Rainy day dabbles

Steps

                                                                   stepping stones to nowhere

                                                                   "You go first." 

                                                                   "No, you." 

Shapes

                                                                         Should we stay

                                                                               or run?

                                                                                     The shape of things to come.

Fright

                                                                        Play all you want.

                                                                        Paint this, word that . . .

                                                                        knight mares'll still flaunt.


________________________

Playing with the paint program again.   Colors, words, shapes and squiggles.  Work awaits; instead she scribbles, like a crayon prone to giggles. Must refrain. Outside--the rain.  All day it pours, three days now, pelting the pavement, drumming its drone-like splat. The cats watch and wait.

Fight Censorship, Read a Banned Book

Writer's Dilemma

Contemplating Vases*

 

 

 

 

                                                                      On choosing one's voice:
                                                                      not unlike picking a road.
                                                                      Go the known - or leap?



____________________

*Playing with the art program today; throwing out a few playful po-art (art-po?) frisbees.
At the end of every road you take, alas, there you are again (the "are" part debatable).
We are what we do, but sometimes more so what we ... don't.  Guidebook, please.  

Sea Bottom Art

Untitled sculpture

  

The artist: a male puffer fish

A design that is not only 'artful' but that has an intended function:

The male puffer fish takes small shells, cracks them, and lines the inner grooves of his sculpture as if decorating his piece. Further observation revealed that this “mysterious circle” was not just there to make the ocean floor look pretty. Attracted by the grooves and ridges, female puffer fish would find their way along the dark seabed to the male puffer fish where they would mate and lay eggs in the center of the circle. In fact, the scientists observed that the more ridges the circle contained, the more likely it was that the female would mate with the male. The little sea shells weren’t just in vain either. The observers believe that they serve as vital nutrients to the eggs as they hatch, and to the newborns.   [Source].

Illumination

                                                                          
                                                          Étincelles du soleil    
                                                          sautant dessus d'un étang.        
                                                          Dance d'éclat.      

                                                                       sun sparkles
                                                                       skip-ping 'cross a pond -
                                                                       flash dance.
                                                                                                      
__________________________

This was an old photo from April, 2010, taken in the woods behind the Moulin Seigneurial in Pointe-du-Lac, QC.  It inspired me to try to describe the actual scene with as few words as possible, and then see if I could render it into French.  

It'd been nearing sundown,we had just come from watching windsurfers on Lac St. Pierre. The grounds of this ancient flour mill are a favorite walking spot: starting with the stone steps cascading up past the water chute to the mirror-like pond surrounded by tall, silent trees leading to hidden pathways, little brooks and silent, leafy enclaves. It was getting chilly and I remember wondering what it'd be like to be there in winter, except no one does that (not impossible, just highly impractical) but this was mid-spring and we were just leaving when the dance of light began on the water (which if you moved to a different position you'd miss entirely).  My mate hurrying me along, "Time to go, Time to go", but the dancing light kept beckoning. The flatness of a photo image sans animation, the 'What-the-heck-is-that-white-stuff-on-the-water? almost guess  (debris? popcorn? leftover, chopped-up ice floettes?)  None of the above.  Sun flashes hitting pond water, pure and simple.  

Sometimes a pond is just a pond but sometimes, when you're not even paying attention, you get to see such a mini-light show, sun sparkles skipping, dancing, bouncing off the waterwaves to some invisible music only the universe hears and you foolishly try to capture it, on film, in words.  But it's never quite the same, is it.

Surveillance

The stellar wind sweeps by
o'er bluff, dale, rock,
blazing the trail o'er land, sky and sea --
sees every thin thread or
            deep-web nook

They go look
there behind every door
          (t'would be good t'know how they got a key) --
they'll rarely knock.
Big shock.  They'll just deny.

_____________________________________

Syllabic verse in 6-4-9-6-3, repeated backwards 3-6-9-4-6
using words associated with the process, program and/or location described in
the following references re: matters that may interest those
who may have an interest in such matters:

Scope of Surveillance

In secret listening rooms nationwide, NSA software examines every email, phone call, and tweet as they zip by.  [1]

The Utah spy center will contain near-bottomless databases to store all forms of communication collected by the agency. This includes the complete contents of private emails, cell phone calls and Google searches, as well as all sorts of personal data trails — parking receipts, travel itineraries, bookstore purchases and other digital "pocket litter. "The NSA has constantly denied that they’re doing things, and then it turns out they are doing these things."  [2]

Even Congress Wants to Know What the NSA is Doing with this $2 Billion Utah Spy Center [3]

Some historical background on the datamining programs - for more details, go here.

Whistleblower Goes Public:

Over the past year Binney has gone fully public, detailing what he believes is a massive effort under the Obama administration to collect virtually all electronic data in the country, from  Facebook posts to Google searches to emails.

It is a deeply secret programme, Binney says, that is called Stellar Wind. He points to the NSA's creation of a giant data centre at Bluffdale in Utah as part of the system.

The gigantic building is set to cost $2bn and be up and running by 2013.

It is being designed to store huge amounts of accessible web information – such as social media updates – but also information in the "deep web" behind passwords and other firewalls that keep it away from the public.

As an example of Stellar Wind's power, Binney believes it is hoovering up virtually every email sent by every American and perhaps a good deal of the people of the rest of the world, too.
. . .

Obama has renewed the Patriot Act, tried to broaden the powers of detention of American citizens for national security reasons, and deployed the anti-spy Espionage Act more times than all other presidents combined.

"They are still continuing the same programmes – actually, Obama is doing more in some areas," Binney said. Nor is Binney optimistic of rolling back the surveillance.

Last week the House of Representatives voted for a five-year extension to the controversial 2008 FISA amendments.

Read more: here

[And let's not even mention how much energy it takes to run these proliferating, increasingly larger data centers.]  [4]

Some random thoughts on

At the Moulin Seignurial, Pointe-du-Lac, QC, walking thru woods

Inching toward Autumn

The other day, early in the morning, I heard this sound coming from outside.
Yesterday evening, I heard it again.
The geese are leaving?!!  Already?!!
Do they smell winter coming ... ALREADY?

Nope.
It was the neighbor guy, in the house below ours,
out in the yard, 
practicing his hunting calls.
To shoot them noisy honkers out of the sky I guess.
And probably eat them.
He's ready.
(And no, you can't warn them.) 

Sounds that bring joy to some
but for different reasons.
"Old friends passing by again!" 
(I run forth, rushing to see.)
"Ready-aim-fire!" anticipates the future bush hider,
gun cocked and ready, salivating with glee.

Come now, be real. Life, death ...  change  - everything to its season
no rhyme no reason.  No great big deal.  Just the way it is.  But look -

                   The first leaves are turning  -  red first then brown,
                   a few yellows leap tentatively forth here and there.
                   Rustle of the wind, chill in the air.       So be aware:
                   geese going south means bring out the wool socks
                      shovels
                         thick scarves, 
                            boots, 
                                gloves, 
                                   big pluffy sweaters.
                                      Flannel, too.
Get ready.

Brilliant Reds, Yellows, ORANGE!  Bring it on!!
then the trees they'll disrobe and 
frost'll crunchify the lawn.

I imagine a fireplace exuding toasty warmth
(wishing I had one).
            Think hot chocolate
                familiar sweeping white blankets of snow
                     the quiet darkness of evenings too soon there -
                         my anchor my home.
                             (Is that a smile I feel slowly
                                 unleashing itself  'cross my face?)
                
Ready.

-- awyn

Droning for Transparency

 Definition of the verb "drone":  "making noise continuously"

                 (as in repeatedly asking, requesting, pleading, demanding Transparency ....)

	Antonyms: "be quiet, silence" (as in, government response to the above).
	President Obama, upon taking office in 2009:  "I will also hold myself as president to a new standard of openness .... Let me say it as simply as I can: Transparency and the rule of law will be the touchstones of this presidency."

So, how come:

The government refuses to formally acknowledge that the CIA even has a drone program, let alone discuss its thornier elements, like how many civilians have been killed, or how the CIA chooses targets.

Officials have given speeches on the legal rationale for targeted killing and the use of drones in broad terms. The administration has also acknowledged “military operations” outside the “hot” battlefields of Iraq and Afghanistan, but again, details have remained under wraps.

The American Civil Liberties Union and the New York Times have both filed multiple Freedom of Information Act requests for documents relating to the CIA’s drones. The agency has responded by saying that it can “neither confirm nor deny the existence of records.”  [Source ]

[Source]

Whether or not the CIA has authority to or does in fact conduct targeted lethal operations, however, remain classified and protected from disclosure....To the extent the ACLU Request seeks records specifically about the CIA's use of unmanned aerial vehicles, to confirm or deny the existence of responsive records would also reveal whether the CIA possessed a particular 'advanced technological platform.'

[From a motion filed by the Department of Justice  in response to lawsuits from the ACLU and the New York Times over FOIA requests seeking information about the killing of Al-Awlaki, June 20, 2012.]      [Source]

According to the Bureau of Investigative Journalism, the Obama administration has launched 293 drone attacks in Pakistan alone, as compared to 52 strikes under the Bush administration. The bureau estimates that between 2,565 and 3,329 people have been killed, among whom 474 to 884 were civilians. However, distinguishing militants from civilians in the drone war is notoriously difficult, both because militants have an incentive to exaggerate the civilian death count and because, according to The New York Times' sources, the administration "in effect counts all military-age males in a strike zone as combatants ... unless there is explicit intelligence posthumously proving them innocent."  [Source]

 The drone strikes continue.

So do the questions.


 

The Eyes Have It

"Eyes"

Down to the States for 10 days, and the second night there
there they were, a group of folkdancers outside Au Bon Pain in Harvard Square.
Come join us they said, so I did.
 I was wearing new shoes that hadn't yet been broken in. 
Still, my feet heard the music and that's all it took.

Two hours. 
I actually danced (along with about 40 other people) Every. Single. Kolo.
for two hours, on concrete and brick, without stopping. 
To live music, from Rakiya, a Balkan band.
Although I walk and bike a lot with never a bit of stiffness, ache, pain or whatnot
I found myself hobbling to the bus afterwards -- and the next day I was reduced to limping.
I could not bend my left knee without excruciating ouchness  What was I thinking? 
I think you're supposed to do this kind of thing g-r-a-d-u-a-l-l-y. 
It's been decades since I fast-hop-'n-kicked with a group like that.
Could do that in my 20s (and did, three nights a week then). Notsomuchso at 70. 
(Remembered most all the steps, though! Like a forgotten language, it all comes back.)

 I notice very few people visit this blog.  Which emboldens me to experiment with words and art that I might not otherwise post.  I still haven't found my voice when writing poetry.  The stories just
seem to flow; the poems, however, need to be coaxed out, and once on paper they seem to
want to rush back inside the head, unsure, akin to stage fright.  Sometimes the words  are ill fitting, the delivery wooden.  Or strugglingly imitative.  So I spent time today instead playing with shapes and color on a computer Paint program. 

It started out as random shapes, until I gave one a pair of eyes.  Then the crow appeared, not as predator but benevolent protector, of body-less blobs - a blue walrus, yellow salamander, giddy red worm, grey-green bird, and brownish bear sans ears.  Images one might find in a children's book, where noses don't have to resemble real noses, and missing limbs can go unremarked upon.

The first thing I noticed when done were their expressions. Group portrait under protest (say the eyes).  Sorry guys.  Next time it'll go smoother.

Why Won't They Answer These Questions?

The Unanswered Questions of 9/11

Posted by James Corbett

corbettreport.com
September 11, 2012

In his latest weekly address to the nation, President Obama asserts that America’s questions about 9/11 have been answered. If only it were so.

The questions of 9/11 have only continued to pile up higher since that fateful day, and despite official platitudes we are no closer to having those questions answered today then we were when they first arose. In fact, for some of the most important 9/11 questions, the government’s own documents and records that could conceivably answered them have been destroyed, meaning we may never have answers.
The unanswered questions of 9/11 are too numerous to enumerate, but they include:

-    Why has NIST classified the data that they used to make their computer animation of the WTC7 collapse? Would knowledge of how NIST believes the building collapsed really “jeopardize public safety“?

-   Why did the DIA destroy more than 2.5 terabytes of data on their Able Danger investigation that reportedly identified four of the alleged hijackers years in advance of the attack?
    Why did the Pentagon buy up and burn the entire first print run of Lt. Col. Anthony Shaffer’s book on the program?

-   Why did the SEC destroy their records on the 9/11 insider trading question, presumably the most important investigation in the agency’s history?

-   Why did the alleged “mastermind” of 9/11, Khalid Sheikh Mohammed, confess not only to plotting 9/11 “from A to Z” but also confess to masterminding numerous crimes that he could not have committed?

-   Why did Osama bin Laden repeatedly deny any involvement in the attacks until a series of mistranslated and otherwise manipulated videos came along appearing to portray him as taking credit for those attacks?

-   Why was the report of US State Department official Frank Taylor supposedly proving the case for Al Qaeda’s role in 9/11, which NATO used to justify its invasion of Afghanistan, presented in a classified briefing?
     Why is that report still classified to this day?

-   Why did the 9/11 commission rely so heavily on the confessions extracted through torture which even the Senate’s Armed Services committee points out is specifically used to extract false confessions?

-   Why did the CIA destroy 92 videotapes of their illegal torture sessions after being specifically ordered by a court not to do so? Why did the courts eventually absolve the CIA of any culpability for this crime?

-   Why did Donald Rumsfeld announce a new “war” on September 10, 2001? What was the reason for the 2.3 trillion missing dollars which the Pentagon had lost up until that point, what did Rumsfeld’s “war on bureaucracy” hope to achieve, how was that “war” hindered when the budget analyst office in the Pentagon was destroyed the following morning, and where are the public records into this accounting scandal?

-   Why did Rumsfeld go into a regularly scheduled meeting with a CIA officer in his office on the morning of 9/11, after both of the Twin Towers had been struck by airplanes and it had been determined that “America was under attack.”?
     Why did the highest ranking official in the US military remain in that meeting and unavailable for contact even by his highest staff members as the worst attack on US soil in history continued to unfold?
     Why did he suddenly come out for a photo op on the Pentalawn after the explosion instead of helping to coordinate the defense of the nation?

-   Why is there such a massive discrepancy between the 9/11 commission’s official finding of the time of entry of Dick Cheney into the Presidential Emergency Operation Center on the morning of 9/11 and Transportation Secretary Norman Mineta’s testimony of the timing of that arrival?

-   Why did the US government contract with Ptech, an enterprise architecture software firm, to install its backdoor access software on some of the most sensitive databases in the US government?
     Why did they continue to use Ptech even after it was discovered that its sweetheart investor was a specially designated global terrorist on the Treasury’s own terror list?
      Why did they declare that there was nothing untoward in the software mere hours after raiding Ptech’s offices in 2002? And what was Ptech doing in the basement of the Pentagon on 9/11?
      What interoperability tests was it running on the link between FAA and NORAD systems on 9/11, and how did that interfere with the FAA and NORAD’s response?

-   And, perhaps most tellingly of all, how did four highjacked aircraft fly so wildly off course for such lengthy periods of time without being confronted by a single fighter interceptor?
    Why did the Pentagon admittedly and on the record lie to the American public about the timing of its response that day?

These and many, many questions like them have been asked by the victims’ family members, the first responders, members of the US military, American congressmen and women, intelligence agents, foreign dignitaries and heads of state, and concerned members of the public across America and around the globe. And still, 11 years after the events themselves, the American president has the gall to suggest that all questions have been answered and it is time for Americans to move on.

. . .

  corbettreport.com

 __________________

I'm with Corbett here.  These questions are not going to go away. 

Why can't they just answer them?

"Who's Robert?"

I went to a flea market today and came home with a tan coffee cup named Robert.
It cost 25 cents.

"Who's Robert?" my mate asked when he saw the cup.

I've known a few Roberts in my life but all of them were called Bob.
I have a cousin in Pittsburgh named Robert, but everybody calls him Bob.
So why did I buy a cup with the name Robert on it?
1. It was the perfect size.
And (B) I liked the color and feel of it.
Not too heavy, not too light, just right.

On the bottom it says "Kiln Craft, Stratfordshire, England."
(So it wasn't "Made in China" and you won't find one exactly like it in Dollarama)

I googled the name "Kiln Craft coffee mug" and wouldn't you know, about fifteen people are selling English Kiln Craft coffee mugs, where one of similar size and shape, used, was going for $29.00.
 None of them say "Robert", though.
I'd never sell my Robert mug.
 It'll replace the too-large tea cup that I usually use for morning coffee.
(That one is pink with a whimsical blue cat on the front.
 It's like a cartoon mug.
I kinda like the Robert one better.)

Anyway, that's my Robert cup, now enjoying his permanent place in the cupboard
beside the pink tea cup with the whimsical blue cartoon cat.
None of our coffee cups match, so this didn't upset the cupboardly arrangement.

I know I'm going to get that question again, though, when anyone sees it..

"Who's Robert?"

__________________

 * Anyone catch that (intentional) wacky sequence?  (1) (B) ...etc.  It reminds me sometimes of the "Now I'm going to illustrate three examples..." , and the speaker only gives you two.  Or how about this one:  "A, it's free; and (2), it won't cost you anything."  (What's your point? says the reader.  No point. Just a mini observation of little consciousness of how we sometimes sound.   It was a private joke that went south, real real quick. Delete.) 

That said, I don't know why they needed to repeat Robert's name four times.  Once would have been sufficient. 
Visually, it's almost like the  cup's silently calling his name, loudly at first, and then the voice kind of lapses into a whisper. 
ROBERT ROBERT ROBERT ROBERT.   ha ha.  (Deafening silence:  he doesn't answer.)  I also got three belts and a baseball cap at the flea market, plus a(nother!) French dictionary and someone's home-recorded CD of 17 Puccini opera arias. Why are there four separate tracks of "O Mio Babbino Caro?"  (according to the hand-written notepaper stuck inside).  I can't wait to listen to this.  A good afternoon, all in all.  And I'm now the proud owner of an imported ceramic Robert cup!  Woo hoo!

App'ed in, Tuned out

Sup? RU F2T?    ?4U
C my nu \=o-o=/'?

    -- OMG kewl.  $$$?

Brk the bk.  EOD.
 JK  :D
GTG, B4N.
TMB m8, A3.

    --  K.  T2ul. KIT.


Translation:

What's up? Are you free to talk?  I have a question for you.
See my new glasses?

     - Oh my God, cool!  Did they cost much?

Broke the bank. 
Just kidding.  (insert "Wicked Evil Grin" symbol). 
Got to go, bye for now.
Text me back, mate, anytime, anywhere, anyplace.

     -- Okay.  Talk to you later.  Keep in touch.

Social Engagement circa 2012

Dinner with friends

On a date, while waiting for dessert

At the Museum

Sports spectating, sort of

 A day at the beach

Let's do lunch

Two friends together, alone,
alone together

TM'ing at the traffic stop

_____________________________

A friend sent these photos to my m8--er, I mean mate.  I don't know who took them or where the pix (excuse me, pictures) were taken.  I'm not a Tweeter/Twitterer or on FB [Facebook] but I do try to keep up with trends in language/communication/symbology, etc.

Isn't it amazing that you can now reach anyone anywhere, have instant access to information, 24/7.   I'm such a dinosaur, ha ha.  I don't own a cell phone.   I still use a fountain pen.  I still use heavy, cast-iron cookware.  I even occasionally wash by hand.  Call me Time-stuck.  But it seems to me, in the rush to embrace the latest ultimate in communicability and entertainment, where you can text, email, watch videos, conduct live chats with someone an ocean away while waiting for a bus, film anything/upload to YouTube in minutes, archive hundreds of songs, photographs or documents, all thru handy, portable, increasingly smaller devices -- who else doesn't also imagine the eventual disappearance of telephone booths, movie theaters, post offices, libraries, or (gasp) printed books?  (First they came for the telephone booths.....  [insert theme music from the Twilight Zone]... 

In 100 years the way we talk or write or think may also verve toward untranslatability, the code long having been forgotten, or nearso.

 :(            [<--  my emoticonical-inspired response]


Nah.     :)

Winding down

My neighbor across the street, a retired man who was sitting in the dark out on his porch watching the thundery rainfall a few nights ago, has gone swimming in the river 53 times already this summer.  He rides out to the Ile-St. Quentin every day by bike.  The last time I swam in the St. Lawrence  the current was so swift and so strong it carried me farther faster than I thought possible and took every ounce of frantic treading to simply stay in place.  Its sheer, gripping force caught me by surprise, and was not a little frightening.

This has been a strange summer. I remember the end of last March looking out the window at the back yard still covered in snow, dreaming of when it'd all be gone so I could begin planning the planting of my garden. Seems like yesterday. Now we're getting chilly,  autumn-like mornings, it gets dark a bit earlier, the public pools have already all closed.  And the garden--last week we had four scorchingly hot days in a row followed by three consecutive days of rain.  I brought in three baskets-full of red-ripened tomatoes yesterday evening.

Earlier this summer

I have a 12' X 12' plot at the community garden a few blocks past the library where I'm growing chard, red cabbage, onions, tomatoes, cucumbers, beets and celery.  This is such a great bargain for urban dwellers--you get the opportunity to rent a little mini-farm for only $12 a year.  They supply all the rakes, hoes, shovels, water barrels and hoses for watering, etc.  All you have to do is come plant the seeds;  weed and water as needed.

  I'd been away, traveling, for five days and when I returned and stopped by the garden I noticed several plots that seemed to have been abandoned: ripened tomatoes hadn't been picked, a massive amount of weeds had sprung up, leaves had yellowed, withered, or dried up, veggies lay rotting on the ground.  The three plots adjacent to mine showed serious signs of neglect.  There are enough vegetables (of every variety)  planted in these three plots to feed a family of four for the entire summer.  What happened here?  Why'd they just abandon it?  Unfortunately, this is not uncommon. One year the caretaker gave away bags-full of green peppers that had never been picked, the owner of the plot long absent.  The soup kitchen behind the garden benefits from these giveaways, so produce does not get wasted.  But it's still puzzling, the lack of interest in simple maintenance. 

I think I went overboard again this year.  I now have enough chard to feed an Army.  What was I thinking!? You rarely find Swiss chard in a grocery store here.  You can sometimes get kale (imported from California), but most of my fellow community gardeners here had never heard of Swiss chard.  I hadn't actually  eaten it either, until later in life.   It's so easy to grow, and so good for you!  It contains 13 polyphenol antioxidants and has betalains (which have an anti-inflammatory and detoxifying effect on the body), high amounts of fiber and protein (that stabilize blood sugar levels), and Vitamins A, C and K. 
 

My favorite Quick Chardy Lunch:

Heat a few teaspons olive oil in wok
Add: 2 garlic cloves (minced), small onion (diced), bunch of chard leaves (shredded) (they shrink a lot when cooking), fresh raw ginger  (size of half a finger),  handfull of cubed tofu (optional), salt, pepper, pinch of tumeric, cumin and/or curry, sprinkle with half handfull of unsalted peanuts, cook till chard softens, about 5 mins.  I prefer cooked chard to cooked spinach (less bitter, not as mushy).

Another way is to steam it, add a bit of salt, pepper & vinegar, then dab with melted butter.  (You can also make Swiss Chard Soup)

Anyway ...

It's already starting to be Goodbye, Summer--Hello, Fall.
My swimmer-biker neighbor across the street tells me he's a bit "summered out" now, more than ready for autumn.  Me, too!!

Shruggadoodletime

shrug-a-dub-dub

three slugs in a shrub

no one gives a fig, jpg

Gif me a nuther paintadoodle! No  don't!

what your brain does on netnoise

Window Views

Am back from a family reunion in my home town in the Pennsylvania mountains.  It took 15 hours to get there via four buses and a car.  Some window shots taken, plus a few from the porch or riverbank: [Click on to enlarge]

At a cousin's house, Cheektowaga, NY, en route

At my sister's house, shadows on the Susquehanna River, early morning. 

Same river view, later morning

Evening, a little tree next door. (Reminds me of that short story by O'Henry, except O'Henry's story it was a single leaf on a brick wall.)

Early next morning again, a fog descends over the valley.  If you get out a magnifying glass you can see one little bird (to the left near the wall), on the wire.  Not many people up at that hour and the fog was much thicker and more widespread than evident here.

What you see when sitting on the front porch, looking west

What you see when sitting on the same porch, looking east.  The town is in a valley entirely surrounded by mountains.  Some people find this claustrophobic.  As a child I used to wonder what was on the other side of these mountains.  The answer is:  only more mountains!!  

A month or so ago my sister went to an estate auction and, by default, won a house located on a hill above this river.  The bidding started at $1.00.  Hers was the only bid.  She called me the next day to tell me she'd bought a house, "for $1.00!!!".  As is, sight unseen.    (It's part of a row of attached houses a few doors up from where this photo was taken.)  It has six bedrooms and a good-sized back yard.  Abandoned for five years, it's structurally sound but there's a big hole in the roof into which arrives rain--and occasionally small, furry animals.  It needs a lot of work to make it liveable--a "fixer-upper" that's going to require massive fixing up.  At first she was ecstatic. (The view!!!)  Planned to remodel the kitchen, add another bathroom downstairs, began upgrading the electricity and plumbing . . . and then reality set in.  It will end up costing far, far more than she anticipated or can presently afford.  A dream house suddenly becomes. . . . an albatross.

I noticed several neglected or abandoned houses on this side of town, including, sadly, my grandmother's old house, whose roof had collapsed into what once had been the kitchen and dining room.  Brambles and vines encase what was the back porch, the back yard now a strip of overgrown grass and junk.  I'm told someone has bought the property and plans to demolish it.  I remember every room in that old brick house and the happy times spent there as a child.  The next time I visit, it may be an empty lot, all trace of its former residents gone, except in memory.  Like the parochial school I went to, which no longer exists (it's now a parking lot).  Or the  town public high school, of which only the elaborate door-frame remains, in a sea of broken stone and debris surrounded by jungle-sized weeds and bushes in a vacant, fenced-in lot.


The river is low.  Heard grumblings while there about the fracking mess in the mountains, what it's doing to the river, livestock, roads,  environment and people's health.   There is only one grocery store left in town, which many find too expensive, and so they drive 28 miles down the road to buy groceries at Walmart or have it trucked in from Swann's (frozen food delivery).  Some Amish farmers come once a week to sell fresh produce and baked goods.  Two of my cousins have gardens and one gave me the largest zucchini I have ever seen.  It could be lethal if you bonked someone over the head with it.  Speaking of injuries, limited medical care is available in town (which doesn't include childbirth or surgery)--for emergencies you need to be taken by ambulance or helicoper to the nearest hospital some 30 miles away.  Cell-phone service has only recently become available and reception is sporadic (or non-existent), depending on where you're standing.  In its heyday, back in another century, this town boasted of not one, but two opera houses.  Now there's not even a movie theater, that one having been torn down decades ago.  A dying, once-booming  railroad town, nestled in this paradise of nature, of fishing streams and wildlife and mountain trails (locals call it "God's Country"), it loses its young people year by year because there are no jobs.

Bicyling down a familiar street, walking the alleyway back up, listening to the crickets at night on a cousin's porch, looking up at a star-studded night sky such as you will never see in any city, it was as if time had stopped.  I was so completely "back", the outside world did not exist anymore.  It was both nostalgic and unnerving.  Who might I be today had I remained there and not left at age 18 to go see what was beyond those mountains, had headed to the big city instead of being convinced by a cousin-priest to consider living in a college town instead ? How many times in my life had I had my heart set on one path, only to be diverted to another not anticipated or even wanted, which later proved beneficial, important or life changing?

I was ruminating on that early yesterday morning while stopping over in Toronto, a huge, bustling city of tall, seemingly identical glass buildings [they all seem to be made of glass!!], more and more going up every time I pass through  there.   I felt a bit lost, disoriented, wondering what it would be like to live in such a city, just as I wondered one day earlier, what it would be like to go back and live in my home town again.  Neither scenario seemed imaginable.   Made me think of transplanted beings in general, finding oneself in places you never thought you'd be, for whatever reason, having to make do, all the while yearning to be someplace else. (I have sad or frustrated friends now in that category.)  A wise person once told me, "Be where you are", meaning however long you're in a place, one week or fifteen years, while you're there, be totally there, i.e., not closing yourself off, unable to function.  Easier said than done sometimes, but in every place I've ever lived, I've found at least one like-minded soul, came to appreciate the place for what it was, found ways to adjust and still "be".  Though being who you are wherever you are is not all that easy sometimes.

Anyway, it was good to be back, if only for a brief few days.  The family reunion was a success, I saw cousins I hadn't seen in years, and heard anecdotes about my parents, cousins, aunts and uncles that I had not heard before, that helped to know them better.  We bandied about the idea of one of us collecting and preserving these passed-on stories, maybe putting them into a little booklet to be shared by all (the way some communities do family cookbooks).  No one has yet volunteered but at the reunion buffet one cousin was working on a gigantic (table-sized) "family tree",  updating it since the last reunion, penciling in new grandchildren names.  I'm not sure how that can be reproduced so that we'd all get a copy, though.  It looked to be at least 15 feet long   :)

 Back to the photos:

Susquehanna River

I loved swimming in these waters as a child!  We would sit on inner-tubes and float all the way downriver to the old bridge (which no longer exists).  The water was so clear you could see every minnow,  rock, fish hook, or pebble.  Upriver we'd cross the railroad tracks, climb onto the big rocks  and dive into the eddy which was deep and clear and wonderful.  I emphasize the 'clear' part because now the rocks are slippery, and mud-covered, and little bubbles of whitish-brown foam float past on the surface, and though people still swim in the river, it's just not the same experience anymore.

En route coming back:

View from the bus window, Mauricie region, Quebec. Not a hill in sight. Cornfields.

Playful clouds changing shape. The more north you go, the closer the sky, or so it seems.  Sometimes they feel close enough to touch.

In my absence many tomatoes arrived in the garden.  And the chard has quadrupled.  I'll be eating it until December!.

 SALAMANDER COVE

July 2012 Special Issue

New, from the Cove !!!

As announced previously in the invitation to the May 2012 issue of Salamander Cove,
July's will be a special issue featuring a selection of poems and art of one past contributor.

Featured Poet:   Bill Knott 
 Selected Poems and Paintings

ENTER  HERE

             

    

One Step Forward, Two Slides Back

The pervasive drone of sheer
habitude -
prison without bars.  You

say you want change,
line up all the pre-preps.

Start, even.

Never underestimate the Persistent
Power of
un
   re
       lenting
ohwellopathy.

Emergency short film addresses urgent crisis

THE SKY IS PINK from JFOX on Vimeo.

It's not a long video.  Important information you may not know about.

Just thought I'd share it.  Definitely worth viewing.

In the strawberry patch with Luciana

Photo by Erica Kerwien

Luciana met Gerard on the Internet and he came to collect her and bring her back to his country, to be his wife.  She was the saddest person I had ever met.  When she arrived she discovered he had cancer, something he had neglected to tell her, and she spent the first year, while he was in the hospital, and afterwards, taking care of him.  He recovered but because he could not work she became the sole "breadwinner", picking blueberries in the fields under a hot sun, working in downtown restaurant kitchens or cooking and housecleaning for other people.  She cried often, was homesick, for her son, family, friends and house back in her country.  She had an opportunity, when they visited there some time ago, to simply stay and not return with the new husband she claimed to be unhappy with.  And yet she did, return, and slip back into the same routine.

I ran into her the other day, biking back from the community garden.  I had not seen her in a year.  Once a vibrant, attractive, laughing spirit, she seemed a shell of her former self.  She'd lost a lot of weight, had all her teeth replaced, looked years older. I almost didn't recognize her.  She gave me a tour of her garden at the back of their apartment, gave me a container full of fresh strawberries, told me about her new job, which she liked, because it was easy and got her away from the house.  We were to meet the following morning for coffee but when I arrived at her door at the agreed-upon time, she was not there.  Gerard, lying on a couch watching TV (who didn't bother to get up to come to the door), called out through the screen door that she'd gone somewhere - that she'd had "something to do" and couldn't join me.

This was typical - we'd make plans, she and I, only to find out it was not, apparently, convenient for Gerard.  Or maybe she just changed her mind, or forgot.  That, too, was typical.   Enthusiastic at the prospect of time to chat with new friends, when you'd show up, Luciana would be nowhere to be found.    A mutual friend, concerned about Luciana's situation ("she's become a slave") finally concluded:  "She had an opportunity to leave.  She did not take it.  She's made her choice."

But perhaps it's not so simple as that.  I know many people in life-crushing situations who want to "get out" or "get away, start over"  but because of finances (lack thereof),  pressing commitments, or just plain fear, they stick with what they know, rather than do whatever it takes to take a desired, but essentially unpredictable leap into the unknown.  That, I think, is what's happening with Luciana.   (She did say that things had changed in her country since she'd last been there.  She wasn't sure, even if it were possible, that she could now go back--certainly the life she'd known when she had left, was no longer possible.)

Torn between two worlds--the former, a place you no longer feel you belong to; and the present: a place you've been transplanted to but don't particularly feel "at home" in.  Reminds me of some of the characters in Erich Maria Remarque's novels.

And it could happen that you never leave a place (or situation), spend your whole life dreaming of an "other" life you never manage to access or create.

I thought of this today (Luciana, etc.) after reading Caio Fern's essay this morning on his blog.  He had me at "I love winter ... God!!! I love winter."  ha ha.  How many people do you find (who don't ski) who say they LOVE winter!.  He equates the feeling winter inspires in him with being able to breathe, with "being alive."  Exactly how I feel.

 I was thinking about that just yesterday, at the close of a brutal, three-day heat wave, 83 F degrees at 6 a.m., 79% humidity, no relief, the temperature climbing even higher by evening, along with an arrival of mosquitoes.  We have no air conditioning (by choice--the truly unbearable heatwaves are infrequent, and two fans help), and though I love all the things summer represents for me:  fresh veggies from the garden, fast-drying clothes on the clothesline, SWIMMING!, early morning or late evening bike rides through quiet, unpeopled streets with the wind blowing gently against you--by the end of August I am more than ready for Autumn, for that first welcoming hint of 'chill'.  I can only take so much of hot, direct, blazing sun, till I start getting dizzy, or turn into a complete vegetable, unable to think, much less move.  I only truly come alive, so to speak, in winter.  Not just physically but creatively as well.

Caio's essay is worth reading for the comments he makes on creative art-making (in this case, painting--but it could apply to writing as well).  So much of it resonated, I found myself nodding my head. 

But painting is tough and makes you tougher. What in life can scare a painter? What can the art world do with a painter that will make him/her give up? Nothing. Real painters are so used to try hard and never give up that there is absolute any evil this world can offer strong enough to make us stop. One single painter, with all its wide opened fragility and solitude is stronger than the entire world together. Don't you see it? The world with all its cruelty and long time can't stop a painter, we always carry on with our burdens and think it is glorious. 

Exactly the way I feel about writing.  Caio thanks God for

all the time you allowed me to dedicate for painting . . . for talent . . . for being able to get art supplies when I didn't have money for food . . . for the inspiration . . . for not making me a mediocre bastard that follows trends and kiss art world people's ass. Thank you for have called me."  

Oddly, I was in that position recently as well, doing some silent thanking of my own, but to the universe, for sending my way not only the hardships which turned my life around, made me wake up, so to speak, but for the gift of appreciating creativity (the 'beyond the mediocre'), finding parallels, seeing the power of metaphors, being drawn ("invited"?), from the age of seven onwards, into the world of words, that can be played, like notes on a piano keyboard, to bring out the melodies assembling in my head.  Or something like that.  A peculiar way to put it, I suppose.  (The word machine needs recharged perhaps.)

A delightful Sunday morning, Quebec's national holiday today, St. Jean-Baptiste Day, the fleur de lys flags flying everywhere.  A neighbor's voice sails through an open door singing along to some radio tune; "Guy" the red-brown dog in the back near the woods, barking at some cat; the sky a brilliant blue.  What better than a breakfast of yogurt & fresh strawberries from Luciana's garden?