Media Info-Nix

Weather forcast: 30% chance of light snow, light snow, accumulation one to two inches. Right! Awoke this morning to let the dogs out. Opening the door, both of them just stood on either side of me as if to say, " I gotta pee, but damn mom, not out there!" A gentle nudge with my foot slid Mic to the door sill. Sarah reluctantly stepped out first, she's a hurry up and get back in kind of dog. Brainless wonder I have to teather to the front porch.
It's snowing so hard I can't see the pines across the dirt road. My spliting rounds have grown neatly cut six inch biscuits. I knew it, yesterday was just to nice. Please don't say, it sounds cozy. I've have places to go, and people to meet, and... I'm out of wood. Couldn't get over the first mountain pass if I tried, age has slowed my sense of adventure some. Crawling behind a snowplow for a couple hundred miles is no longer that much fun, I'ed rather split the splitting rounds. The worst part is the dogs have gas... lucky me! I love warm and cozy...

Friendship

Now tell me true, is this not a cute picture of you know who?

Walkabout

Haven't been off this mountain in over a year and a half, and I feel a twang of agoraphobia from time to time. Snow is forcast for in end of this week; I love driving in snow.
Today will be another busy one with a few more things to do.









One more cup of coffee and it will be time to get busy, I'm moving slow this morning. Actually, it looks and feels like snow already, a very grey day. Guess it's time to get off my ars and get to it.

Morning Snow

A frosty white cloaks this morning in peaceful stillness. Dauntless chickadees flit and flutter through pine boughs outside my window.
I'm burning the last row of wood, rounds cut close to the ground, heavy with mastic pitch. They were hard to split, but well worth the labor. The stove hums and snaps like teenage girls chewing gum. The Sarah and Mic sleep close to the fire, they twitch spasmodically and drift, deep in doggy dreamland.
I am content to sit for awhile, drink my coffee, muse, and listen to the sounds of winter.

The Scent of Peace

It snowed to the west last night, missing my mountian top by several hundred feet. Looking out my kitchen window the sun is shinning and the sky bright blue. Looking north is another story, a ground fog like a grey blanket covers the mountian in ice. I wonder which of the two conditions will prevail for the day? The outside weather forcast is in Spirit's hands, but I am the maker of my internal state of mind.
The two pictures are of a plant called white sage; I know it to grow in the foothills of southern California. It is a sacred plant to many native americans all over the country. It has a pleasant smell and is used for many things, one of which is smudging. The smoke from sage can cleanse the soul and bring peace to balance troubled thoughts. Why can't I arrange these photos and script the way I want? Oh well, just another little thing for me to learn, not to worry for now.
It's funny, as a little girl I watched my father burn small pieces of white sage in an abalone shell, weither he was drunk or sober. I just thought it was a dumb Indian thing. It was a custom I knew nothing about until I saw a woman in a shop smudging. Being as self centered as I am, I wondered if we were related in some way. She answered all my questions, and many years went by before I was able to accept the part of me that I kept hidden in shame. Today I do my best to forgive my father for his faults, and his not teaching me more of my native culture. Maybe he knew best, probably my blind judgment would have caused me not to understand anyway.
I am still caught between two worlds, but through prayer and a little ceremony of burning white sage, I find the balance needed to walk foward with hope and a strength that is not my own.

Spiritual Cookies

Paperwhites are my favorite of bulbs, and to watch them bloom in winter is a sweet treat. This morning I awoke to a milagro pequeno, a little miracle.

All Things Have Their Time.

When my mother died, it took ten long years to go through the grieving process. To even say the words, "My Mother" caused me such pain and sorrow, it would take my breath away and the tears would flow no matter where I was or with whom, I would have to walk away to compose myself.
I worked as a bartender in San Fransisco and became friends with a woman named Kathy. At the begaining of our friendship she wanted a closeness that I could not give. I told her we would remain friends for a very long time, she agreed, and so we were. Kathy had been the tennis coach at a small private collage, she was tall, brilliant, and with a wit I seldom find. We became drinking and softball buddys. She was my ship in the night.
One night after work, she drove me to the beach in her vw bug. We drank and talked for hours. Some how the subject of "mother" came up and as always I lost it and opened the door to get out of the car. She held me back and ask me to tell her what I remembered and loved most about my mother. I told her, "reading to me when I was a little girl".
"What did she read to you?", she ask and held hold of my arm until I closed the car door.
"All kinds of books, and my dad read to me as well."
"What book did you like the best?"
"Uncle Remes, brair rabbit and tar babby", mother always moaned when ask to read it, she said it was hard to get the rhythem right. It was the rhythem of the words that I loved in her voice. She had a gift of many things, but couldn't see it.
Kathy started speaking to me in a black dialectic, das right, etc. We laugh and cried until the sun came up.
Something happened that night, a healing that has never wavered til this day. The open wound of loss transmuted to acceptance and even a comforting joy. My friend gave me a gift that night, a gift that there are no words of gratitude in me that can express my feelings with.
Soon after that time, I moved to the east coast and lost touch with Kathy. I can only hope that when we dream, I can reach out to her and say, "thank you".

Playing In The Dirt

This is where we're all headed, isn't it?
How many years do you think you have left?
What are you going to do with them?
If you could uncover one thing about yourself, what would it be?
What other questions does this picture bring up in you?

I'm still digging for answers.









Photo by Pedro Meyer

Shvuntz?

photos
Pedro Meyer
Joseph Szabp

Remember Fun?

Nothing to post, I just like this photo.

Girl Scouts

How old was I? Was it fourth, or fifth grade? Some parent decided to start a Girl Scout troop. All the girls were excited, even me.
The first two meetings were fun... orientation, punch and cookies. We each were given a handbook, I stayed up all night reading mine.
As a burgeoning troop, we met each week at a local church. On the third week, our den mother was late, what to do?
Karen Simmerman whispered,"the basement door is always open", she knew because her father was the pastor of the church. "Come on, I'll show you.", and we all followed her down the steps and into the building. "Come in here, I want to show you all something". We troupted single file into a large dimly lit bathroom. The light from two high window reflected off the opposing white tiled wall and onto the floor, she didn't turn on the lights.
From somewhere on her, Karen produced a pack of Pall Mall cigarettes and a book of matches. Nobody said a word. "There's one for you, and you, and you." She lit her cigarette first to showed everyone how proficient she was at smoking. I knew better... besides, I could chew, or use snuff and never get in trouble. My grandmother never ask about those two things, only if I smoked. I let Karen light my awkwardly held cigarette knowing full well the consequence if my grandmother found out, or ask me.
We all were puffing, trying not to cough, and talking a mile a minute when the lights were turned on. Wish I had a picture, god only knows where all the cigarettes went. Den mother lined us up against the wall, the sun in our faces. The light was so bright, I could hardly see a thing. I was first or last in the line depending on where Den mother stood. She walking up and down the line, just my luck, she stopped and faced me. She asked, "Have you been smoking?" Knowing good girl scouts never lie, "Yes mam", I said.
She stepped to Karen and asked, "Have you been smoking?" Karen answered, "No!" I couldn't believe it, getting in trouble for smoking was bad enough, but lying...the girl was going stright to hell, we were in a church for christ sakes. Den mother asked each of the other girls. With each answer "No", my heart beat faster and yet sank.
That day was my last day of being a Girl Scout. From that day on I knew that I was a true Girl Scout in my heart, even though I never got to put on the uniform. Many times I ask myself, if I could go back and answer again, would I change my answer? No, not in a million years. Oh! I didn't get a switching, because I told the truth. My mom and dad, and grandma believed me, that was all that was important anyway.

Playing Nice

We all take turns okay?

Merry Little Christmas

Looking foward to a brighter year.
Peace.

Acceptance of Loss

Last winter while living in the trailer, my upper right second molar started hurting. It had been over two years since I had seen a dentist. I knew what the problem was, but there wasn't much I could do, but accept the pain.
Needing an antibiotic to treat the infection, I had to see a doctor to get a prescription. If the pain had been less and I had been thinking straight, I would have ask the vet.
The medical clinic fee, fiftynine dollars. My face was swollen, eye drooped, blood pressure up from the pain and infection. The MD wanted to see, don't ask me why, he didn't know what he was looking at anyway.
"I need a prescription for penicillin". I was one minute into the four minute visit.
"You have to see a dentist and have that taken out, the infection will only return". Why would I see him if I had the money to see a dentist? He also said, "That looks like it really hurts". Meaning, aren't you going to ask me for pain meds? I gave him a screw you smile, paid the bill and drove to the pharmacy for the penicillin. Pain can make you mean, I do my best to overcome it.
The tooth is hanging in there, I've tried twice to extract it and wimped out. The infection has never returned as well as the initial pain, which is a blessing. I wonder when I will lose this tooth, a month, two, or six? I'll miss it, it's been with me a long time. Why cry about one tooth I say, I have all the others, and some people don't have any. Even still, I'll miss it when it goes.

Good and Evil/ Wrong and Right

Mandorlas
A mandorla is the almond-shaped segment that is made when two circles partly overlap. It is the Italian word for almond.
Language is a mandorla. "The fire and the rose are one." By overlapping the two elements of fire and a flower, T.S. Eliot is making a mandorla. When images overlap what brings them together, unites the beauty and the terror of existence?







Words have the ability to suprise and shock...to remind us that there are links between the things we have always thought of as opposites.
A mandorla is conflict resolution.
Feet on earth, head in heaven, as written in Coptic script on the orb of earth at the feet of Christ. The second photo is Seattle street art.

Anything to Know

A Sunday walk in Golden Gate Park, she was singing with some guys. "Damn, she's good", I thought to myself.
Walked into the Camel Bar in North Beach and saw her again. She was real drunk, loud. Who is she? From across the bar I could see her pain, but she had so much energy, drugs? I was a mouse, she a lioness with a thorn in the heart. "Fucking this, fucking that", she needs to, loose a few pounds, take a shower and change those sweat stained cloths...No thanks, I'm better than you, and have a thorn of my own.
Winterland with my friends, everyone was high...No thanks, I don't smoke and it messes up my time reality. Ball and chain pounded from the inside out, I could feel the words on the souls of my feet, psychedelic orange and pink, liquid smoke lights rolled in waves. "I've got to get out of here, I can't breath", I walked home to my studio on Gough street, higher than a kit.
My friends would point, "There she goes", they'd say. "Yah, so what? Nice(car) nasty paint job". I would listen to Cream and "her" album, and drink. I envied her guts. At eighteen I was already a drunk, only roaring a little, even then fear ruled my life, best to play it safe.
She had many lovers, one girlfriend had a shop in the Haight Ashberry. I made things to sell, so we talked often. "If she hurts you so much, what's the attraction?"
"She's wild"!
"Oh, but she's on self-distruct." How the hell did I know?

Aiming At Shadows

First thought, Barb holds a rifle funny.
Second thought, I feel aimless.
What's the point? I wish I knew.
Aiming at my shadow.
When the unstoppable bullet hits the impenetrable wall.
Ah! The wheel is turning.