Ideé d'jour

For money you can have everything it is said. No, that is not true. You
can buy food, but not appetite; medicine, but not health; soft beds, but
not sleep; knowledge but not intelligence; glitter, but not comfort;
fun, but not pleasure; acquaintances, but not friendship; servants, but
not faithfulness; grey hair, but not honor; quiet days, but not peace.
The shell of all things you can get for money. But not the kernel. That
cannot be had for money.
— Arne Garborg, writer (1851-1924)

She's Got You

I discovered this Patsy Cline classic through Rosanne Cash's latest release, The List. I chose not to change the pronoun, but have made a minor alteration in the last verse.

Just to brag for a moment, this video represents the third time I've sung the song. Additionally, I'm transposing in my head as I read the lead sheet (in C) off the computer; I'm playing in A.

I've been playing with the lyrics since this recording, and am considering some further variation on the bridge and final verse:

I've got your memory — or has it got me?
I really don't know, I only know it's not meant to be.

I've got the ring back I gave to you
It still shines as bright as when you were true
The only thing different, the only thing new,
I've got these simple things, she's got you

The Aughts

It just struck me that 2009 is not the end of a decade, as some would
have it. For some reason, we are more entranced by the chronological
odometer rolling over from nine to zero than from zero to one. But the
reality is we don't really start counting until the year has been
experienced.

Unlike the Koreans, and some other Asian cultures, we do not say a child
is one year old when she is born. An infant's age is calculated,
initially, by the number of minutes and hours it survives. In short
order, the parents start counting days, then months. An infant is not
one year old until she has actually lived a year. Once a child is
verbal, he may insist on marking half way points - "I'm two and a half!"
- but he won't make this distinction until about half a year has passed.

So, this gives us one more year to consider what to call this passing
decade. I heard one commentator on Fresh Air suggest "the naughty
aughts", though he did not explain why the past nine years were so
"naughty". It seem to me less "naughty" than "the roaring 20s", when
most people in the US were breaking the law drinking illegal booze.

I think "the aughts" work just fine, although the word seems
anachronistic. I think it works because it is a homophone for "ought",
and we can consider what opportunities were missed, what things we as
individuals and as a nation would do differently.

In the words of the 1928 Book of Common Prayer, "we have left undone
those things which we ought to have done; and we have done those things
which we ought not to have done".

For example, in hindsight? We ought not have invaded Iraq. Warrantless
wiretaps ought not have happened. Oil companies ought not have been
allowed to draw up energy policy. Rendition of terrorism suspects to be
tortured may carry a certain cromagnon vengeful satisfaction, but it is
contrary to our claimed moral code.

We ought to have pursued Osama and his cronies into the mountains. We
ought to have had stronger regulations on banks and the financial
markets. We ought to have stiven to resolve the conflict between
Palestinians and Israelis without showing favor for either side.

It may seem I am picking on a particular presidential administration,
but that is the administration that has held power since 2000. I can
list a few for Pres. Obama - drug companies ought not draft health care
policy behind closed doors. Small banks need money more than big
financial institutions or the big three car manufacturers. The District
of Columbia ought to be allowed to determine who can marry within its
borders. The government ought to be truly laize faire regarding a
woman's "right to choose" - neither promoting nor hindering her access
to abortion.

I have my own oughts and ought nots - but most are too private to share
in this public space. I invite you to consider your own. It is a proper
time to consider how we might yet accomplish those things we "ought to
have done" in the year to come.

Idée d'jour

Men become civilized, not in proportion to their willingness to believe, but in proportion to their readiness to doubt.
- H.L. Mencken, writer, editor, and critic (1880-1956)

Alarm Clock

Pleased to report I have a fully functioning fur-bearing alarm clock.
Unfortunately, she does not recognize the difference between Friday and
Saturday.

Satan in Satin

Satan wears satin
while he stands at
his subOlympian heights
watching twilight
melt into morning

He's been walking
up and down suburban asphalt
He's been drinking
Starbucks espresso
He's a Walmart
secret shopper

He's been walking
up the valleys
down the mountains
past the prayer flags
of russett and gold

He's been going
to and fro in the earth
byways and causeways
boardwalks and boulevards
the inland coast
and the outer Hebrides

He prowls like a lion
and purrs like a dragon
He builds sky scraper banners

Satan wears his light
like a reflection
He wears his head high
He comforts the dog in the manger

Dalton Trumbo & the Abuse of Power

A documentary on Dalton Trumbo was on PBS last night. 90 minutes, and fantastic. Man, he could write! And apparently couldn't stop writing, no matter what. I hope you got a chance to see it; if not, definitely put it on your Netflix cue. I had put it on mine when I first heard the film was coming out; I plan to see it a 2nd time. If there's a book of selected letters by Trumbo, I want it.

The program put me in mind of an-going meditation on the abuses of power.

Some weeks back the radio program This American Life had an episode about how mildly slimy Egyptian business man was caught in the post-9/11 web anti-terror hysteria. He has been arrested for conspiring to sell arms to an undercover agent. The arms came from the govt, as had the money. According to the program, the Egyptian had not previously sold arms to anyone, and had no known connection to any terrorist groups. He was bested by his economic need and his vainglory; not by any desire to overthrow the govt. Now he sits in a Federal Prison in Jersey.

The program acted like this was something new. But I couldn't help but think of the stories Abbie Hoffman told about guys agitating for violence who turned out to be undercover agents. I vaguely remember a riff in Revolution for the Hell of It in which Abbie explained how easy it was to spot these guys.

The use of agent provocateurs is older than the term. Neither incident is unique in the annals of world govt.

I think it was Jefferson,or one of his heros, who said something like, "Power corrupts, and absolute power corrupts absolutely." Another truism about power is that those who have it will typically strive to get more, and to hold on to that power for as long as possible.

I consider this a typical human flaw. I can be as easily tempted by power as Barack Obama or Dick Cheney.

The Founding Fathers sought to create checks and balances that would hold the temptation of power in check. Those checks and balances have been tested, sometimes to survive sometimes to be eroded. Their ideals, I think, were tempered by the fact that only landowners had the right to vote - so our Republic began as a sort of oligarchy. Perhaps not as bad as old King George, but still far from De Tocqueville's classless ideal.

---

Trumbo

This American Life: Arms Trader

Ode to my Silvertone

O guitar, I sold you,
first guitar I ever had.
I sold your string set too high,
higher than the valleys
in my left fingertips.
I sold the missing bridge knob,
and the broken strap peg.
I sold the mahogany.
I sold your faint sunburst.

You were the first guitar I ever had,
purchased by my dad
in the famous dreams of my youth
when my heart was an alternating bass
when I was an apostrophe
curled around your feminine curve.

I sold your f-holes and the bridge
warmed and patinaed by
my long slender fingers
and my young anxious hand.
I sold the dark blue felt gig bag
with "Harptone" scrolled in yellow
crackling at a 45° angle.

But o, guitar, I could not sell highschool nights
balancing you on my knee
with the song book spread on my bed.
I could not sell the hours practicing,
the songs played for friends,
the folk operas written,
the march of my right hand fingers
as I learned my first L Cohen song.

O, guitar, I could not sell
playing my first song for my father.
I could not sell
performing a talking blues
at senior year assembly.
I could not sell
your ancestors
and the poetry they sang.

O my well-mannered lover
o mistress of 3-fret by 6 string boxes
o mystery of F & B7 &
other wickedness
O mother of each guitar
yet to come.
I could not sell you,
I could only pass you on
to minister to a new troubadour.

Your Law Is My Delight

Psalm 119:77
I am very willful. I expect things to go my way, and pout when they don't. I suppose myself to be "smarter than the average bear", and expect to learn new things easily. If I don't pick it up in one sitting, I'm likely to drop it rather than persevere.

For example, I play the guitar, and would like to expand the picking patterns I use. Problem is, learning new patterns requires practice and patience.

I am more likely to question a rule than not. "Because" is not a sufficient reason. If it seems that I am surprisingly law-abiding, it's only because I dislike confrontation more than I dislike unreasonable rules. I obey, resentfully.

It's hard for me to imagine delighting in any law. So many people today strive so much for "self fulfillment", I don't suppose that I'm alone. Don't most people obey the law out of fear of punishment?

This verse comes from the longest poem in the Book of Psalms. It is a veritable love song to Torah Law. Not only the Big Ten, but over 600 more (collected in Leviticus and Deuteronomy). Another line in the same psalm exclaims, "Oh, how I love your law."

Jesus said, "I have come to fulfill the Law." When asked to summarize the Law, Jesus quoted two passages from Deuteronomy - to love God with your full being, and to love your neighbor as yourself. When you think about it, this can be more challenging than obeying hundreds of written laws.

After all, if you have a written law, you know exactly what's expected of you. But how, exactly do you love your neighbor as yourself? What does loving God with your full being look like?

However, in addition to this challenge, Jesus led by example. When it came time be obedient unto death, we can hardly say that Jesus' obedience was motivated by fear. What punishment could be worse than suffocating on a cross under the mideastern sun?

Jesus' obedience was motivated by love - love of God and love of humanity.

What would it look like if we were obedient as a loving response rather than from fear of punishment?

Can the love of the Law become the Law of Love?

I Wanna Be Your Blues

This poem was originally posted in this very space; now you can hear a performance with appropriately bluesy guitar. You may read the text at my poetry site.

Power of a song

Grant that the lip-sticked pig is gone for good. Nice of her to have SNL write her resignation speech, though.

Na Na Na

Just a song before I go, something to cheer you in case the heat has got you down.

NOLA immigre Theresa Andersson (originally from Sweeden) has the most talented feet in music.

I Can See For Miles

Petra Haden & the Sell Outs perform the classic Pete Townsend tune. Impressive acapella work.

My Last Poem

This video is for Natalie, who commented that she wished she could hear the poem. The text of the poem is available at my postcard site.

You Tube Premier

There's a couple of stumbles here - who knew I'd be so unsure in front of a camera? - but I think the point of the medley comes across. Shot with a Flip Ultra.

Crow Time

You live in my heart
but now
you're a victim of crow time —
struck dumb by green patches
fenced in by brown & gray —
and by the mystery of ashen urns.
Sky pure black, sparked by dove stars
and the moon is a sliver balancing
a firm ball of light
on its thin point — &
I'm reminded of your simple black hair,
sparks hidden in its strands.

You live in my eyes,
but still
you're a hostage to crow time —
lost amid men with broad shoulders
and women who live up to men's lies —
and until you notice your own smile,
you're doomed to servitude suffering.
Some trees with minor leaves
frame the cemetery evening,
but even now I can't help
thinking of you, thinking
of your warm woman's heart beating
like wind-blown love.

You live in my hands,
which are still scented with crow time —
though you may be far or
you could be across the midnight street —
and here where silence is an answer
I could think of you
studying my smooth hands
or weeding the wild moss on my chin.
Trees, stars, moons —
all the lies of romantic bleeding —
must have betrayed me.
Now you've gone.

You live in the memory of your head
pressed against my hair —
only the honor of crow time
could tempt us apart.

15.March.1980 (with some changes)

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This one's for Dr. O and seattlecrows.

Idée d’jour

Truth, in matters of religion, is simply the opinion that has survived.
– Oscar Wilde, writer (1854-1900)

Hard to Live With

Mandolin blues. What a concept.

Idée d’jour

It is no measure of health to be well adjusted to a profoundly sick society.
— J. Krishnamurti, author, speaker, and philosopher (1895-1986)

Life is for Sharing

Tip o' the tam shander to Brother Dave.

Jonquils, 09Feb28

Once filled with spring dreams, today they are sighing, bending their heads to the west.

Idée d’jour

What monstrosities would walk the streets were some people's faces as unfinished as their minds.
– Eric Hoffer, philosopher and author (1902-1983)

Hazards of Love

I really like the sound of this track, what I presume to be the second "single" from the album of the same name. I've listened to the 30 sec snippets available on iTunes, and the album as a whole sounds interesting. It's a "concept" album, similar to their previous album, The Crane Wife. The difference being that album had two stories told over a series of tracks, with 2-3 tracks being outside those stories; the description of this album indicates it's all one story told over the course of 17 tracks.

Let me know what you think of this track.

Lenten Cross

Herewith, the traditional wooden cross set up on Shrove Tuesday, to stand in the courtyard through Lent.

Pie Jesu

Andrew Lloyd Weber at his best. According to the originating page, Ms. Westenra was 15 when this was filmed.

Golden Morning Lake

Two of four.

Morning Lake, 7.Feb.09

The lake at St. Crispin's (near Seminole), about a quarter of 7. One of four. Maybe five.

Seven Ways to Say Yes

1. Ice white as snow
   brown grass designs
   a rorschach lawn


2. A smile as thin as New Hampshire
   or as long as California
   or as wide as Texas
   or as false as Wall Street.


3. Eyes bright as a new moon
   or as broad as the Milky Way.
   Eyes searching eyes or busy crowds.
   Eyes evening drowsy.
   Eyes with pupils
   dancing like sweep second hands


4. Fingernails, songs at their tips,
   half moons under
   quarter light


5. Warm hand on hand
   Head on shoulder
   Word echoing word
   Twilight laps
   and morning arms


6. Now the day is short
   now the wind is white
   now the air is fire
   now the sun is hidden
   now we go forth
   now we forget our dreams
   now we forge youth
   now we ponder these visions
   we descend to honor
   we ascend to defeat
   we go forth
   we become our dreams


7. Yes, I will
   Yes, I am here
   I am listening
   I am with you
   I'll meet you where you are
   I do not know you but I want to
   Thank you Thank you Thank you
   Yes

This Land Is Your Land

Pete Seeger, his grandson Tao Rodriguez, and Bruce Springsteen. Note that Pete, that wonderful iconoclast, sings verses rarely recorded - "By the relief office, I saw my people" and "The great big sign there said Private Property".

Idée d’jour

A time will come when a politician who has wilfully made war and promoted international dissension will be as sure of the dock and much surer of the noose than a private homicide. It is not reasonable that those who gamble with men's lives should not stake their own.
- H.G. Wells, writer (1866-1946) Words to the wise, Dick Cheney

Sick

The last time I wanted to vomit into a trash can, I was in college. That was my freshman year, 1976. I was living in Worchester House, a converted Navy barracks, on the south end of campus. My roommate, Richard, was a tall lanky fellow - at least a head taller than me. It was clear we were each strange cats, and had little in common.

I suspect it was early in the year that Richard suggested we go out drinking, as a way to bond. We walked to a bar about two blocks from our dorm. The Fallout Shelter was downstairs at a mini-strip mall. We drank pitchers of beer, all the law would allow.

We actually did use the trash cans that night. And maybe the next morning as well.

When I started feeling bad last Wednesday, I thought breakfast had not settled well. I had eaten at a greasy spoon, and it seemed possible the sausage had been too greasy. I still felt uneasy at lunch, but felt I should eat anyway. Something light - like a bowl of chili.

Not a great idea.

After lunch, I started feeling really bad. I felt bloated. I felt like I needed to use the restroom, but "nothing was delivered". I began to feel warmer than normal. I finally left a bit before 4 - just a half hour early.

Driving home was the greatest challenge. Every bump was amplified by the bile in my tummy.

By this point, opening the garage door did not seem an option (I have to open it manually). I parked in the drive, and ran in the house. I turned on the TV, intending to lay on the couch. I think I laid on the couch for about 10 minutes, then decided my bed was much more inviting.

I left the TV on. I left my dress shirt and pants on. I crawled under the comforter, loosened my belt, and prayed the increasing nausea would pass.

About two hours later, I felt the gorge rising. I wasn't sure I could make it to the bathroom, and grabbed my trashcan. I did not throw up at that time.

I did make it to the bathroom. That's when the diarrhea started. I started going to the bathroom about every two hours.

Thursday morning. I felt feverish. The diarrhea was on-going. No way I was going to work. I left a message on a co-worker's phone. Shortly after, I dashed to the restroom and knelt before the porcelain shrine.

It appeared that I hadn't really digested much of the chili I ate the day before.

During one of those frequent trips, I did use the trash can in the bathroom. I had lost the energy to kneel, and had laid down on the bathroom floor. The gorge started rising, and I just grabbed the bucket just in the nick of time.

Happily, I line my small trash cans with plastic grocery bags.

Now, I don't generally let myself off the hook very easily. My goal is to go to work every day. I figured once my stomach pumped all the gorge out, I'd be good to go to work Friday.

Not so. I felt better, but extra movement seemed dicey. I made one trip Friday, to buy more Pepto and 7-up at Target.

Now, I have two theories as to how this thing started. My original hypothesis was that it was food poisoning from the greasy spoon. Then, sometime Thursday or Friday, I remembered my elderly neighbor had described similar symptoms last Monday.

I've been helping him get adjusted to the converter box for his TV. Which, naturally, requires I go in his house on occasion.

I've been living on clears liquids and crackers the past few days. My stomach was queasy Sunday and Monday; it's now "hinky", which seems like an improvement.

Volunteers

Classic story song by Mark Erelli & Peter Nelson; performed here by Mr. Erelli.

Idée d’jour

Society is like a stew. If you don't keep it stirred up you get a lot of scum on the top.
— Edward Abbey, naturalist and author (1927-1989)

Time

Tie me to the roots
where your hand grasps Spica
Tie me to your life line
Tie me where black is bland
and red is waiting
Tie my shackles to the seconds
Tie the melody to that vagrant heartbeat
Tie the words to the burned grass
Tie me to the rising tide
to the setting sun
to morning mist
to the winter chill
Tie me to the minutes
Tie me to the hours

Beyond the Visible Spectrum

Anne

In which I indulge my crush on Anne Hathaway, using images from Entertainment Weekly.

God rid me of god

A more eloquent discussion of a theme I've tried to express: that most so-called atheists are rejecting a particular definition, or image, of God. This gentleman goes further, to say that truly spiritual Christians refuse to put God in a box.

J.B. Philips a famous translator of the New Testament in the '50s, also wrote a book titled Your God is Too Small. My understanding is that he was trying to make the same point.

I'm afraid that most of the time my image of God is closer to the big Santa in the sky that to the Tao that can't be spoken. At least, this is the image I presume others have of God — and I suppose this judgment is closer to home, that is, what I fear is in my own heart.

Magi

Left to right: Melchior, Balthazar, and Casper
(jac, Kent, and Tiger)

Idée d’jour

Whatever may be wrong with the world, at least it has some good things to eat.
— Jack Clement, quoted by Roy Blount, Jr, in Oxford American Music Issue 2008, now on newstands.

Xuefei Yang

I learned of this video through the Jan ’09 issue of Acoustic Guitar. Ms. Yang is playing a Greg Smallman, the guitar featured in the "Great Acoustics" section. The appreciation is written by Adrian Legg, no slouch either.

My search lead me to this video, which brought tears to my eyes.

Shadow

DJ's Aunt Shadow, as the star she was always meant to be.

Andie

Thanks to some on-line instruction, I'm closer to achieving the "Warhol" effect. I think.

Talking Post Trauma Blues

Song by Tom Smith; video by a veteran of the Iraq War.
Helmet tip to Brother Dave

Honeycomb Tea

Honeycomb foam floats
as a head on my green tea;
I float into winter morning.

Friday Cat

DJ's "aunt" Shadow, Thanksgiving morning.

Thanksgiving

I'm thankful for pink-pawed dawn
stalking across yellowed grass;
I'm thankful for yellowed grass
and green weeds and
and dust of leaves;
I'm thankful for blown leaves
a piebald pattern on my lawn.
I'm thankful for my lawn,
for the steps to my porch,
for the stories my door tells,
for the cat by the window.

I'm thankful for the cat
on my lap.
I'm thankful for the quiet
of an empty house.
I'm thankful for the boy
skateboarding east.
I'm thankful for the woman
picking the paper up from her steps.

I'm thankful for the song
sealed in this guitar string.
I'm thankful for how her hair
shines in the afternoon sun.
I'm thankful for how fingers dance.
I'm thankful for the words
for the notes for the breath
for how the diaphragm supports the song
for the subtle chimes and the brassy organ.

I'm thankful for the table spread
and the peaked roof
and the tossled bed.

I'm thankful for this walk.

Over a Month Ago...

A little over a month ago, I drove to the Four Corners area in Northwestern New Mexico. It was a ten-plus hour drive. I made the trip to attend my cousin R—'s funeral.

The curious thing about driving those ten hours was the fact that I could not recall much about time spent with R—. I typically saw her twice a year, at Thanksgiving and Christmas, when my family would travel to Ardmore to visit Padre's siblings. R— was among a large number of cousins; for most of my childhood, she was one of Aunt Merrie's two children. Aunt Nelle, Padre's oldest sister, had four children.

I did remember that R— and I were close in age. When I read her obit I learned we were only a month apart — I was born today, Nov. 22, in 1955; she was born in December of the same year. Thus, it makes sense that her death would haunt me a little.

I only remember one event that includes her. I was very young, and had gotten a splinter in my finger. Her dad, Jack, told me a story of the clowns at bullfights as he extracted the splinter.

More importantly, though, I remember the feelings I have for her. We were quite close. I remember playing with her, though I couldn't tell you a single game we played.

R— did not have an easy life. It might be said she had poor taste in men. The men she was attracted to were verbally abuse and controlling. She had broken up with such a man a few weeks before she died.

On the other hand, she had a fulfilling career as a nurse at a local extended care facility. Half the chapel was filled with her co-workers, who also provided the traditional post-funeral feast for her family.

Officially, R— died of an accidental overdose. She was sad the weeks before she died, and some might leap to the conclusion that the OD was no accident. I make no such judgments.

Her memorial service was held at a Baptist church. Once I learned this, I was worried that I might have to sit through a stereotypical Baptist "get right with Jesus" sermon. I was pleasantly surprised. Although R— was not a regular church-goer, the minister assumed she had a good relationship with God.

What especially impressed me about his message is that he directly confronted R—'s depression. He named it. But he went further; he spoke of his own struggle with depression, and admitted that he had sought medical help for it. He said his relationship with Christ helped, but that he needed antidepressants as well.

Not something a stereotypical Baptist preacher would admit.

I was confronted with the fact that darkness was something R— and I shared. Even as I drove those ten hours to NW New Mexico, I could hear the dark voice at the edge of my consciousness. The dark voice sounded a lot like my own voice, only it was criticizing my every decision. It was telling me how I have wasted my life. It still tells me that I have poor taste in women, and might as well give up on finding a romantic companion.

As I type this, I'm aware it's melodramatic. But it's also true. It's something I believe I must get out of my head & send outer space.

I don't know what R—'s last days were like. I don't know for a fact that she had her own dark voice to wrestle. I know her spirit haunts me. That philia we shared continues today. I believe she wishes me well.

Perhaps she would encourage me to wrestle that dark voice. Perhaps she would suggest I say "get thee behind me" each time the voice whispers in my ear.


R— blows a farewell kiss

Friday Cat

Can you find the cat sunning itself in the morning light? It's one of the cats who live at the retreat center just east of Seminole, OK.

Morning on the Lake

Same lake, facing west.

---

f5.6 @ 1/125

Beside the Path

There is a path which circles the lake we've viewed the past few days. This small weed caught my attention as I walked early Saturday morning.

---

f5.0 @ 1/30

Dawn, Nov. 8

Same lake as picture posted yesterday.
f10 @ 1/125

Sunset, Friday, Nov. 7

Shot at a camp near Seminole, in SE Oklahoma.
ASA 200 f10 @ 1/800

Idée d’jour

I don't know if God exists, but it would be better for His reputation if he didn't.
— Jules Renard, writer (1864-1910)

Idée d’jour

Strike the midnight bell at noon.
— Zen Saying

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ISO 200, f3.5 @ 30

Day with the ducks

Picture taken Saturday, October 11th, at the Myriad Gardens in downtown OKC. This was a blurred picture of a duck until salvaged and savaged in Photoshop Elements.

Idée d’jour

What sane person could live in this world and not be crazy?
— Ursula K. Le Guin, author (b. 1929)

It Takes Time

It takes time to kill the Buddha,
It takes time to shine your shoes,
It takes time to choke the rainbow,
It takes time to teach the blues.
They took their time
They took their time
They took their time
They took their time

It takes time to shrink the dollar,
To build your cross of gold,
It takes time to spoil the water
before your child grows old
They took their time
They took their time
They robbed us blind
and took their time.

It takes time to steal tomorrow,
To set the devil free,
It takes times to dig the canyon
between wealth & poverty
They took their time
They took their time
They robbed us blind
and took their time

It takes time to murder Jesus,
To set mercy on its ear,
Time to poison people
So cities live in fear
They took their time
They took their time
They robbed us blind
and took their time

---

A song, based on the poem "Some Things Take Time" by George Wallace (of Suffolk County, NY)

Idée d’jour

Where was the sound of Tommy Ramone hitting the first rim shot on Teenage Lobotomy before you heard it?
— Contemporary Koan (from Zen Calendar)

Barack O’Bama is Irish!

In a show of solidarity, Irish bookies are no longer accepting bets on the American Election.

Winfield I: After the Flood

This was my tenth year to attend the Walnut Valley Festival in Winfield, KS. This decade of experience has taught me to pack for the “three seasons of Winfield:” hot, cold, and rainy. It's hot during the day (mid 80s this year), and cool in the evening (low 50s). It typically rains Friday or Saturday, often torrential rains. This year, the rain came the week before the official beginning of the festival.

A few words of explanation are in order: the Festival takes place on the county fairgrounds (Winfield is the county seat of Cowley County). I have been told these grounds constitute a square mile. The grounds include two groves of trees (commonly called Pecan and Walnut) where people camp. The Walnut Valley River meanders around the border of these grounds.

So, when the rains came Sept. 11 & 12, the river began flooding. I was told there is a dam upstream which needed to be opened, in order to avoid flooding the town. The combination of rain and opened dam caused the river to crest to ~32 ft. The festival grounds are low-lying, and were flooded.


Part of Pecan Grove Thursday morning, Sept. 18, about a week after the flood

People who had arrived to early were evacuated. Some went to near-by Oxford (about 10 minutes west of Winfield). The group I normally camp with went to Winfield City Lake, about 30 minutes north-east of town.

I heard heart-warming stories of how local farmers used their tractors to help pull campers out of the mud. How grateful campers performed for the retirement home in Oxford.

As I say, I was at Winfield City Lake, about 30 minutes away. Another way the city pitched in to help was by providing shuttle service to and from the remote camping areas. The bus ride from the lake was a little over 30 minutes long.

A very different experience from being able to walk over to a concert, then walk back to camp. One had to plan ahead. Plus, I had to take into account the poor night-time visibility at the lake, and the challenge of finding my way back from the bus stop, at the Marina, to where I was camped — maybe an eighth mile as the crow flies, but a little further by foot.

In the end, I only went to the fairgrounds to hear music three times. It was on the first trip that I heard the Wiyos, whose video is posted below. I also saw Stephen Bennett, who I always enjoy. On Friday, I saw Beppe Gametta, Italian finger-style and flat picking whiz; and the Kenny & Amanda Smith band, which was better than you might imagine.

Four good acts, and one exceptionally bad one (who shall go unnamed). This was worth $80?

Depak on Palin

I'm no fan of Depak Chopra, but he has an essay on how Sarah Palin is the Shadow (in Jungian terms) of Barack Obama, which seems somewhat worthwhile. Some money quotes:

• she "deride(s) his idealism and turn(s) negativity into a cause for pride"
• "Palin reinforces the overall message of the reactionary right, which has been in play since 1980, that social justice is liberal-radical, that minorities and immigrants, being different from “us” pure American types, can be ignored, that progressivism takes too much effort and globalism is a foreign threat."

In a follow-up essay, Chopra makes clear that Democrats could have an unhealthy response to Palin: "Reacting to Palin with fear, confusion, panic, and lashing out also comes from the shadow."

Read the two essays, and let me know what you think.

Song for the 2nd Great Depression

This is one of the few groups I heard at Winfield this year, The Wiyos. Hadn't heard them before, but I'm now a fan.

They mentioned "the 2nd Great Depression" when they introduced this tune. I wonder if Ms. Pit Bull was in the audience?

Coming Attractions

I recently returned from my visit to the Walnut Valley Festival (aka, "Winfield"). I have the goal of writing some about this year's experience sometime within the next week.

In the meantime, here you see some notes toward that entry (written in my Moleskine Notebook ®) along with an unused Camping Permit.

Haiku: 20.Sept.08

Mowing the lawn
ahead of the rain.
What am I to do
with all these mushrooms?

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This is intended as an "American Haiku", as defined by Jack Kerouac (my mentor in eternity)

Fungus Among Us

This lone 'shroom appeared in my front yard a little over a week ago. This shot reflects how it looked Sunday morning; as of last night, it had grown larger, with some brown. Really a mutant, compared to other mushrooms that have appeared in my yard in the past.

Self Portraits

This is how I looked Saturday morning, 6.Sept.08. I always try to catch myself off-guard. The expression seems to me that of a man with some private secret. What gnosis do I suppose I hold? None at all, my dears; none at all.

And this is how I appeared this morning, about 30 minutes prior to heading to church.

Some years ago, Rusty N. owned what we called a "magic" hat. The magic of that hat was that it looked good on anyone who wore it. It was a black felt hat, similar to this one.

This gray hat seems to be magic as well. Days when I wear it, everyone who passes me smiles and often comments on what a nice hat it is. What you don't see here – I'll try to capture it on another day – is the small colorful feather on the left side.

As for my expression here, it is that of someone concentrating on holding the remote shutter release at just the right angle. As for that cocked right eyebrow, there is little I can say. I started cocking it, unconsciously, at some point during high school, and it got stuck that way. Let this be a lesson to you, children!

Toward the Equinox

Summer burns away the last of its days like campfire memories.
Let's watch the flames turn into poem banners.
Let's float our dreams on the wings of monarch butterflies.
The sun dips lower in the morning, hides behind buildings it once challenged.
The light dons the quality of soft rain, blowing from all directions.
Afternoon shadows bend toward the equinox,
then lengthen onto your bed
where a gray cat
sleeps on an Indian Blanket.

A Corner of My World

“Don't seek reality. Just put an end to opinions.”
— Seng-Ts'an

Sunflower, 08.Aug.16

This sunflower stands at least a foot above my head. It is growing on the western side of Venice Blvd, a block away from my house.

Nader 08

Seems appropriate that a pick-up truck be parked in the drive of the house which hosts this yard sign. Rancid Ralph and ... Bertie Gonzalez?

My response to this candidacy? Feh!

Ideé d’jour

Paths cannot be taught,
they can only be taken.
— Zen Saying

Idée d’jour

A hair in the head is worth two in the brush.
– Oliver Herford, writer and illustrator (1863-1935)

OMG!

I am so voting for Paris Hilton!

See more funny videos at Funny or Die

Feather in the Grass

Tuesday, July 29, 2008. The wind was low, but the feather turned as I was taking its picture - facing north-south to facing east-west.

Lantana

This represents a small fraction of the lantana that has volunteered itself on the east side of my house.

For the Netflix Que

See also Neil Young at Sundance

Old Dogs

This one's for you, Brother Dave.

Remember the Bonus Army

This week marks the 76th anniversary of the Bonus Army. This was a group of World War I veterans who marched on Washington, DC, for benefits. They had been promised benefits, but did not receive them. President Herbert Hoover, the spiritual godfather of the current president, called out active duty soldiers to smash the veterans' tent city.

So, the poor treatment veterans of the Afghan and Iraq wars have received is nothing new. It has continued into VA denying the effects of Agent Orange following the Viet Nam conflict, to so-called Gulf War Syndrome*, to recent stop-loss measures.

Brother Dave, a veteran of Viet Nam and current veteran's advocate, recommends we read Vets Under Siege: How America Deceives and Dishonors Those Who Fight Our Battles by Martin Schram to commemorate the anniversary of the Bonus Army. Click for a full review of the book.

*Calling something a "syndrome" suggests the symptoms are psychological. In fact, the dominant story concerning Gulf War Syndrome is that there is no known physical cause. As the review notes, Mr. Schram's book makes a good case that the "syndrome" is linked to exposure to chemical warfare agents at various sites in Iraq in the early 1990s.

Required Reading

To See This Clearly, by Maya Stein. Here are the opening lines:

I am no magic trick, no doer of miracles, no water walker.
I am no architect of glory, no layer-on of hands, no angel wing.
I am no weaver of gold, no mythmaker, no parachute artist.
I am no halo of stillness in a downpour.

Trust me, it just gets better.

Idée d’jour

Year after year
   on the monkey's face
    a monkey face.
— Basho

For the Netflix Cue

Haiku d’jour

Red morning sky —
   snail,
     are you glad of it?
– Issa

Idée d’jour

The struggle with evil by means of violence is the same as an attempt to stop a cloud, in order that there may be no rain.
— Leo Tolstoy, novelist and philosopher (1828-1910)

How It Goes

It goes in fits & starts.
It goes summer sun slow.
It goes with ham & eggs & flap jacks.
It goes past the creosote dumps.
It goes where no poem dares turn.
It goes with kettle bangs and wet whispers.
It goes like a gong.
It goes like sparklers chasing fireflies.
It goes like the terraces of a woman sleeping.
It goes like night terrors.
It goes well with white wine or vinegar.
It goes & it goes, & it rolls & it flows.

I walked with the morning light.
Now I sit shiva with the setting sun.
And it goes down soft and dusty.
It goes down smooth.
It goes on straight toward midnight.
It goes past memory
and takes a right at justice.
It goes to the heart of darkness
at the center of the light.
It goes & it glows & it rolls & it grows.

I like watching it go.
It goes like a lover's hips rolling
like a ship on steady waves.
It goes like pastures waving
in the harvest season.
It goes well with the hustlers and the street car punks
and the men huddled in doorways
and the women hidden in culverts.
It goes like a half-remembered riddle.
It goes & it goes & it rolls & it flows.

Begun as a free-write inspired by Dr. Omed on Twitter

Blossom, 08June12

The bush on the north edge of my property (my backyard) is blossoming. Does it celebrate southern sun? The impending arrival of solstice?

Whirlwind

Palm Reading

I trace the lines of my hands: blue highways of intimate discourse. Bright backroads where the stars taste my heartbeat.

This long diagonal line - does it aim to Scorpius? Or is it the left-hand side of the path from soul to mind? It slices my lifeline, which traverses the full palm map.

Seven loves flow from the heart. Blue highways near my thumb suggest alternate tales.

This line intersecting the Scorpion line at the left could be the Archer. Let my aim be plain and true. My words the plumb line into meandering destinies.

A new line flows from the top of that line, falling off the right to where monsters may dwell. An alternate future parallels from the base of the life line.

I would reveal all my secrets, but they remain hidden even to me.

Morning Prayer

I bind unto my self this day
the shattered stone.
I bind myself to the rift in the rock.
I take shelter under the sparrow's wing.
I rest in the shadow of the thistle.

I bind myself this day to the spring grass.
I bind myself to the summer tornado.
I take shelter in gathering winds.
I rest in early evening warmth.

I trust in the moon's vengeance.
I have faith in the compassionate breeze.
I study the scripture in the jewel
at the heart of the lotus.

I bind integrity to my right arm,
and discerned justice to my left.
My right hand is named "Love"
my left hand, "Honor".

I follow the example of volunteer clover.
I follow the path of the wild mint.
I heed the morning dove's cry.
I shall not forsake my name.

Even though my name is dust.
Even though my honor is fresh mown grass.
Even though my words are light as rain clouds.

I bind myself to the split stone.
I bind myself to the creek's memory.
I bind myself to morning flags
and evening traffic reports.

I bind unto myself this day
the Name beyond names;
the Path which has no route;
the Law which has no letters;
the People who have no borders.

Recommended

I just purchased Duffy's debut album, Rockferry, on iTunes after listening to samples of all the tracks. As you'll hear in the live sample embedded above, she's got a powerful vocal instrument. Never mind the hit single, Mercy, which I think sounds a bit too much like Amy Winehouse's "Rehab" for comfort. The other 12 songs on the album far out shine it. Check out Syrup & Honey for a peek at the artist at work.

There's a iRumor circulating that this Welsh singer calls herself Duffy as an homage to Dusty Springfield. She's close to Springfield, no question - just needs a little seasoning.

My Guitar Gently Weeps

935 Lies

Listen to the hit you won't hear on Clear Channel (tip o' the fedora to Brother Dave).

Jesus for President

Review of a book by Shane Claiborn, Chris Haw, and Friends
Recommended.

A little over 300 pages long (including appendix), this book covers salvation history from the Garden of Eden to the present. The history is, of course, made with very broad strokes. What is fascinating about the presentation of the history is how the authors constantly use events such as Israel's demand for a king (in I Samuel) to comment on current events.

The authors remind us that when the people of Israel asked for a king, God warned them that any human king would be no better than the Pharaoh. The ideal is that God is the only king we need.

It seems to me that this is the primary point of this book: we project onto our leaders all the hopes and dreams that can only be realistically fulfilled by God. We try to legislate a better society and better people, when this only be effected by changing the individual heart of each person.

This doesn't mean we don't vote. We choose a candidate we believe will do the most good and the least harm. But we fool ourselves if we believe any candidate will be able to do everything s/he promises. The only person who could deliver on all his promises was Jesus; and he promised nothing more than suffering and servanthood.

Look, the U.S. Constitution has a system of checks and balances which intends to prevent any one person or group of people from gaining absolute power. The only way any person could fulfill all his/her political promises is if that person were a dictator or emperor. There is a reason many have described the current administration as "the imperial presidency," and we are no experiencing the negative fall-out from its actions.

Human politics can only go so far. People obey laws as a duty to the social contract, or from fear of punishment. Typically, such laws do not change the human heart. The Law of Love, Jesus' platform, is written on the human heart.

Jesus, as Claiborn and his co-authors point out, would be a poor candidate in the traditional sense. Jesus would be "soft on defense": no where in the Gospels does Jesus take up a sword (the gun of his day). When asked whether to oppose Rome (by means of refusing to pay taxes), he rejected the question. For Jesus the point was not whether to oppose Rome or to support a new human leader, but to submit oneself to God.

Jesus would take a new view of welfare that might shock both Democrats and Republicans. Jesus did not judge the poor — as an itinerant preacher he was among them. Instead, Jesus fed those who were hungry. In the early church, pre-300 C.E., the norm was for the community to hold all property in common and share according to each member's need. What the U.S. has done, over time, is to cede the Christian responsibility to care for "the least of these" to the state; the results have been mixed, to say the least.

This is a thought-provoking book, with new readings of scripture (the Christian testament in particular) which I found enlightening. I recommend it to all who seek an expression of Christian life founded on practice rather than dogma.

Owl

This is one of the artifacts found in what are called the Spiro Mounds, in far eastern Oklahoma. These Native Americans are probably the ancestors of the Creek, Caddo, and others. They lived in this area from approximately 500 - 1450 CE.

My Last Poem

My last poem
will walk under storm-green skies
past haunted duplexes
through echoing culverts
through knee-high grass.
It will walk from New Jersey Pine Barrons
and coast up Gravity Hill;
it will walk from mother's horror
to father's death;
it will walk from the myth of Saturn
to the mouth of the whirlwind.
It will walk all this way
to sit on my chest,
some cat-like Buddha,
to flip through the uneven pages
of my unjustified heart.

My last poem and my first poem
will sit on the front porch
and tell tall tales
about the neighbors.
They'll compare rhetoric
and the scope of their rhythm.
"You've got a charming rhyme scheme,"
my last poem will say;
"You've got a mysterious metaphysic,"
my first poem will reply.
And they'll write sketches of the wind
while drinking green tea
with a pinch of fresh mint
and a spoon-full of local honey.

My last poem
may have forgotten every cherished image;
it may have lost
its connection to each borrowed symbol
and 40 years worth of repetends.
It may find itself confronted
by each unfinished stanza,
every half-begun epic,
each muse in passing
and muse in waiting -
each shopgirl, waitress,
movie star, pew mate,
class mate, anima projection -
all the false goddesses
and true harridans,
all the true goddesses
and faithless lovers.
It may have forgotten
their names in eternity.
It may have lost its breath
and its measured lines.
It may not want a song
or need one more sip of beer.

My last poem
will shake your hand and greet you.
It will welcome you like an old friend.
It will walk with you anywhere.

Idée d’jour

God must have loved the people in power, for he made them so much like their own image of him.
— Kenneth Patchen, poet and novelist (1911-1972)

The Biggest Lie

"The biggest lie of our low dishonest decade is that we are doing so much better now than [arbitrary date in the last five years]. Casualties are down from [day/month/year arbitrarily chosen to make this point.] Now that [Bush lands on aircraft carrier / Saddam is captured / executed/ elections are held / one particular group is not attacking Americans as often], we have proved how wrong opponents of the war really were all this time. This lie gets repeated over and over again, with the bracketed parts changing. Sure, we messed it up for the first [one, two, three, four, five, six] years, but NOW things are going our way, and it's unpatriotic to suggest otherwise!"
— Jonathan, at Bemsha Swing!

This Week's Cat

The lady poses for her close-up.

ISO 1600; f.5.0 @ 1/10; flash

Worst President? Ask the Twins

Idée d’jour

The flowers fall, for all our yearning; weeds grow, regardless of our dislike.
— Zen saying

Another variant of this wisdom is found in Judeo-Christian Scripture: It rains upon the just and the unjust.

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Photo details: ISO 200, f/7.1 @ 1/400; cloudy, natural light

April 4

The moon hauls in the water
the wind tears up the street
the stars hail down

The weather vane lost true north
the mailbox flag is frozen
the robin is far from home

She opens the drowsy window
watches rain wash the screen
she dreams her morning fog
in the swirl of her morning coffee