellish Your handiwork
Cede me this bit of Earth
To create a humble oasis —
A place for me to welcome your angels
And rest in Your presence.
18 April 2006
Monday, April 17, 2006
Out of Africa
"All sorrows can be borne, if you put them into a story."
– Isak Dinesen, born this day in 1885
Wednesday, April 12, 2006
Lighting the Passover Candles
We begin by honoring the Light.
We light these candles for our families, our beloveds, our friends, for all our relations;
For those who are near and for those from whom we feel an unwanted distance;
For the newborn, for the elderly, and for all the wounded children.
May the candles inspire us to use our powers to heal and not to harm, to help and not to hinder, to bless and not to curse.
May their radiance pour out upon our hearts, and spread light into the darkened corners of our world.
We light these candles for our families, our beloveds, our friends, for all our relations;
For those who are near and for those from whom we feel an unwanted distance;
For the newborn, for the elderly, and for all the wounded children.
May the candles inspire us to use our powers to heal and not to harm, to help and not to hinder, to bless and not to curse.
May their radiance pour out upon our hearts, and spread light into the darkened corners of our world.
– Adapted from a Passover Haggadah by Rachel Altman and Mary Jane Ryan
The Sight of Your Face is a Blessing
Don't hide. The sight of your face is a blessing.
Wherever you place your foot, there rests a blessing
Even your shadow
Passing over me like a swift bird
Is a blessing
The great spring has come
Your sweet air, blowing through the city,
The country, the gardens
And the deserts are a blessing
He has come with love to our door
His knock is a blessing.
Wherever you place your foot, there rests a blessing
Even your shadow
Passing over me like a swift bird
Is a blessing
The great spring has come
Your sweet air, blowing through the city,
The country, the gardens
And the deserts are a blessing
He has come with love to our door
His knock is a blessing.
– Jalal al-Din Rumi, Persia, 1207-1273 (Western calendar)
Monday, April 10, 2006
What is it you seek?
What is it you seek
O my friend?
You would find only
What you seek!
If you are
Truly thirsty,
Remember:
Some drops of dew
Would not satisfy
Your thirst:
You must dive into
The river!
O my friend?
You would find only
What you seek!
If you are
Truly thirsty,
Remember:
Some drops of dew
Would not satisfy
Your thirst:
You must dive into
The river!
– Kabir: India 1450 – 1418
Wednesday, April 05, 2006
ILNY
Lights define the New York skyline receding behind me, and the western sky has the glow of twilight as my train heads south for Baltimore. It’s that magical time of evening and I’m feeling light after a two-day respite from routine, and happy to be heading home to welcoming arms and a warm bed. I bought a set of ear buds and am listening to Joshua Redman; the current track is a beautiful saxophone version of the early Joni Mitchell folk ballad, “I Had a King.” Soon, I will have a queen, and my heart is anxious for the day.
(These ear buds — either my ears are anatomically incorrect, or I am too stupid to figure out how to use them. I’ve never been able to get them to stay in my ears and play full sound. Better than nothing, though.)
I am finally starting to get comfortable getting around New York. I found my way everywhere without having to backtrack, and rode the subway a couple times a day without getting on the wrong train or off at the wrong stop. I was pretty pleased that I was able to find the station two blocks from my hotel, and that was my jumping-off point. I was a little dismayed though this morning, when I turned the corner from my hotel and found a stop right there, 20 yards from the hotel door. Oh, well. It was only a daytime station anyway.
Sunday afternoon I took the subway to Greenwich Village and wandered all around, ending up in Gramercy Park for dinner at Khyber Pass. The eggplant appetizer was wonderful, the lamb entrée so-so. Wandering back to the 4th Street subway station, I stopped for some good music at Washington Square Park. Almost back to the station I passed the Blue Note and couldn’t resist the temptation to go in and see the Larry Carleton show. I bought a $20 bar seat. He was awesome — guitar, tenor, electronic keyboards, drums, his son on bass, and a guest trombonist from NYC. Cool show.
Monday was a trip to a mansion in Scarsdale. A different world than I’ve seen much of, starting with the iron gates at the driveway. Huge house, incredible furnishings, beautiful finishes, impeccable grounds…multiple millions to build it. 24 hours later, the opposite extreme — way up in the Bronx. When my two compatriots and I got off the subway and asked for directions, a local lady looked at us and offered some help, including the advice, “You shouldn’t be down on the street here the way you look.” Not that we were that dressed up or anything. I guess we just obviously weren’t from the Bronx. We did our photo shoot — the empty lot we were anticipating turned out to be filled with cars and surrounded by a razor-wire topped fence, so not sure how those photos will turn out — then one of our local contacts took us up to the Arthur Avenue Market for lunch. The most amazing Italian deli stand, then out to Little Italy/The Bronx for cappuccino. Everywhere we went we were the odd ones, but we got back without incident.
Last night I saw Spike Lee’s new movie, Inside Man, at Loew’s Theatre on Times Square (where I saw the first Star Wars, what? 30 years ago? before it was a phenom). I give it a thumbs up. Music by Terence Blanchard.
A good trip. Lots of walking around. Good things to eat. Time to think and reflect. Not a lot of people interaction. I have a feeling I’ll be back in the next week or two for more meetings. And I’m sure I’ll try to milk it again for more distraction.
(These ear buds — either my ears are anatomically incorrect, or I am too stupid to figure out how to use them. I’ve never been able to get them to stay in my ears and play full sound. Better than nothing, though.)
I am finally starting to get comfortable getting around New York. I found my way everywhere without having to backtrack, and rode the subway a couple times a day without getting on the wrong train or off at the wrong stop. I was pretty pleased that I was able to find the station two blocks from my hotel, and that was my jumping-off point. I was a little dismayed though this morning, when I turned the corner from my hotel and found a stop right there, 20 yards from the hotel door. Oh, well. It was only a daytime station anyway.
Sunday afternoon I took the subway to Greenwich Village and wandered all around, ending up in Gramercy Park for dinner at Khyber Pass. The eggplant appetizer was wonderful, the lamb entrée so-so. Wandering back to the 4th Street subway station, I stopped for some good music at Washington Square Park. Almost back to the station I passed the Blue Note and couldn’t resist the temptation to go in and see the Larry Carleton show. I bought a $20 bar seat. He was awesome — guitar, tenor, electronic keyboards, drums, his son on bass, and a guest trombonist from NYC. Cool show.
Monday was a trip to a mansion in Scarsdale. A different world than I’ve seen much of, starting with the iron gates at the driveway. Huge house, incredible furnishings, beautiful finishes, impeccable grounds…multiple millions to build it. 24 hours later, the opposite extreme — way up in the Bronx. When my two compatriots and I got off the subway and asked for directions, a local lady looked at us and offered some help, including the advice, “You shouldn’t be down on the street here the way you look.” Not that we were that dressed up or anything. I guess we just obviously weren’t from the Bronx. We did our photo shoot — the empty lot we were anticipating turned out to be filled with cars and surrounded by a razor-wire topped fence, so not sure how those photos will turn out — then one of our local contacts took us up to the Arthur Avenue Market for lunch. The most amazing Italian deli stand, then out to Little Italy/The Bronx for cappuccino. Everywhere we went we were the odd ones, but we got back without incident.
Last night I saw Spike Lee’s new movie, Inside Man, at Loew’s Theatre on Times Square (where I saw the first Star Wars, what? 30 years ago? before it was a phenom). I give it a thumbs up. Music by Terence Blanchard.
A good trip. Lots of walking around. Good things to eat. Time to think and reflect. Not a lot of people interaction. I have a feeling I’ll be back in the next week or two for more meetings. And I’m sure I’ll try to milk it again for more distraction.
Friday, March 10, 2006
Yes, this is love, this, the truth...
For even as love crowns you so shall he crucify you. Even as he is for your growth so is he for your pruning.
Even as he ascends to your height and caresses your tenderest branches that quiver in the sun,
So shall he descend to your roots and shake them in their clinging to the earth.
Even as he ascends to your height and caresses your tenderest branches that quiver in the sun,
So shall he descend to your roots and shake them in their clinging to the earth.
— Kahlil Gibran
Triple Header
Always think of what you have to do as easy and it will become so.
Patience is needed with everyone, but first of all with ourselves.
—Emile Corie
Patience is needed with everyone, but first of all with ourselves.
—Saint Francis De Sales
Life can only be understood backwards, but it must be lived forward. —Soren Kierkegaard
Wednesday, March 01, 2006
Stolen From The Writer's Almanac
Manners
by Howard Nemerov
Prig offered Pig the first chance at dessert,
So Pig reached out and speared the bigger part.
"Now that," cried Prig, "is extremely rude of you!"
Pig, with his mouth full, said, "Wha, wha' wou' 'ou do?"
"I would have taken the littler bit," said Prig.
"Stop kvetching, then, it's what you've got," said Pig.
So virtue is its own reward, you see.
And that is all it's ever going to be.
from Trying Conclusions. © University of Chicago Press. Reprinted without permission.
by Howard Nemerov
Prig offered Pig the first chance at dessert,
So Pig reached out and speared the bigger part.
"Now that," cried Prig, "is extremely rude of you!"
Pig, with his mouth full, said, "Wha, wha' wou' 'ou do?"
"I would have taken the littler bit," said Prig.
"Stop kvetching, then, it's what you've got," said Pig.
So virtue is its own reward, you see.
And that is all it's ever going to be.
from Trying Conclusions. © University of Chicago Press. Reprinted without permission.
Monday, February 27, 2006
Joy
From joy I came,
For joy I live,
And in Thy sacred joy
I shall melt again.
– Yogananda, Whispers from Eternity
For joy I live,
And in Thy sacred joy
I shall melt again.
– Yogananda, Whispers from Eternity
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