Judy Sevens

Where Is The Logic In This!

2012-02-12T22:20:00.000-08:00

oh, it has gone

those dastardly protean thoughts

came

and carried it away

it flew out the window

astride the allure of

clairvoyant communications

it is in crypsis

in luminiferous ether

disguising itself with the indivisible

sum of its parts.

It might return

in symbolic form

until then, words take time

to line up and this sentence

wants ending

...

Passenger Number Three

2012-01-28T15:23:00.000-08:00

When searching for a dragon,

the one who sleeps at sea,

take sail with a Phoenician

in a boat that carries three.

With you and the Phoenician,

of three, that makes but two.

That which fills the space that's left

is woven from bamboo.

This basket's lined with mirrors

reflecting moon and sea.

This paper covered lantern

is passenger number three.

Don't look into the lantern.

Ha! this you shouldn't do,

for all that you will find there

is a mirror holding you...

...alone with your reflection

in a boat that carries three.

Beyond your sight a dragon

crests the surface of the sea.

.......

(the moral of the story - when sailing with Phoenicians,
wait till you get home to look in the mirror.)

Sopa Strike

2012-01-18T08:05:00.001-08:00

I couldn't get the link-in to the Sopa Strike to work on my blog - so I have pasted up the black banner used by some websites and The Oatmeal's black-out page to show I am participating in the strike against SOPA which I suppose in itself could be construed as an act of piracy...

.

Feeling Creative Lately?

2012-01-09T15:30:00.000-08:00

Like they say, life looses its mystery when you're hungry and it's hard to be fancy free when you're footloose and it's winter and being without a home was not by choice. You see people enduring this every day. It troubles you and you can't forget about it when you turn your hand to your work. Fantasy still has its allure because it's cheap but you fantasize about turning the heat on full blast and to hell with the bill. Appreciation of the Theatre of the Absurd was never more appropriate though it's hardly light reading and your mind is absent. You find focus by cataloging life's inequalities, the more recent the better. Your dreams rarely soar and you are suffering a materialistic bent so that when you search for beauty in the humans around you, you suspect it's being concealed in the possessions and lifestyles which others hoard, the greedy bastards. Furthermore, the most accessible of all beauties, Nature, is being diminished every passing second through human machinations. You find comfort in the recognition that more and more people are loosing hope because vindication is a comfort, of sorts. Then, as if that isn't bad enough, mainstream media streams through your life in amnesic inducing wave after wave after wave, each leaving in its wake a stagnant setting, a saturated environment where only the likes of ignorance and idiocy can find bliss...you have been sucked in and if you are not blocked off, your work either looks to you like a Hallmark greeting card or you have been 'getting involved' by writing stuff that increasingly resembles the rants of a madman...woman...

So what do you do? You tell yourself that some of the world's finest inventions, works of art, literature, music have been created under worse conditions than these - be they in reaction to, or in tribute to, in defiance of, or seeking refuge from...so what? You know this. This doesn't help...but at the very least, these works these people are more deserving of attention than...no, I haven't found a solution. I'm still caught up in the problem, but I'm not giving up.

Drumpath

2011-12-07T12:15:00.001-08:00

Drums beat steady

one upon another

not far beyond

a stone's throw away.

You wade into the river

and lie down

in its mossy shallows.

The floating green

curls and shapes around you

like smoke

your thoughts fall

into the haze.

Dreams fill the places

your thoughts

had been.

They are just as vague.

Drums beat steady

one upon another

true memory follows

the path of dreams

one upon another

not far beyond

a heart's beat away.

(in loving memory of Bryan Osper)

Trees' Roots

2011-12-04T13:16:00.001-08:00

each tear a story tells
every tree the story knows...

Lean your head against

a tree to cry

and know

trees' roots go far down

and take your tears

to all the waters

that carry all the stories

and tell them back again

so as to know

you do not cry alone.

Self Adorned

2011-11-19T09:42:00.001-08:00

I was once a rock embedded in stone.

Now, I wear rocks on my fingers

with the help of metal

pounded thin

in the hollow shape of a ring.

This one isn't heavy, that I notice.

It matches the solidity of my bones

the rock does. The metal

bends and wraps around my finger

now that I've embedded

a rock within its coil,

polished as a precious stone.

The Fool

2011-10-31T16:16:00.000-07:00

If I were your friend

I'd love you forever

and we'd go together

to the wonderful world of if.

I was your friend and

I loved you forever

but you never

no not ever

came with me

to the wonderful world of if.

Magician's Robe

2011-10-23T12:50:00.000-07:00

is it a cloak, a veil, or a shroud

or simply a likeness

of that which was

drawn before

that which is

Pride in the Wind

2011-10-08T10:54:00.000-07:00

Wind blows readily through the broken windowpane.

The curtain stands back from its gaze upon the shadows
its own lacy pattern makes upon the moon
because the moon

is high and big and yellow, pale yellow,

and perfectly round.

Broken bits of glass have been picked out of the wooden molding
so no one can tell at a glance the window needs mending.

At night, on a night like tonight, the curtain

puffs in and out the broken window.
If one were not proud one could board it up
at least on a night like tonight,

the wind is cold,

or tack up an old blanket
but it isn't done.

They pull on knitted caps. Push the bed away from the window.
Climb onto its high wooden frame under blankets,
many wool blankets, and watch the wind

back and forth
cradle the moon

back and forth
in its lace covered arms.

Of Veenas (and guns)

2011-09-25T13:09:00.000-07:00

Jya ghosha is ancient Sanskrit for the twang of the bow string. The crack of a rifle is the result of a sonic boom.

You can unstring many bows, stretch them along a neck attached to a gourd and make a veena. You can leave the bow strung, add a gourd, and you have a berimbau. Pick up another bow, draw it across a lute, and you are using a fiddlestick. You can place one end of a bow against your mouth and play the umgunga. What can you make from a gun?

Scholars disagree over whether the bow's first use was as a musical instrument or as a weapon. They agree in the claim that the origins of the gun occurred with the discovery of gunpowder during alchemy's search for immortality.

The more modern the civilization, the more actively it seeks immortality through the breaking of sound than through its flow.

Island

2011-09-02T17:30:00.000-07:00

This is Island, a continent surrounded by the sea. Aroundthe edge of Island winds a great river, called Rhythmic. The Rhythmic runswide, fast, and deep. It springs from the high most center of the continent,flows directly to its shore, turns and winds once around land’s edge, turns again and empties into the sea, into the path of the setting sun.

Near the source of the Rhythmic, atop High Center, standsIsland’s only city. It is encircled with stones, placed there by its residents “to maintain the boundaries of our plateau.”

Island has a road. It travels faithfully beside the Rhythmicon its inland bank, crosses the spot of land where river empties into sea,bridges the river at its first deep turn and continues full circle aroundIsland. Always there is movement upon this road.

While the dwellers of High Center, faces to the sky, piledstones around its edge, those who walk together followed the river below. Themovement within this procession was always greater than its forward sweep.Forwards, backwards, sideways, yet forever in motion they moved as one. Onthey whirled and in their passage they inscribed the Great Road. This is thecaravan, the wheel, forever circling Island and always in sight of its belovedRhythmic.

Enclosed between the Rhythmic and the Great Road is River’sBar, a slip of land joining the two on their tour around Island. Green, andopen to the sky, River’s Bar is the shore to those who seek land, the wateringground to those who thirst. To the traveler who rests beside the Great Road,River’s Bar is the land of dreams.

Gentle slopes and many trees of one kind and another form ahoop around Island. One tree standing alone shelters. A forest conceals.Islands inner hoop is forested. It is concealed.

Beneath the needled boughs, between the massive trunks in amist of ferns and moss resides a presence so vast the living silence is itscompanion. The lightest foot does not tread, the tiniest wing does not beat,the slimmest twig does not break in the Forest without the attentive gaze of afathomless eye and the resounding hush of silence.

Everything gives way to something, even a primordial bower.Round topped trees with leaves that ripple in the wind slip out from beneaththe tall evergreen spires and spill over the open field beside, blurring alldistinction between the two. Here, silence is a stream, the stream of stillnessbetween sounds.

And here stands the Woodlands, a place of roots and burrowsand shape filled trees with leaves like wings. Warm, sun streaked colors andbusy rustlings fill the gaps between their sheltering arms. Their trunks arethe standing through which intricate layers of sound, scent, and motion burstand entwine. Their roots are the growing which prepared the soil for the forestto rise. A thousand eyes flutter through this wild profusion of foot, wing, andleaf, the shimmering eyes of the many-sighted spirit, the spirit of birth.

Beyond the outer banks of the Rhythmic, Island belongs tothe moon. Twice every day, dim harbors and vague waterways disappear andreappear in the flooding and ebbing tides. Twice every day, the moon sends aslow wind coursing across Island into the face of the sun. Eastward everymorning, westward every evening, the moon’s wind blows. Less than a whisper,unseen and unnamed, the moon’s wind blows.

Much of Island is yet to be seen. Much of Island waits for aname. Where imagination leads, memory follows and Island continues to emergefrom the surrounding sea.

How To Time Travel

2011-08-19T10:52:00.000-07:00

Stare into a river

until you are looking out

from your reflection

at the sky.

It isn't difficult,

if you can do all this

without falling in.

Into the Silence

2011-07-30T16:37:00.000-07:00

Into the silence goes earth
the face of the mother

who created a home for time.

We appear, disappear,
a tear fallen from her eye.

...

Trading Shadows With The Wind

2011-07-26T12:39:00.000-07:00

sitting bodies shaded beneath the oak

wind is blowing leaves are falling

changing the shape of oak's shadow

upon the earth

rising arms lifted we catch the leaves

knowing for each leaf that falls

a shadow disappears

from the earth

spinning arms twirling we toss the leaves to the wind

knowing it is not the wind

that caused the leaves

to fall to earth

standing arms emptied beneath the oak

sun is setting day is ending

changing the length of oak's shadow

upon the earth

stepping arms lowered into the sun

knowing if we stand rooted

by the end of day

our own shadow will disappear

from the earth

running arms lifted we join the wind

knowing it is not the sun

that leaves behind

a trail of shadows

across the earth

Triple Eyed Face

2011-07-21T16:33:00.000-07:00

Give it a face. Whose face? Who amongst us when they first awakened were, of all things, so enraptured by their own earthly form they exalted their existence with incantations of superiority thereby evoking overtly inferior behavior towards everything not bearing their visage, that awful face they struck upon the dawn?

Give it a body. Whose body? Whose rapacious havoc is awarded reason by those who seclude themselves within the oblivion of their own sanctified logic? Does anyone really think the intellect can endure those who ravage this body, this earth, this nature?

Give it hands, if you dare.

Then, when this is done, give it a name.

2011-07-05T11:45:00.001-07:00

After We're Gone

2011-07-03T11:39:00.000-07:00

Sometime, when the snow has melted

and the bare roots of the tree

show dark against the dry dead grass...

sometime, when the first flower

crops on a green stem...

that time will open an iron gateway

in the darkened stone wall

black with mold and dead ivy.

Sometime, when the yellow chrysanthemum

grows again in the sunlight beside the walkway

and the cat struts along the ridgepole of the roof,

that time will tell a riddle about a wall

of one thousand stories

held together with mud and gravel

and the roots of ivy, ferns and moss.

A wall that fences off nothing, stands there

in the middle of a field without reason, an insane wall

balancing a roof above a gate on two tall pillars

cut each from a single stone, a hollow roof

where swallows nest in April.

Redwoods Mantra

2011-06-25T23:03:00.000-07:00

In the heart of the redwoods

the living silence stands.

All else flutters, drapes, and dims.

If I lower my eyes

in no way obtrusive

I too am a veil

on the breath within.

The Double Rainbow from Errol & Maggie's Porch

2011-06-25T00:02:00.000-07:00

If I lived in a city, I would have a garden on my roof and so would all my neighbors. I'd cover mine with terra cotta pots and fill them all with dirt and plants like flowers and scented herbs. In one of them, I would plant a lemon tree. My clothesline would be the spinning kind with umbrella spokes and my clothespins would be wooden. And if it rained on a summer's day, the rainbow would be double.

Noumena

2011-05-16T21:08:00.000-07:00

We bend the light

from a sunlit sea

and strum its colored strands.

We capture the burst

of a fallen star

bounce it betweeen

our upheld palms

and pop open seeds

to speak like flowers.

We glide through rock

with aeonic seduction

whispering, “multiply”

and it does
into tiny grains of sand.

“Don’t tell.” we murmer,

and travel on...

We are so beloved

the rock willingly

disassembles
to its
molten core

and does not tell.

First Reverence

2011-04-24T00:16:00.000-07:00

we were before time was drawn into a line

became shadow across the ground

became something to use as a measure of worth

became something the good do not waste or squander

we were before image became cloaked in symbol

carved across the face of stone

became something more profound than imagination

became something to adhere to with adulation, without respect

we were before the word

the word, one small sound

the word written, an even tinier transient imprint

found amongst numerous other tracks

upon the banks of the river called life

we are forgotten

for most of our being has been shaped

by those who seek memory, spirit, voice
in the word

as they have written it

those who in the end do not know

who they are

The Eve of Idiocy

2011-04-23T22:49:00.000-07:00

on the eve of idiocy
she saw children pressed between headlines
like dead flowers
loved ones go and never come back
from three wars

on the eve of idiocy
she looked back
upon the road to madness
she'd so much enjoyed
in her youth

the moon
eclipsed

Ever A Child In This Garden

2011-03-01T11:47:00.000-08:00

(In the heart of the dancer is a dancer with an even bigger heart)

This garden is a garden unlike any other garden.

Much of what grows here has no roots.

Some of what blooms here

cannot be seen.

This garden has no fences.

Its one gateway is through the sky.

And this garden always travels

by way of the sun

encircled by the moon.

I can play here in this garden

and grow here gardens of my own.

I have only to remember

I am one of many children

I am not an only child.

This garden is around me

everywhere I am.

And everywhere I go

I travel in this garden

the sky garden

by way of the sun

encircled by the moon.

Feathers Flying

2011-02-21T14:53:00.000-08:00

I cannot sleep, I cannot keep from chasing thoughts that lead to troubles,

real or imagined.

I go outside, I try to hide in the solace of the night,

but my thoughts come with me.

A sound sweeps by through this night's sky, then another. It's the rush

of wind through feathers, flying, on the wing.

I leave behind my fretful mind and begin to dream that I have wings,

that I am flying.

The sound soon fades, again the shades of doubt surround me.

It was just the wind, or my imagination.

Then something twirls, it spirals, whirls into my hand, one small feather

fallen, fallen from the wing.

I close my hand around it and go back to bed. I close my eyes

and soon I'm sleeping.

Again I hear a sound come near - the rush of wind, of feathers flying.

I must be dreaming.

A great wing lifts, it circles, drifts. It is searching for the fallen,

the one small feather held within my hand.

The great wing fans, the sky it spans. The wing sweeps back,

scoops up the feather and takes me with it.

Now comes to me with mystery, in whispers like secrets, tales of now,

tales of old, and stories of tomorrow.

I listen to what dreamers do where they have flown upon the wing

in the time between now and everafter.

And when I land in morning's hand within my own rests a feather,

my keepsake of the wing.

Oh, feathers fly, so can I, for it is the dream that is the wing

that takes us flying.

Yet I wonder...

as my dream flies through distant skies, should another feather fall,

could it be my dream that circles back to catch it?

We Ran Together Then

2011-02-01T14:21:00.000-08:00

Lying quietly in summer's open field, eyes half closed against the sun, the hot yellow grass molds the majestic shadow of buzzards wing. How low will they drift, how near will they circle before they discover we are pretending at death and at last moment glide away?

If we had seen an eagle circling, or even ravens, we wouldn't have been so bold. We were small enough, we thought, to be carried to a high sky world and raised as eaglets or fed to eaglets. We couldn't agree on the intent of ravens. We were different, even then.

Beside the field, a thin river resounds on the rocks in its bed. A low wind shimmies down the willows along its bank, slides beneath the dead dry leaves at their feet and begins to spin. It spins skyward, it churns earthward, a dusty whorl of leaves and wind.

We jump up chasing, laughing, mocking. It spirals back and pulls us inward, keeps us running takes us reeling, dizzy in its wayward spin. Grabbing hands we leap together, headfirst blindly towards the river yelling, "Save us! Save us! Save us from this crazy wind!"

The leaves scatter freed across the water, stick, and become little islands for bugs. We drop between them into the one pool where the river is over our heads. We know the river. We know it loves us. It keeps our imprint at its side, the running tracks of an earthbound wind.

I remember the summer we were watchful of eagles. I remember each of our sun streaked faces. And I remember, we were barefoot when we ran. But I cannot remember...were we spirit or were we creature when we went running on the whirling wind?

(A childhood keepsake for Kathy - for all of us - and our summers together on the riverbar at Redwood Creek) Note: I made the large muslin doll. The Teddy Bear, Charlie, was a gift for my first birthday. The little doll was made years ago by a member of the Blackfeet Tribe.

Laughing With Trees

2010-10-16T22:30:00.000-07:00

If you throw your arms around a tree in the middle of a laugh,

the tree will give you a mystical secret.

Few think to do this while laughing,

laughter is immediate transport to its own magical land.

Those who have, when questioned, smile mysteriously and say,

"I only remember laughing."

No Title

2010-09-17T19:42:00.000-07:00

Go
to The Temple of Unconcern.

Slip out the back.

Follow The Alley of Echoes
to The Tavern of the Soul.

It is filled with accomplished dreamers.

Flyaway Moon

2010-07-31T22:45:00.000-07:00

THE HOLLOW ROOM

Night falls. Nothing seems broken. Nothing has changed that anyone can see. Walls stand. A ceiling stretches across the branches of petrified trees. Bulbed lights leashed to rafters obediently switch places with the stars, the moon and fall with the downcast eyes of betrayal upon the polished floor.

Old women in stiff soles the Black Robes laced upon their bare feet when they were young tilt buckets, bend to scrub the white tiles, shallow tombs upon the dust where drums once beat when their bare feet ground the earth and pretend to let no memories rise. Muttered whispers pour from their mouths.

The triple-eyed-face, third eye turned inward, sits at the table peering, shuffling through his favorite thought. He collects a few hands, a few eyes, a few hearts, and tosses them in. When they're gone he draws a few more.

The old women collect in a corner, sit spinning, hands keep spinning, spinning, reaching for the flyaway moon. It's just old women. No one notices.

Old men sit against walls of blackened out stars, blue smoke from pipes toked curls a tattoo across their palms. Another memory rises, another reach, another moon.

STRANGE DANCE

A bow is drawn, a string glides across the underbelly of a wave. The piano sails in from another continent. A reed descends solo footed across the floor. Young bodies rigid in black cloth stitched against the looseness of their joy stride with well placed steps between the pools of light cast down upon the polished floor. This is a sophisticated dance. No one sings.

The old men drape their memories across the high heels, spiked kicks and slicked back hair and drop matches, smoldering, upon the marble floor. All that's left of the old women are their spinning, spinning hands, reeling in the moon.

She draws a mask across her eyes, approaches the table in one slow turn and sits down. Ombre tones in languid waves pour from her face. The triple-eyed face, two eyes leering, deals the cards. One by on they land flat and floating, face up. The numbers are always the same, they never change. She knows that.

"Win or loose, there's no in between, numbers never lie," laughs the triple-eyed-face. He laughs again and tosses a spade over his shoulder. "I win." Another tomb is dug, another tile is laid in another hollow room:

Voices sing softly, sha na na
in a language no one knows.
Little hands stitch straight lines
in the fabric piled before them.
Who's to say, who's to see
the little hands are broken.
Who's to listen to the song?

She rises, opens the window, reaches up, lifts the moon from the sky, turns, and offers it to him. "A gift? Too mystic." says the triple-eyed-face, third eye hinged against emotion. He reaches for her cards. She smiles, replaces the moon. It tilts and out comes pouring the mellowed howl of a pent up wind.

Where Have All The Children Gone?

2010-07-19T13:34:00.000-07:00

Don't know. Didn't see

which way they went.

Said they'd be back later.

Might be down by the river

up on the hill

sleeping under a tree.

Could be way over yonder

working the fields

or, they've gone off to sea.

Maybe took to a dreamwalk

out of the blue

barefoot wandering free.

Should be on their way home now

back before long.

Look up and there they'll be.

Till then, open the curtain

set out the lamp.

Might be, they'll need to see

their way home

and, would you light

a candle for me?

Butterfly Logic

2010-07-14T21:00:00.000-07:00

Someone told me once, "Whatever you are thinking when you see a butterfly is a good idea." He also said, "Sleep when you are tired. Eat when you are hungry. Work so others can play only if they are children."

I know many things. I know the first star you ever saw will always be your own lucky star. And I know if you work for wages, you will always need money and you will work till you die. A wage brings just enough to eat, a night's sleep under a roof, then you get up and work for another wage and another meal. That's the way of it.

As to that, the way of it is, you have to keep secret from the wage payers. Once they find you, they never let you be. But, if you use butterfly logic, you can get away. Otherwise it's a struggle because the wage payers are good talkers and have everyone's ears.

I always dream free in case a butterfly comes by.

...

Sketch

2010-05-29T20:47:00.000-07:00

Now to get back to what I was doing before the computer and camera problems. This is a sketch of the front of my house, the thumbnail for a watercolor illustration for a poem called "Our House" - a poem I wrote when my son was little and we didn't have any money - about the richness of having a home. I thought if I took a photo of the sketch and put it up here, it would help motivate me to finish the picture. Or maybe I like it just like this. I won't know until I try. Laetitia Thistledown is still yet to manifest. She's a tricky one.

Window Vase

2010-05-29T18:54:00.000-07:00

The rain does not stop.
It still feels like winter.
I look out the window at the garden a lot.
It's green because of the rain.

We all have landscapes we look at everyday,
the faces that are so familiar
we should be able to draw them from memory,
but we can't.

If the landscape changes,
something in us recognizes that something is missing,
but unless we are told what it is,
we don't know what is missing.
It's just that something is different

and when that landscape changes slowly over time,
unless we compare it to a photograph of the original,
we couldn't say just what has changed.

Winter is like this,
we know the leaves have fallen
but we don't know which fell first.

Just A Quick Note

2010-05-02T13:12:00.000-07:00

...to say I'm having problems with my computer and the pictures

I like to post. I should have things sorted out soon.

In the meantime, I think I'll have

a cup of tea, or coffee.

In the meantime I've been changing the blog name back

and forth from Judy Sevens to

Laetitia Thistledown.

I'll draw a picture of Laetitia.

Misbehavior

2010-03-12T17:28:00.000-08:00

The blanket thinks it's a magic carpet

and flops up and down all night.

That cup insists on telling fortunes.

It will only take tea.

The clock doesn't work. It would rather dream

about traveling through space

than sit and count time.

The piano plays sonatas in the middle of the night

because it's inspired by the moon.

The telephone is tired of hearing voices.

It disconnects as soon as it rings.

And the book, the book keeps disappearing.

Why? It's a mystery.

Worst of all the candle believes it is the eternal flame

and will not blow out.

I simply cannot remain in this house

where no one behaves!

Blue Room

2010-02-26T11:40:00.000-08:00

wooden room

entrance blocked by strings

hollow room

empty till it's strummed

guitar man come back!

fill up the room!

The Time Of One

2010-01-24T10:04:00.000-08:00

This is Island, a continent surrounded by the sea. Those who live here, even those who do not know much of anything, know the woodlands is the birthplace of the Bird Of Life. And, most everyone knows if they, themselves, were born in The Time Of One or The Time of Two.

Each dusk, a tiny bird lifts above the trees. It circles inland, then turns and flies directly towards the sea. It flies across the bare field, over the river and disappears into the white fog expanding the reaches of Island's outstretched fingers into the sky.

Each dawn, the tiny bird reappears through its foggy gateway from some unknown world beyond Island, perhaps beyond the sea itself, carrying in its beak one tiny seed. The little bird flies back over the river, across the fields, into the trees and buries its seed in the woodland's floor.

After many years of planting, one of the seeds, only one, begins to grow into a tree. When its crown reaches through the protective bower of the woodlands into the sun, seemingly overnight, the bird builds a nest on its highest branch.

The next morning when it returns from its mysterious flight, the little bird carries not a seed but a tiny white egg and places it in the nest. That same day, from out of the whiteness which is like the whiteness of the fog through which the egg appeared, another little bird is born. Thus begins The Time Of Two, The Days Of Song. For many years, the two birds sing and fly together through the woodlands.

One dusk, the two little birds fly side by side into the mists. In the dawn, only one returns, carrying a tiny seed in its beak. Those few who have seen this solitary flight swear that this seed is planted with a tear so small there can be no smaller tear.

This is Island, a continent surrounded by the sea. The sea holds Island much like earth holds the sea and, in turn, much like sky holds earth. Everything gives way to something. Yesterday gives way to today, the day of the smallest tear.

A Clay Figure

2010-01-07T21:29:00.000-08:00

She is called "Elizabeth" after the name of the model who posed for sculpture class. I made her by molding and carving damp clay I had shaped around a stick figure made of strong wire which is, in turn, supported by a metal pipe. She has stood for years between two windows in a corner of the old shed. The clay is very dry now and if she were to be moved or jostled, she would crumble away from her armature. As it is, she is both disintegrating and standing in time.

Winter Rainbow

2009-12-13T21:14:00.000-08:00

yesterday's rainbow following the rain

leading off the holidays

Back in 2010

Dragon Under Wisteria

2009-12-06T13:09:00.000-08:00

I just found this embroidery I began years ago. Maybe if I take a picture of it, I will want to finish it. Or not. Maybe I can't remember how to work with ribbon embroidery. Maybe I don't have the time. I also doubt I could even find the ribbon, should they make it anymore. Maybe I like it unfinished to remember those days when I saw things like a dragon in the garden underneath the wisteria. I used to think it was important to finish things then.

In Front Of Our Eyes

2009-11-27T11:01:00.000-08:00

I don't have to go out into the cities of industry with their opaque skies and brutal noise levels or to the mountain rivers where the salmon are dying to notice the changes in our environment which have taken place in, all things considered, only the few past years. I don't need to read the news about male small mouthed bass now having female characteristics, or the most recent addition to the endangered species list. Nor do I need to learn of yet another environmental violation to know there are many who think they can continue on in this ever escalating game of pillage for profit and remain unaffected. All I have to do is look out into my little garden and notice the redwood sorrel that now dies from lack of watering in the summer when a few years ago they needed no help from me to survive, or tip my head skyward to the diminished returning flocks of barn swallows and chimney swifts in the spring, or notice that the ever growing legions of cars has wiped out the sound of the ocean.

Every day, we loose something and what kind of void follows each loss? Every day excuses are made in the name of gain (who's gain?), and that which 'we' gain, what is it? A random void filler most likely. (The sound of cars where there once was silence? I'd call 'car noise' the void and 'noise stress' the void filler rather than referring to silence as a void, as some have been want to do.) As for random void fillers, I listened last summer to the recent novelty of hearing crickets chirping in dry soil which had always before remained too damp year round for their liking. I see this house being invaded by armies of piss ants looking for other than sugar, year round - this 80 year old house which has never seen colonies of ants within its walls before. What this house is experiencing is as nothing compared to other abodes out there in the world. Crickets are a sign of good fortune and piss ants are not venomous. Neither are toxic.

Whether we admit to it or not, whether those with the resources to do something about it acknowledge it or not, we have willfully engendered in our world too much loss and the effects of even the tiniest and most invisible of these losses touch every single person place and thing on this planet and beyond. Anyone who thinks otherwise is foolish.

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It Took Its Spirit With It

Something is different.

The two snakes beneath the arbor

stay curled within the withered sorrel

that does not hide them anymore

when we, the dog and I,

walk through the gate.

Something is wrong.

A leaf bends, nothing has moved.

A shadow falls, no one stands there.

Yet, something is wandering alone

in and about the garden.

It is difficult to tell who it is

or if it is some sort of emptiness

or, if even, this is the usual thing.

It is not a ghost of the previously alive.

It is not devic. It is not divine.

Yet, it feels as if something has just died

without another like it being born

and that possibly, we - the snakes

the garden and the dog and I -

are the only ones who know

something is gone.

Pelargoniums

2009-11-24T15:35:00.000-08:00

This 'rose scented geranium' is not that common in the garden shops that sell scented pelargoniums. It has slightly wooly leaves and might be Pelargonium capitatum sometimes called "Attar of Roses". I doubt it is the rose scented Pelargonium graveolens which is much more common in the gardens of this geographical area, the Pacific north coast of California, as the leaves are not lacily lobed. When the leaves are distilled, they give up the most lovely rosy scented floral water, the hydrosol. Every winter when there is a bit of snow, many of them die ulesss we remember to throw a light tarp over them in the evenings.

After the really cold winter we had a few years ago, it's taken many cuttings and until now for there to be enough to distill in my funny old pot still that we set on the top of the stove - one large grocery bag packed full of leaves.

I've never tried growing this plant indoors, though some sources say they do fine in front of a bright window. I think I'll take some cuttings before the night freeze comes which means I should do this tomorrow as their has been frost in the mornings and otherwise quite cold.

If I am able to keep the bulk of the rose geraniums from freezing this winter, next spring we'll be able to distill some hydrosol, perhaps a quart or two. HYP3BAPYDB6N

Somebody Hung A Gong On The Buddleia

2009-11-14T13:44:00.000-08:00

It makes a good doorbell.

Fern Bug in the Morning Dew

2009-11-08T09:20:00.000-08:00

Each moment has the potential to expose a cosmos

that is not anthropocentric.

The Convert

2009-11-04T18:58:00.000-08:00

Today, I found

a new god.

I will follow the sun.

I will rise just before dawn.

When the sun sets,

I will bow my head.

Tonight, I left

the valley of the moon.

I traveled east

a full night's walk

to be nearer the sun

when it rises.

Now, I must sleep.

Tomorrow, I will have

to come this way again.

Salamander Water

2009-10-30T21:31:00.000-07:00

Salamanders are poisonous. If you drop one in a bucket, fill the bucket with water and drink the water, you will die. But, if you bury the bucket, you will forget that you have died. This is the era of the salamander. In this era, it's a privilege to forget. In this era, the buckets of the privileged hold one salamander each.

There are many things that can kill you on this planet. If you look around and identify them, you might wonder how we survived unto this millennium. If you look into this millennium, you might be amazed at the speed with which we are replicating them. You might even notice how few salamanders are left.

Salamanders are delicate. In foul water, they are among the first to die. A dead salamander in a bucket will tell you - where salamanders die, you will die next. But then, this is the era of the salamander. In this era, it's a privilege to poison the water, bury your mortality, and forget.

and so it is with my old friend

2009-10-23T12:08:00.000-07:00

The light from the sun is reflecting
upon something

I placed beside the window.

In all that sparkle its identity
is lost,

but when the light is gone

the shape of the things itself will return.

I will keep it where it now sits
so I can see the beauty of its sparkle

another day.

What with the lowering of winter's sun

this may take a long time,
but when I look at it

I remember the sparkle
as much as I see
the thing itself.

Pumpkin Spider

2009-10-17T13:06:00.000-07:00

In the fall, the garden is full of of large spiders, Pumpkin Spiders. This one made her presence known on her web beside the gate into the garden about two weeks ago. She has woven her web inside out beside the pathway. That's why we see her underside.

Every day she appears from her hiding place somewhere in the foliage at the edges of her web and sits in the sun for the entire afternoon. Every day at sunset, she disappears back into the leaves and makes herself very small. Anyone who has ever picked raspberries or blackberries knows how startling it is to reach for a berry and have one of these spiders run out from beneath the nearby leaf. Now that the weather has changed, she waits until the rain has stopped and then only comes out in the afternoons. Her place of rest during a storm is now in the salal berries growing behind the white wooden slats.

She has probably lived here all summer and we didn't notice her before because she would have been very small. In the fall, there is much more food in the greenery which these spiders inhabit, and the pumpkin spiders grow enormous at a very speedy rate. Since their sudden and amazing surge in size makes them more obvious around Halloween and since their body resembles a pumpkin, it is believed this is why they are called Pumpkin Spiders.

So, to not get them caught in our clothes or hair - they are everywhere in the shrubbery and plants and thus somewhat out of sight of the birds and those who come upon them unknowingly - and since they eat so many bugs, in the fall we take a break from working in the garden and leave the Pumpkin Spiders to do their business. When we walk through the gate, we are careful not to brush against her web. She ignores us.

No one I know would ever willingly kill a pumpkin spider and they say they don't bite. I don't know about that for certain however, I've gotten them caught in my hair and on my clothes, I haven't ever been bitten.

Any day now, she will have a name, should one come to mind.

Dust and White Smoke

2009-10-10T15:40:00.000-07:00

Before us, sky, and a river of white smoke. We were looking for something to follow. We looked behind us, more sky. We couldn't follow the sky. It circled back on us wherever we went. We followed the smoke, single file, one behind the other - the one behind stepping in the footprints of the one before so we wouldn't know we were lost. When night came, we stopped and squatted where we stood to protect our imprint in the dust.

After two days of this the smoke dispersed. After that, we knew not in which direction we travelled. They were all the same, across the dust.

On the third day a cloud passed. We were by now walking so slowly we moved as one, one shifting mound of dust.

On the fourth day a drop of rain fell from the third day's cloud. It caused not one ripple in the dust. We waited. Not another drop fell.

On the fifth day we were possessed by a whirlwind, a dervish. It disturbed our footprints but kept us moving through the dust.

On the sixth day a wall rose before us. We went no farther.

On the seventh day we circled the wall until the footprints of the one behind became the footprints of the one before, a hoop. We stopped where we stood. All that flowed was our blood. There was no white smoke.

On the eighth day we raised our eyes to the sky and stomped our feet on the ground. The wall crumbled into dust.

On the ninth day someone called out, "A gate opens, a gate opens, a gate opens!" three times. We entered the gate - eyes to the sky - watching for smoke. Our footsteps were unruly. The one before left no footprints for the one behind to follow.

On the tenth day we saw it - the river of white smoke - and followed it with our eyes back down to the inner city where we now stood.

On the eleventh day we walked in circles toward the source of the smoke, toward the center of the city, toward a mound of black earth.

On the twelfth day we stopped where we stood and sat - nine circles, nine times nine deep - around the mound of black earth.

On the thirteenth day we saw on the mound of black earth, a pile of grey ashes. Atop it, one red burning coal. Upon the red burning coal, one tiny twig.

"The last burning twig!" Nine times nine voices fell, nine ripples deep, in the dust around the mound of black earth. Still rising, the river of white smoke.

Laughing With Trees

2009-10-03T18:31:00.000-07:00

If you throw your arms around a tree in the middle of a laugh

the tree will give you a mystical secret.

Few think to do this while laughing,

laughter is immediate transport to its own magical land.

Those who do, when questioned,

smile mysteriously and say, "I only remember laughing."

Tellers of Secrets

2009-09-23T10:33:00.000-07:00

Tellers of secrets are sneaky.

They smile and look you right in the eye

while they pluck out your secret and tuck it under their wing.

They wait
for the worst possible moment to lift their wings to fly.

Out drops your secret
to be seen
by everyone.

Tellers of secrets can't fly.

You know that.

Dream stealers are even worse.

They are, at this moment, beyond discussion.

Bridging the Road

2009-09-15T15:33:00.000-07:00

In my weariness, I followed the tracks of a road thinking it would be less tiring than the trail. Later, I noticed walking within the ruts was more exhausting since I was neither a snake nor did I have wheels.

I was relieved to come upon a river which flowed sleek and long and obliterated the damn ruts. It was a wide river with slow moving waters and no bridge. I sat down to watch.

Everywhere I had traveled, I had seen signs of others but I had met no one. Perhaps if I stayed in one place, this place, and waited - someone would come along, someone who had been where I was going, someone who knew an easier way.

I became uneasy and backed away from the river's edge. I wasn't certain if the river or the road carried the source of my concern and I was caught between them. I stood and turned to watch the road. It was familiar and familiarity evokes a comfort, of sorts.

In my weariness, I slipped and fell into the river that had no bed. Nothing floated on it. It could be called empty, even unfamiliar. Now I am where I am going, wherever the river carries me.

...

The First Mirror

2009-09-11T14:03:00.000-07:00

The River is old. Once

it held

the reflection of someone

who bent over its bank

and stared

for the longest time

at the water.

Between the long waters running

and the round moon shining

someone knelt.

And there,

upon the length of water

within the hold of moonlight

rested a mirror

the first mirror.

Buddy's Van

2009-09-06T11:41:00.000-07:00

As I've mentioned riding in Buddy's van several times, I thought I should put up a photo of the beast. Here's Errol Linton himself beside the van with a couple of band members. They've just arrived in York and are getting ready to set up for the night's gig at The Speakeasy. Buddy is probably in the driver's seat. Resting.

The following morning, Buddy drove the band to the Knockengorroch Music Festival in Scotland. And then, on the next following morning, Buddy drove the Blues Vibe all the way down to Chichester at the southern end of the land in West Sussex. Here's Little George Sueref asking the question the answer to which everyone wanted to know hours ago, "Are we there yet?"

Mosgo's

2009-09-06T10:50:00.000-07:00

After York, after Knockengorroch on the last Saturday in August, Adam goes back to California, borrows Lib's guitar, gets in Marlan's old ranch truck and heads down the road to Mosgo's. A London pub it's not - it's a cool little coffee shop complete with local artwork hanging on the walls, computers linked by wireless internet, lots of freshly baked pastries, and an efficient sound man. No beer, but nobody minds. The music is great and everyone enjoys themselves, Adam and audience alike.

In a few days Adam will be back in London and on his way to a music festival with Errol Linton and the Blues Vibe in Buddy's van, not Marlan's pick-up truck, but this night he's playing the Blues in a small town in northern California and they like it.

Lullaby Of The Wing

2009-08-21T18:52:00.001-07:00

For those who are as sleepy as I am, a lullaby...

Close your eyes now

you will know how

to find your way.

You don't have to

see your way through

the darkness to dream.

Go to sleep then

you will know when

to come back here.

Little traveler

you'll remember

each one of your dreams.

Drift away now

you will know how

to fly up high,

little feather lifted ever

on the wing of dreams.

(chorus)
close your eyes

sleep's not far
close your eyes
to dream

The Time It Takes

2009-08-19T13:41:00.000-07:00

It was brought to my attention one day, that there were people who had not experienced playing a musical instrument, or experienced listening and dancing to live music made by people playing instruments, nor did they know what it was like to have or to hold something made just for them by hand - some of them, not even homemade food. Many people on the planet today in what was once thought to be the privileged world, live in fast paced surroundings with no time for any of the above. No time. When there is no time for something, that something becomes diminished in importance. Everyone knows how that feels.

So, I made dolls from antique fabrics edged in lace that had been knotted from tiny strings - tiny strips of lace that took years to learn how to make, months to complete. Did you know that of all the things machines can do, machines cannot tie a knot? I used fine spun cashmere and silk yarn I myself had spun for the dolls' hair. Everything I could find that I used for the dolls' garments was as close to handmade as could be. Even some of the fabrics were hand woven. And when the fabric was not, I hand stitched beads and colored threads to the finished garments. I made these dolls in the hopes a child would be given one and know what it felt like to have and to hold something handmade - and most all of the dolls were given to children. I also made fruit from colored velvets - golden apples, red strawberries, and green pears. This all took time, but not as much time as it would have taken 100 years ago.

Today, the time it takes to learn a musical instrument remains the same as it did 1,000 years ago.

Remembering With Our Hands

2009-08-17T12:49:00.000-07:00

When I embroider on velvet, it's the silk ribbons, the thread and beads and where the needle pierces the fabric that I pay attention to. Yet, while I am embroidering, it is that which I cannot see which comes to my mind and I begin to remember.

I remember my grandmother carefully teaching me how to thread the needle and draw the colored threads through the fabric so it will not pucker - all the while telling me stories such as how her mother divorced her father, moved to San Francisco and set up a tailoring shop in Union Square "when women did not do those things". And I remember other stories of women too, for sewing is more apt to invoke images of women than of men.

It's tricky, this kind of remembering. All these closely stitched threads intertwined into tapestries which are not unlike the unending ripples caused by stones dropped in ponds. The surface patterns and the ripples distract. It's the backside of the fabric and the stone itself I am interested in - the stories themselves, the stories we hold in our hands when we do something like incline our heads, take up a needle and a strand of thread, lay it down and fasten it to the fabric as women, mostly women, have done for aeons in all kinds of worlds for all kinds of reasons.

The History Of Moonstones

2009-08-15T17:44:00.000-07:00

...and other earthly events.

When moon turned blue over the word "Lunatic!"

and sun reigned oblivious to earth's dark side,

dragon, in disgust over the word "Mythical!"

left sky, went to ocean.

There now drifts

alone in sleep.

Moonstones were before that time.

Or, they could be dragon's tears,

molten droplets upon cold waters

when dragon turned for one last look

at the beautiful Luna

over its left shoulder

as it dove into the sea.

Or, they might be moon pebbles

tossed by Luna

to rouse her friend

from the deep.

...

Sitars And Guitars

2009-08-13T22:05:00.001-07:00

They're weary of it, sick of it, leaning in the corner, sitars and guitars, tired of it all. Waiting it out. Tired of the politics, weary of the fighting, sick of the worrying, the wondering what's coming on next. Maybe soon they'll get tired of the tiredness, the worrying, the fighting and the politics. Maybe they'll get restless from waiting quietly in the corner, waiting till someone, anyone, can agree on something and maybe they'll just start playing whatever they feel like playing. Maybe. Maybe. I wonder what song they will play?

SambAmore's Wedding Drums

2009-08-06T14:53:00.001-07:00

It rained last night but now it's a good day for a wedding in the sun on the beach in the sand and surf. The large rock behind us protects us from the wind. Now, on to the the Hall to listen to music and eat, drink, and enjoy the company of friends some of whom have been away for the past few years. They will be here for a few days, then go away again.

It's a good day for a wedding in a good place to drum

Locrian Mode

2009-08-02T17:22:00.000-07:00

There - the B key, the second white key from the left - is where you would begin if you were to play the Locrian mode in B on the piano. That's all the white keys beginning with B natural. As I understand it, if you start at B, when you go from E to F, you are going a half step rather than a whole step and thereby hitting a flat fifth (or augmented fourth. Also, flat fifth is more fun to say than diminished) and if you made a chord out of B, D, and F you would be playing a tritone and this is something you simply would not have done in the 1400's because you would stand accused of creating dissonance and dissonance was not okay in the 1400's in those places considered part of Western civilization, also known as the Middle Ages, for they believed dissonance belonged to the devil and thus the Lochrian mode notorious for its tritone, was called evil.

However, this 'diabolus in musica' wouldn't have been played on the piano in the 1400's. There were no pianos yet. They may have had hurdy gurdys. Perhaps it was the lutists who were strumming chords with a flat fifthe until they were chastised severely. By the way, when talking about western music it is important to remember that what we're talking about is only western music, not all music.

Many things were condemned as belonging to the devil back in that day. Astronomy and astronomers fared far worse than music and musicians in the realms of blasphemy though this ocurred long before the middle ages and well into the Renaissance, the 1600's (which wasn't always the rosy era it's occasionally made out to be). After that, about 300 years later and again in the west, the devil stood to blame for the Blues, Jazz, and Rock 'n' Roll without much ado about astronomy or the Locrian mode.

Recent discussions about the Locrian mode involve whether or not it truly exists or if its importance only exists in theory, or to state that its tonic chord, the flat fifth, is unstable and seeks resolution, that it cannot exist without something else to build upon. From the devil to dismissal, for centuries, theoreticians of all kinds have tossed out the Locrian mode and occasionally music other than western along with it.

Taken in this light, the Locrian mode is extremely poetic. And, considered visually on the piano as described and pictured above, its dastardly and diminished flat fifth'ed tritone is in perfect balance. It has the white D key in the center, a black key to each of the D's sides and white keys to either side of each of the two black keys.

Play The Blues

2009-07-29T09:17:00.000-07:00

Once, some people were singing their songs and dancing their dances while the last few who could speak the ancient language were alive. They were trying to record as many kinds of songs as they could - creation story songs, wedding songs, work songs, everyday life story songs. Everything went wrong the entire time they were recording. People disagreed on how to do the songs and dances, they had electrical problems, instruments kept disappearing. Finally, one of the elders called out "Stop, stop!" He said that the spirits were angry because there had been a death just days before and they were not singing the proper songs, funeral songs. So, the people stopped singing creation story songs, work songs and the like, and began singing songs of sorrowful happenings. Even when they didn't know the words to these songs, the people sounded out each of the syllables of each of the words in their singing and by doing so formed the lyrics perfectly.

These lost words which described the sorrow had turned into parts of words, "syllables of sorrow" and no matter the language, when we hear these syllables which usually descend in tone as does a major chord's slur downward into a minor third, we know that it is a "syllable of sorrow" even when we do not know the meaning of the words.

We always know when it's a sad song.

Driver

2009-07-28T18:40:00.000-07:00

So, there's an Afro-Cuban music workshop happening and all the visiting musicians and teachers need to be driven to meals and to gigs and to classes and so, Adam's driver when Adam is in town, is now the Cubans' driver. Here he is after three days of staying up till 3 a.m. or whenever the musicians are ready to go to bed and getting up at 7:30 in the morning or whenever the musicians need to get to breakfast, brushing his teeth, trying to wake up before he drives off in the van. It is a white van, like Buddy's, but the steering wheel is on the left. Buddy's is on the right. The driver is beginning to look like the musicians he is tending to.

Sitting in the Mist

2009-07-26T14:41:00.000-07:00

These are

Adam's

drivers when he is

on the road

in California.

No van, no Buddy,

no Errol Linton's Blues Vibe

and the road

is longer

and wider

than in England.

Distances

are farther.

A Long Way From London

2009-07-26T13:49:00.000-07:00

Before Knockengorroch, before York, Adam went to the tidepools of Trinidad in California where the sand is a fine, grey crushed gravel and the sky is a white foggy mist. When he returns, he will go there again and walk out onto the rocks that belong to the Pacific Rim. Adam doesn't bring his guitar on the plane, it's too hard on the guitar. There are guitars in California as well as in London.

Sigh, Another Fallen Bird

2009-07-23T16:17:00.001-07:00

This morning, another little bird came down the chimney. It is fat and healthy, so I did as they suggested in the Wildlife Care Center. I picked it up and I reached as far up the chimney as I could and placed it against the side so it would cling to the bricks and creep its way back up to its nest. It grasped onto the bricks when I let go of it. See the dog in the background? The little birds make him nervous. Either he is worried that this one is a rat - the little swifts screech and screech at times - or that he will get into trouble in some way to do with the little bird. This is a photo of the previous bird to fall from the nest. I didn't take a photo of the one that fell today because I wanted to get him back up the chimney as quickly as possible. Also, it isn't a good idea to handle them unless they need rescuing or feeding. If you look closely at the bird's tail (click on the photograph to blow it up), you can see little spines at the tip of each tailfeather that the chimney swift sticks into whatever it is clinging to.

Now, I must go back to the fireplace and listen and try and discern if the little bird is okay. We can hear the calls of the babies and their parents come down the chimney from above. So much so, you'd think they were inside the room.

Falling Birds

2009-07-22T17:01:00.000-07:00

We call them chimney swifts. Sometimes they are called 'faux swallows'. Without slowing in flight, the parents dive down the chimney to their nests which they had constructed out of sticks held together and stuck to the bricks with spit, much the same spit that holds together the bird's nests in China that become the Chinese delicacy 'bird's nest soup'. Bird's nest soup has not caught on here.

They chimney swifts cannot perch. They cling to things and are great at climbing up and down on vertical surfaces.

This year, the babies have been tumbling from their nest to the hearth below. When they are as old and fat as this one (I was told after I took it to the Wildlife Care Center), you can reach up into the chimney provided there is no flu or you can reach past the flu and set the baby on the wall and it will either creep back up to it's nest or the mother will come down to the baby to feed it. I decided to leave it with its 3 other siblings I had taken to the care center each of the three days before this one fell from its nest. This little one has a little bit of food on its beak as it was just fed emergency food to keep it from getting dehydrated (soppy dry dog food made into a pudding is one recommended formula) before I took it to the Wildlife Care Center. Today, the care center told me it has survived as did all of its siblings I had rescued, but one, who had also come down the chimney. Hopefully, it is the last one to fall. When these babies are ready to fly (perhaps in a week), they will be brought back, nearby my house, where they were born to be released.

After the nest or nests are empty and the birds have flown south, we must put a screen across the chimney once again. It is too worrying to have the little ones tumble down the chimney. Even the dog gets upset as he has been trained to not chase birds and when the little ones are cheeping and flapping about, he gets up and goes into another room.

Teatime In York

2009-07-21T12:28:00.000-07:00

It's a the "SpeakEasy" pub in York and it's a soundcheck. Jim, the drummer, travels with everything he needs to make a hot cup of tea on the road at anyplace with a level surface, at anytime the band has stopped. Everyone is hard at work, even though they've been sitting in the van since driving here directly from London and only stopped once at a service station (no, no time for Jim's tea kettle there) and everyone is hungry and tired, but that's what tea is for.

The Doorstep

2009-07-19T10:32:00.000-07:00

In the daytime, doors open and close. So, from the street, steps are most usually seen as something to walk up to get to the door. Or, in the night, an enclosed set of steps in front of a door might mean a place to sit out of the rain. It could also appear as a place to sleep somewhat protected from the cold and those who wander the darkness. But what if the door above the steps is an entranceway to a warm room with a table where you pay to be given a hot drink and a chair to sit and watch through the window as the rain falls on the sidewalks outside? Or what if behind it stands a desk and behind that sits a clerk to whom you pay for a secure place to sleep on a cold night? It all just depends upon who you are and what you are looking for and when that door is locked.

Ronnie Dancing on the 4th of July

2009-07-17T10:11:00.001-07:00

We had the 4th of July here, on the Plaza. Ronnie put on his red shirt with the white sleeves, his green shoes and went dancing. There was no sunshine that day in this town so everyone put on sweaters and hoodies over their summer shirts and went to the game down at the ballpark, drank beer, ate food, set off fireworks without starting any fires and had a good time anyway, even though many wonder what we are celebrating, these days. So, on the 4th Ronnie went dancing and many watched and celebrated dancing.

Leaving London

2009-07-16T18:23:00.001-07:00

That's a small glimpse of the back of Buddy the driver's head, up there in the front seat of his van. Buddy, the provider of home throughout the tour, has just finished picking up the members of Errol Linton's Blues Vibe, and has safely stowed their luggage, the amps, the guitar, bass, drums, and harmonicas and now he's following the bus out of London and is headed toward the M1 which travels due north to places like Northamptonshire, where Norman Of Catford was born. Soon, the band will be wishing they had food stowed in the van as well.

Knockengorroch

2009-07-16T11:41:00.000-07:00

A photo from the summer's travels of Errol Linton's Blues Vibe on tour north from London, through the center of England to Scotland, then all the way back down to the southern coast of England. Here's 3 of the 4 members (not shown - Jim the drummer and, of course, Buddy the driver) at one of the stops on the trip - the Knockengorroch World Ceilidh Music festival in Dumfreyshire, Scotland. Shown, left to right, are Adam Blake, Errol Linton, Little George Sueref on an unusually, they say, sunny afternoon to a happy audience who loved Errol and the band. Nobody had to say this, it was obvious.

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2009-07-14T21:55:00.000-07:00

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2009-07-14T13:26:00.000-07:00

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