Saturday, November 30, 2013

In 9th grade, part of our English class included Greek/Roman mythology. Brutal, brutal stories! Three-headed dogs and ladies with snakes for hair! Goddesses changing young girls into spiders and men into grasshoppers! Gods throwing temper tantrums and flinging lightning bolts into the earth. Kings killing off their daughters' suitors. Jealousy, infidelity, and revenge around every corner. I felt deeply grateful that this was mythology, way far back in an unlikely past, and that nothing that powerful and capricious was in our realm of experience.

But now sometimes I wonder.

bulbs




Image of painting by Vincent Van Gogh via Wikimedia: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:VanGoghIrises2.jpg


as we inch into winter temperatures, and the outdoor plants wither and droop without memory of the promise of spring, i think about bulbs. Lilies and tulips. Irises and onions. Daffodils and amaryllis. They come back year after year, and they actually depend on a freeze or two to get into the mood to bloom come spring. Fall and early winter are thus good times to plant bulbs - like, now for instance!

Irises tend to show up early. There was an oak in central Texas along a rural road. Each spring, irises would shoot upward in a circle around the trunk. What a spark of cheer after a drab winter to see the deep purple petals swaying and waving above the fresh green stems.



Onion bulb.
Image
via Wikimedia: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Onion_growing_shoots.jpg

Thursday, November 28, 2013

My expectation was that I'd be a mother of daughters. That's where my experience lay: one of three sisters, 12 years of all-girls schools. Daughters would be companionable and familiar. Little Women in the 1990s.

I didn't know a thing about boys. Yet when the time came, two baby guys showed up, and I had a lot to learn and it was great. Boys are a lot of fun. I'm generalizing here, and it's not true for all kids, but girls like to talk and the boys tended to be more action. As a mother of sons, though I was curious about their friends and teachers, I never was told who said what at school, or who was no longer a friend of so and so because of this or that. The boys spent their time after school throwing a Nerf ball back and forth over the roof, or speeding down a hill on trikes they'd long ago outgrown or crashing through the house with phony swords and firefighter hats. They're grown up, but they haven't changed so much. It's been a good life, being a mother of sons.

Om


phrases from a Wikipedia article on 'Om':

'the basis of all uttered sound'

'The Sanskrit name for the syllable is praṇava'

'from a root nu "to shout, sound" '

' "to make a humming or droning sound" '


Happy Thanksgiving -

Happy Hanukkah

Tuesday, November 26, 2013

Baseball at Beekman's


the gentleman at the table was talking about when he was a kid in the 1930s in New Orleans, Louisiana. There was a store that sold men's goods called Beekman's. This is where he was fitted with his first pair of long pants, around age 7, for First Communion. Before that, he wore knickers. The transition from knickers to long pants represented a giant step toward manhood.

There was an overhang over the front of the store and when there were baseball games, a couple of fellows would man the canopy. They were able to receive data via telegraph from distant games in progress. As information flowed in, reduced to Morse code, one of the men at the New Orleans storefront would call the plays, like an announcer at the game. Because the information by telegraph was terse and limited, they filled in the blanks with action, with their own wild details of what could have led to the reported run or strike out. The people below loved the show.

Monday, November 25, 2013

Loretta

one of my favorite neighbors ever was a little brown mutt named Loretta who lived near the entrance to our rural neighborhood. She was a happy dog, and catapulted out of her yard to meet me whenever I walked by. Though she had plenty of space to explore with little objection to her freedom, she tended to mostly mind the front steps, coming out to sniff the butterflies, garter snakes and Mexican hats.

We both left the area around the same time, but I remember her now and again. Just a single little neighbor offered a sense of well-being, warmth and welcome to our little bit of the earth. 'Loretta, Loretta - where ya been so long?'

Sunday, November 24, 2013

the door was open
(shelves filled with color
the glorious glow
soft sacred strands
running through my hands)
knowing nothing of knitting
i knew the seduction of yarn

Saturday, November 23, 2013

the poetry of songwriters

Simon and Garfunkel, balladeers of the 1960s and early 70s, created poetry on wheels, stanzas attached to song. Many of their lyrics could be categorized as poetry. 'The Dangling Conversation' for example could stand proudly side by side with T. S. Eliot's 'The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock'.

Simon and Garfunkel are a standout example but many other songwriters could also claim credit as poets (and excuse me if my focus is back a few decades when I was a young adult during a great era of radio). Ian Anderson (of Jethro Tull) and The Indigo Girls come to mind. Think of 'Suite: Judy Blue Eyes' or 'Helplessly Hoping' by Crosby, Stills and Nash. Talking Heads. Eric Burdon. Stephen Sondheim's 'Send in the Clowns'. Emerson, Lake, and Palmer. Moody Blues.

Melody helps imprint poetry into our memories. Not only are song lyrics received in the language centers, they become anchored in areas of the brain that process music.

Then there is language with no words - piano, trumpet, drums - passionate sound, mind-expanding geometric travel that can pierce the wordy barriers of excuses and explanations we contrive and fly right to the heart of it all, without a single sentence.

Friday, November 22, 2013

mona lisa

once upon a time
in the 1990s
i went to the Louvre in Paris, France
i hadn't known this world-famous museum
was once a castle
the ancient building
as beautiful as the most precious art within

a crowd was gathered round
the 'Mona Lisa'
some consider 'Mona Lisa'
the most recognized man-made art of all
and here it was
the showpiece

the crowd was big
and Mona was in an acrylic cube
to keep her safe
she was much smaller than I expected
and i never was able to get up close
to see the brush work
to see the dance of Leonardo's living hand

Thursday, November 21, 2013

sunflowers

sunflowers are a gift to bird and beast
fast growing
hardy under harsh conditions
covered with delicious seeds
brilliant and lovely to the eye

Tuesday, November 19, 2013

They say you can't step into the same river twice, and I guess that's true for the sidewalks in the neighborhood as well. The time of day shifts, and the sunlight sifts through different branches of the tree up ahead. Something new is being built and something old is getting torn down. The crepe myrtle is covered with blooms; now the petals lay strewn, confetti atop the grasses. The dogs are hoping for some excitement; then nap on the front porch. The mailbox next door is silver; now it's painted forest green. The lemonade stand is up, now it's not, now it's up again. You turn around, and the kids are all grown up.

evening highway home

the moon
a great companion -
just past full
and rising in the east -
with moonlight
and ribbon of meandering cloud
shaped a cast
of fleeting characters -
monster heads
the debonaires and funny faces -
as i drove down
the evening highway
home

Thursday, November 14, 2013

silence

the silence of a city at night
after a soft and heavy snow
of a candle on an altar
yet to be lit
Foods that are roots: Potatoes for the Irish, beets for the Russians. French fries may be a bit heavy, but they are food, and potatoes are easy to grow. There are carrots and radishes, turnips and onions. Sugar beets provide us with sugar. Jicama is crispy and lightly sweet, like the nectar of honeysuckle. Yams and sweet potatoes are especially nourishing. Horseradish (a condiment) brings tears to the eyes.

Tuesday, November 12, 2013

the dogs in the hood -

when i first arrived in the neighborhood, the dogs would bark and bark and bark as I walked past. What a commotion -

A week or two passed, and the dogs would bark, but they wagged their tails and jumped up and down, happy for some distraction.

Then, more time passed, and they'd come to the fence, and just watch me walk by. 'What?' I'd say. 'Not even a token bark?' Wag, wag.

Now, they hardly glance up at me. The hind leg scratches an itch. Oh. It's just her.

'Woof,' I say.

No reply.

Monday, November 11, 2013

if it don't make money...

one of the biggest misconceptions of the past seventy-five years on earth may be this: if it does not make money, it is not worth pursuing.

Sunday, November 10, 2013

The Geyser Charter


The Geysers, the only organization I embrace wholeheartedly and without reservation, still exists. I first published its charter in my last blog, The Ravens Map (where it has since been mysteriously abridged - ahem.) I'm posting it in its brief original entirety again tonight:


THE GEYSER CHARTER (Draft 5-3-12)

The Geysers is an organization with no specific purpose.

The only requirements to become a member are 1) to want to be a member and 2) to embrace these standards: Love, Principle, and Fluid Hierarchy.

One may belong to or leave the Geysers as one wishes.

This organization requires no dues nor exchange of money nor fund-raising. However, apprenticeships may be requested from one or more members. If the member wants to provide this service, that service will be offered freely. Details will be worked out between teacher and apprentice.

A meeting of members and visitors occurs at least once every 24 hours (currently at 10 AM). There are no rules about meeting content or who attends the meeting or whether it occurs above or below surface or both. In leading the meeting, the standard of Fluid Hierarchy is observed.

This charter is not secret.

A number of helpful guidelines have surfaced over time, and are hereby recorded for the edification and entertainment of members and any curious others:

No martyrs.

Being late is no crime.

Just because it looks like a hat doesn't mean it's a hat.

Don't forget to pass the relay stick.

Muddle through.

--
added 8-30-13

Leave no one behind.

In space, there is no up nor down.
we lived on a busy road and when I was ten, the only paved place to ride bikes was on the narrow driveway. There was a cracked line in the pavement toward the road we were not allowed to cross. So, one day, I rode my bike down the drive almost to the line. I veered right onto the ground under the cedar tree and circled back onto the drive and up the hill to the car port. Getting over the steepest part was work, but after a while, my body figured out how to do this with greater efficiency. This felt good. Soon, as the days went by, there was a hard, bare arc under the tree where we kids made our turnaround for years to come.

We didn't get anywhere, and yet we did. Riding this limited route over and over, after 20 laps or so, a light peacefulness and sense of well-being would descend.

Friday, November 8, 2013

the iced tea

my left shoe
was biting
my little toe
but the iced tea
the scone
beckoned
and i keep walking

Thursday, November 7, 2013



i used to think of stargazing as complicated. You need equipment: charts and calendars; a telescope; a flashlight covered in red cellophane so you can see your charts and adjust your telescope in the dark without 'blinding' your eyes; a reclining chair; notebook and pen; etc. It's work!

it wasn't until I was older that I realized you don't need anything at all but to show up.

if you really want a clearer look, a pair of good binoculars works surprisingly well.

my favorite constellation for a long time was Orion. But my favorite to find through the binoculars was the Beehive. It has that fuzzy look that indicates there's more than a few isolated stars in your view; those are clusters and galaxies containing thousands of stars over 500 light years away. The implications rob me of my breath and set my tongue silent, my brain adrift, my heart on fire.





Image URL: http://newswatch.nationalgeographic.com/files/2013/06/m44bash.jpg
from nationalgeographic.com

Wednesday, November 6, 2013

poem by Wilfred Owen

The Parable of the Old Man and the Young

So Abram rose, and clave the wood, and went,
And took the fire with him, and a knife.
And as they sojourned both of them together,
Isaac the first-born spake and said, My Father,
Behold the preparations, fire and iron,
But where the lamb for this burnt-offering?
Then Abram bound the youth with belts and straps,
And builded parapets and trenches there,
And stretched forth the knife to slay his son.
When lo! an angel called him out of heaven,
Saying, Lay not thy hand upon the lad,
Neither do anything to him. Behold,
A ram, caught in a thicket by its horns;
Offer the Ram of Pride instead of him.

But the old man would not so, but slew his son,
And half the seed of Europe, one by one.

Wilfred Owen
1893-1918

Monday, November 4, 2013

when we were kids in south Louisiana, our dad had a motor boat, and sometimes he'd take us out into the Gulf of Mexico to fish. We'd leave the house well before dawn with a cooler of drinks and luncheon meat sandwiches on white bread. By the time the red sun was peaking over the horizon, we'd be on the Intracoastal Canal, the motor humming, heading out for deeper waters. I don't know about recent years but back then, people sometimes tied their boats to oil rigs in the gulf to fish, and i read about why later on. The rigs, after being in place for a number of years, developed salt water ecosystems of their own that attracted the larger fish. Barnacles in their hard gleaming shells were latched onto the lower railings of the rig. Fish were leaping from the waves; there were sharks and stingrays and crabs and sometimes you'd see dolphins (the mammals). Each had their own body shapes and appendages, and thus different fascinating techniques for traveling through the water.

My memories are not all positive, though! Roped to the rig, the boat bounced up and down on choppy waters. I got terribly seasick - and sunburned. Most trips out, the boat broke down at least once, and we had difficulty interpreting what dad meant when he said, 'Hand me that thingamajig.'

Sunday, November 3, 2013

the crepe myrtle

no one notices
the elder crepe myrtle tree
cloaked among
the vines and shrubs
at the edge of a parking lot
in an old part of town


with unpretentious charm
the strong limbs
decked with curling lichens
cup spirited clusters
of bygone blooms.
even in these
November afternoons
the leaf-shedding boughs
generate clouds
of pale light

there are songs that proclaim
the ancient oaks
the bending pines -
tonight i write
of the elder crepe myrtle
at the edge of a parking lot
in an old part of town

Saturday, November 2, 2013

Mission San Juan Bautista & Father Tápis's Color Music System

Parts of the Alfred Hitchcock movie 'Vertigo' were filmed at Mission San Juan Bautista in California. I looked up that location on Wikipedia and came upon the following quote:


'Father Pedro Estévan Tápis (who had a special talent for music) joined Father Felipe Arroyo de la Cuesta, at Mission San Juan Bautista in 1815 to teach singing to the Indians. He employed a system of notation developed in Spain that uses varied colors or textures for polyphonic music, usually (from bottom to top) solid black, solid red, black outline (sometimes solid yellow) and red outline (or black outline when yellow was used). His choir of Native American boys performed for many visitors, earning the San Juan Bautista Mission the nickname "the Mission of Music." Two of his handwritten choir books are preserved at the San Juan Bautista Museum. When Father Tapis died in 1825 he was buried on the mission grounds. The town of San Juan Bautista, which grew up around the mission, expanded rapidly during the California Gold Rush and continues to be a thriving community today.'


I'd like to see samples of written music using colors to communicate specific notes, but was unable to locate images or further information on Father Tapis's choir books.
When the kids on the playground in 1961 learned my mother was a nurse, they were horrified. 'Does she give you shots every day?!' I'd awkwardly explain she wasn't a nurse at home, she was a mom.

It's unlikely Florence Nightingale ever gave a shot in her life, but at some point in the 20th century, injecting vaccines and drugs became a major part of many nurses' duties. And you were very likely to be on the receiving end if you were a little kid whose parents were educated about the necessity of these new healthcare advances measured in a syringe.

Time passed, and I too became a parent educated about the necessity (by law in the US when it came to vaccines) of new healthcare advances for my kids.