It was not long ago (just a couple of months past); i had the pleasure of a conversation, by phone, with a very, very talented photographer – during the call, i had nothing but questions – and no answers.
And after a bit, i got bold – “Jim, among the treasures, that are your pictures- would you find one for me. Something – colorful – just fun – unmitigated joy (and when you’re done with that – there is that thing about the stables). There is, still a place in my heart, in my life where that lives – and i really want to show that to the rest of the world. And shame on ‘um if they can’t take a joke.”
And I received this image. All – all and more.
Thank you, JAMES MICHAEL MOORE, thank you. there is a place in this world for a spastic old fart like me.
(Forgive the poor quote; read the T.S.Elliot, any T.S.Elliott)
There is a still point, a point between the up and the down, not moving to the left or right, to or fro, still. Dancing, that moment when – it is that moment – still – not glancing but seeing – still – it is a point in a dance – any and every moment of a dance and it’s all about the dance. And the still point – the still point – the still point is the dance.
for those that may not have known, Jim is my son
Never would I have thought that I could be so dependent on technology.
In the last couple of weeks I have had two laptops and a tablet take a dump. I am at present using a Bluetooth keyboard with my phone – not fun, easy, or anything I hope to continue for long.
All my notes and files are lost – there are some things to be said for starting over – none of them good.
I shall procure another devise and continue, but trying to follow this on a phone is a challenge.
\peace out, pilgrims.
Can’t find my friend – lately,
You’d remember him…hard to forget, just the pleasantest of guys’; he is one of the very few souls that enjoys not talking over coffee – no person has enjoyed the sound of their own voice less ; in the pursuit obscure galleries he takes almost singular delight – wherein could be heard at least once, oft repeated one of two mantras: at the beginning or middle of a walk around he will find something and freeze and then moving like a mastodon during a slow thaw he would circle the piece, studying it, oh so carefully, lovingly…and as a result; stumbling over all manner of nonsense right in front of him- I’ve yet to comprehend how he walked around that painting…it was hanging on a wall…
He enjoys what makes me happy…he just enjoys.
I’ve run into him in the very early hours – sitting in the sand of an empty beach, his long surf rod set in it’s holder, his eyes would be fixed on the tip – lit by what ever moon was available – watching it’s dip and pull, that motion generated where sea, shore, and wind come together and there is nothing alive on the end of that line. On just such an occasion I had noticed that his bait pail had been- well – empty.
Like mine – on that particular occasion.
He hasn’t been there – no…not lately.
I thought perhaps – maybe – if I return to all the old places I’d come across him again; and we’ll laugh about needing props on the beach to just sit and watch the light on the water.
Not that long ago, I was sure I caught a glimpse of him; it was in that little bistro, off S. Detroit and Main, he was looking over his own cup a mud when the image was lost as one line or another of bodies, faces lost to the glow of the tiny screen before them. Hoping to greet an old friend, I did take up my coffee and walk in his direction…to find – it was but a mirror, and the face I was looking at was someone else – someone else indeed.
If you – this is addressed to the three of you – thought I’d come up with reasons/excuses for not being here – nope.
I will say that I have become somewhat devided of late, to the point that I need to have two sites.
This first site will be the first, my fondest most honest expressionand shall after this post be just about humor, satire, maybe a good belly laugh.
The second is in the form of a short book, the plot has been used over and over – guy gets the flu gets tests gets more tests and more tests and docs that say shit like:”…and we can keep you going for…on average mind you: for 5.5 years…”
I have some choices to make, nothing more. Out of that strange enery of sorts, a book, about a quest to find Xenia (?); person, place, idea, ideal, destination, state of mind, state of being, no one was quite sure which Xenia was – but it was/is.
I have always believed that there was a need for two things in this world in great abundance:
- Peace, stillness inside and out. Voluntary quiet, eliminate the din and listen to the rythum of the wind.
- Laughter; shared with strangers – there are nine of you gathered around this dignitary and they’re recounting an event involving some other indivdual and its getting interesing – and then its geetting really interesting and a touch humorous – and the story proceeds from the stright laced dignatary – from the eight strangers at times could be heard sounds of momentary loss of control of the desire to explode. The speaker finished, turned, and started to walk away when each of you looked at each other and you knew the punch line and there was an eruption like the first time you saw Mrs. Doubtfire. Perhaps one of the three of you smiled.
Peace out Pilgrims
I really can’t tell you how long it has been, is there a measure for forever, that I have been away from a keyboard – I have heard it said that procrastination is the sincerest form of low self-esteem.
(and they were right, oh so right)
Battling months of depression and stress triggered illnesses a general funk filled the house and at times it seemed like others needed more than we had to give – and it wasn’t that the SWMBO ( She Who Must Be Obeyed ) and me were looking for anything, it was just for a rest.
Over morning coffee, She said, “Let’s move to Ohio.”, without so much as raising her head. Then She took a sip of her overly treated coffee.
“OK”. Rarely does the SWMBO act spontaneously and never on anything of this magnitude; of course I’m going to go along for the ride.
Two thousand eighteen managed to shatter me…it wasn’t the year really, as years go it was a year, it was what was going on in me during most of it.
I labored over how to explain, well, my absence ( this is more for me than you); and the deep philosophical response sounds like so much psycho babble.
I’m a wood-butcher and there are times I work on a piece and I can just not get the joinery right to save my soul, nothing’s square, there are gaps in the glue up…you have a choice: beat yourself up forever or drill a hole in it and call it a bird house.
Well, it’s the morning after the 22nd annual celebration of my 50th birthday.
Yesterday was a day of, “How does it feel to be 72?” delivered in the same condescending tone that I heard when it was, “…how does it feel to be teenager now?”
Same answer: how the hell should I know?
Yesterday I became old. Yep, it happened, I had to face it and the face says it all…old. Along with becoming old is an overwhelming sense of responsibility to share the knowledge and related fears with the boss.
‘Hon, its just a number but it just kinda scares me; but, all that aside, I will still be doing my woodworking and I will grow the business…I’m gonna be a little more flamboyant, playful. I’m gonna die and there is just no time left to be serious; so you know I haven’t gone crazy, crazier.’
Later we got into the reality of things. “You are going to continue working for a while yet?” “Until the wood stops telling me what it wants to be…when that happens; its just a job.”
Its the day after that conversation and I can only say, Its a great day to be alive.
Yeah, this is the part about writing that really, really gets to me; creating a new character, a new full-blown character, believable, and moderately… interesting.
For now, I’ll call him “m”; short for some name that may or may not begin or end in the letter M.
As this is a contemporary tale it is significant that m is 71.
This is significant in its perception: ages 58 – 70 you should be gainfully employed and socially driven, 72 – whenever; you are in your dotage, no one takes you seriously.
He’s never missed a meal…although he has postponed several, indefinitely.
He’s confronted, accepted, and has stopped fearing his own mortality.
He’s slept under the stars, most often, willingly.
He’s a tree-hugging old hippie that now faces the day with a choice: morphine or oxy (by Rx) and sit or nap for an hour or three to squeeze in a moment or two of near comfortable movement, or take a hit on the pipe and feel like working. [m is a skilled woodworker and has his own small business: Be Splendid Enterprises Ltd. Co.] No choice really, a man has got to smile and do…stuff.
“Hello, I’m, well, m and I’m your narrator.”