Monday, August 3, 2020

no use in trying to deal with the dying








Dear Ramona,

Here is your song for today.  Did you know, my friend, that we could have a Bob Dylan written song everyday, for a year, and there would still be half a year's more?   I haven't even written one, but I think maybe that should be a project of mine- to write a song.  I know I want to use d minor in it.  And I think 3/4 time.  It should rhyme, at least a little.  And it should be performed in a suit like Jenny Lewis wears, but in a less 21st. century unicorn color scheme.












Friday, July 31, 2020

Moths












Dear Wings to the Flame,

Look at these gorgeous painted specimens!  Each is a marvel, and their are hundreds of thousands of these kind of biological and botanical illustrations all around the world.  Think of the great and varied efforts of these naturalists painstakingly locating every little spot and smudge on these wings, just to catalog all the flora and fauna they could find. 

Isn't it a kind of funny idea?  To catalog?  Imagine, for example, if you decided as an illustrator, to draw every kind of food package you encountered in a month of groceries, say?  Or, if you decided to catalog all the hands you'd shaken, or socks you had worn. 

To see the ponderous scale of skilled illustration efforts the the 18th, 19th, and 20th, centuries have produced in the pursuit of the cataloging of species, go here, to be directed to the Biodiversity Heritage Library's collection of illustrations; available to admire and download for free.














Saturday, July 25, 2020

Écoute bien.








Dear Poetry-Lovers,

This wonderful poem comes to me from the far and wide ranging tentacles of the Dodo correspondents.  To think that I have been bumbling along in the dark without this lovely poem for so long gives me a twinge of regret.  However, we have committed ourselves to looking forward, and so on we go with this Jacques Prévert poem in hand; the original French follows the Ferlinghetti translation.





To Paint the Portrait of a Bird

                                                       To Elsa Enriquez

First paint a cage
with an open door
then paint
something pretty
something simple
something beautiful
something useful
for the bird
then place the canvas against a tree
in a garden
in a wood
or in a forest
hide behind the tree
without speaking
without moving...
Sometimes the bird comes quickly
but he can just as well spend long years
before deciding
Don't get discouraged
wait
wait years if necessary
the swiftness or slowness of the coming
of the bird having no rapport
with the success of the picture
When the bird comes
if he comes
observe the most profound silence
wait till the bird enters the cage
and when he has entered
gently close the door with a brush
then
paint out all the bars one by one
taking care not to touch any of the feathers of the bird
Then paint the portrait of the tree
choosing the most beautiful of its branches
for the bird
paint also the green foliage and the wind's freshness
the dust of the sun
and the noise of insects in the summer heat
and then wait for the bird to decide to sing
If the bird doesn't sing
it's a bad sign
a sign that the painting is bad
but if he sings it's a good sign
a sign that you can sign
so then so very gently you pull out
one of the feathers of the bird
and you write your name in a corner of the picture.

(translated by Lawrence Ferlinghetti)

 From Paroles, by Jacques Prévert


Pour Faire Le Portrait D'un Oiseau

                                                               A Elsa Henriquez

Peindre d'abord une cage
avec une porte ouverte
peindre ensuite
quelque chose de joli
quelque chose de simple
quelque chose de beau
quelque chose d'utile
pour l'oiseau
placer ensuite la toile contre un arbre
dans un jardin
dans un bois
ou dans une forêt
se cacher derrière l'arbre
sans rien dire
sans bouger...
Parfois l'oiseau arrive vite
mais il peut aussi bien mettre de longues années
avant de se décider
Ne pas se décourager
attendre
attendre s'il le faut pendant des années
la vitesse ou la lenteur de l'arrivée de l'oiseau
n'ayant aucun rapport
avec la réussite du tableau
Quand l'oiseau arrive
s'il arrive
observer le plus profond silence
attendre que l'oiseau entre dans la cage
et quand il est entré
fermer doucement la porte avec le pinceau
puis
effacer un à un tous les barreaux
en ayant soin de ne toucher aucune des plumes de l'oiseau
Faire ensuite le portrait de l'arbre
en choisissant la plus belle de ses branches
pour l'oiseau
peindre aussi le vert feuillage et la fraîcheur du vent
la poussière du soleil
et le bruit des bêtes de l'herbe dans la chaleur de l'été
et puis attendre que l'oiseau se décide à chanter
Si l'oiseau ne chante pas
c'est mauvais signe
Signe que le tableau est mauvais
mais s'il chante c'est bon signe
signe que vous pouvez signer
Alors vous arrachez tout doucement
une des plumes de l'oiseau
et vous écrivez votre nom dans un coin du tableau.


 



If all this puts you in the mood for French, try this Serge Gainsbourg song to Jacques Prévert.












Tuesday, July 21, 2020

Secret Messages
















Hand of Buddha in Mudra Abhaya, 
between 17th and 18th century, copper alloy, Thai, 
in the collection of the Detroit Institute of Arts.




Dear Many,

I send you your song for today.  This is a beautiful piece of music; the kind that seems to be beyond words.  Maybe you will want to play it, while you read on.  Or, maybe you are in a hurry, and you will not stop for song or story; I hold my hand up to you in a mudra that signifies you go on with my encouragement and well-wishes.


I have been thinking of words and in words a lot, even though you haven't heard from me lately.  The thing you must remember is that I think of you at least once a day, but I don't always compose myself and address you.  I ask myself why not; and the answer is sometimes this:  I don't have anything good enough to give right now; it's just fog and murk and low-level complaining.  Or this:  I cannot pretend that I believe things are okay, and that isn't a nice rumor to spread. 

I dreamed that I stopped staying at a particular hotel, because every time I stayed there, in its beautiful old rooms with views, I was harangued by ghosts- they turned the light on and off all night; they opened and shut doors; they tried to get into the bed. 

I dreamed that I had a very lovely studio, a huge space, and for some reason, I had hung up three or four large signs in the middle of the wall.  In the course of showing someone my studio, I saw how stupid it was to put these big signs in the middle of the wall; the walls ought to be filled with visual information, with paintings:  I had wasted all these years and this space on three big signs that were just some kind of didactic information that had been on walls in exhibits of my work; they were an explanation, the written validation of the works having been shown; just artifacts and evidence, a shred of paper streamer left after a parade.




Back in the world of thinking again, now, I ask you, if we decide to eschew even more of these absurd values that press down like billowing choking clouds of smoky obligation; if we aren't trying to be good, or right, or smarter, or better, or faster, or richer, just what are we going to be doing with our days?


















Thursday, July 16, 2020

A song finds its true home.










Dear Singers,

Oh!  My DJ played this song for me recently, and I think it has never sounded better!  Listen to that descending staircase of horns!  It is perfect!  To compare, and to pay our respects to the original, here is Ms. Hynde and The Pretenders.  Oh, but wait you say!  What about the uuhh aahh?  Who writes a song about being back on the chain gang?  Someone who has heard Sam Cooke, that's who.













Sunday, July 12, 2020

This thing is real.










Dear Listeners,

Oh!  Here is a song for today that you don't want to miss- it comes to our attention from the vast network of discerning Dodo listeners.  A sort of ersatz 'listener request.'  Here is another version, with just Mavis.  Enjoy!









Thursday, July 9, 2020

Submitted for your approval.



























Dear Art Collector,

I send these 15 x 11 inch prints with collage elements to you for your consideration.  When I think of our long standing relationship as artist and patron, of the decades and the many pieces you have purchased from me, I am in awe, and I wonder if it is not true, that maybe I imagined it?  It fills me with satisfaction that you have wanted these works, these physical manifestations of my thoughts and hands for so long. 

Artists make things, because they like making, and they see and feel things they would like to share, but, I believe that most artists are continually surprised that someone else would want to live with these things.  It isn't that artists don't like their own work, it is more that they can see so clearly how it falls a little short of what they were hoping to say.  It comes off as a reflection of a thing, but not the thing itself.  It is much like my writing: I keep on trying to tell you how gobsmackingly beautiful one thing or another is, and I know that, try as I might, I can't quite represent it to you in all its glory. 

In any event, I have some paintings too, that might work in your new space;  I will not accept bitcoin for my work, but I am in a position to consider a payment in olives, for one of the aforementioned prints, if you find the work and the terms agreeable. 














Wednesday, July 8, 2020

Stay close to me.









Dear Radio Dodo Listeners,

Here it is, two fine versions of one fine wine song:  One and Two.  It is your song of the day!










Saturday, July 4, 2020

Independence from Dogma:










Dear July Fourth,

Did I eve tell you about the time an elderly French gentleman (with a tie, jacket, and cane- un flâneur véritable) met me in the door way of a Paris bistro?  Il sortait alors que j'entrais.  He was being aided down the stone step by a waiter in striped pants and a long white apron.  The staff knew him by name;  he might have been dining at that place for 60 years.  We made way for him to leave, and he asked me where we were from, in English, and I said "California," and he said "Oh!  America!  I love America!"  I think my expression must have been comme ça:  A puzzled Pourquoi?  He asked me didn't I love America?  I muttered that it was "all right," because I didn't think he meant what I might have by loving America.  He kept prodding me to to agree with him on the lovable-ness of America, and I kept deferring.  You can make your own list of what you don't like about America, but the biggest two items on my list are oppression and Capitalism.

But, what made me uncomfortable about being asked to join in a few harmless, neighborly, and kind words about my native country?  I ask you, how would you feel if asked to celebrate your country?  Would you think of the mistakes and cruelties?  Or, some other intangible, some kind of pride or idealism? 

Here is what I truly love about America:  roads, the great Native American West and South West, the rocks, the trees, the mountains, the gorges, rivers, beaches, milkshakes, fried chicken, macaroni and cheese, doughnuts, bowling alleys, roller skating rinks.  I love the land and occasionally I love a few of the people, and I like some of its junk food.  But I don't love these phony ideologies, and even kind, well meaning, cultured French men from another era can't make me.










Wednesday, July 1, 2020

blue skies









Dear Tomorrow,

It was nice seeing you yesterday.  Here is your song for today. 















Chalkroom.










Dear Scribblers,

Of course, I was in love with this project at the mention of the name: Chalkroom.  What could that be, I wondered.  A room which can be marked and erased?  A dusty interior?  I spent several month wondering about it, savoring its possibilities, until I finally pushed the button. 

It's a treat to hear Laurie Anderson talk about anything, so don't worry, you will enjoy the film.  The idea of walking into the words of a story is a compelling and enigmatic notion.  It might be that I like the idea of the Chalkroom more than the reality of its virtual reality.  I will need to go and 'experience' it in person someday.  I wonder if virtual flight might be a little dizzying....

This channel is often tuned to Laurie Anderson; here at the Dodo we don't believe that you can have too much of a good thing.  More is more, so to speak, and here is a song for today by Laurie Anderson and the Kronos Quartet.










Sunday, June 28, 2020

Every Day











Dear Readers,

Here is another place you can go:  Every Day for a While.  This photo of the eaves and roofline, plus trees and blue beyond seems just right to me as a place for a 'distracted thought.'  I know you will think so too!











Saturday, June 27, 2020

Afternoon Delight










Dear Film Fans,

Here is a delightful film from the considerable backlog of good stuff we have here at the Dodo for your viewing pleasure.









PS
In a related film, learn about injection-molding here, without which there would be no Lego bricks.









Friday, June 26, 2020

This lifestyle.










Elliott K. Perkins
Items
 ceramic, 2019-2020






Dear Conflicted,


Raise your hand if you hate change, and are bored by sameness?  I was on the telephone a few days ago- an object I really revere, and you know that, because these pages have featured several pictures of telephones.  I like the cradled ear part, the phone part; and the guts, all filled with ringers and wires.  I love the dial, or the big square buttons.  I love the silly tangle-y corkscrew cord that connects the two.  I love the pocket under the cradle to put your hand into to carry the phone to another chair, or window.

And then there is the spatial facet of telephone conversation:  You are here, they are there.  I see the sky, the tree tops, the birds; you might see the sidewalk, someone walking a dog.  We might see the same things, a moon, a rocket plume, gathering storm clouds.

While on the telephone we got to talking about a song my DJ just played for me, and another song.  These songs are my project for today!  Because I have been thinking about what my job is, and for once, I think I know what it is: it is to use the space of my mind to make things in.  I can make thoughts, images, all kinds of insubstantial items, and then, if a good one comes along, I can make it manifest, like a construction paper flower, and then, I can give it to you.

Principally, I am concerned with these notions in contemplating these songs:  What are they about?  Are these songs two sides of the same coin, or are they the same side?  What does the refrain "you got it, you got it" mean in (Nothing but) Flowers?  What does the maniacal laughter at the end of Big Yellow Taxi mean?  Why do we hate change, we do we fear change?  Why do we yearn and long for the new and the novel, the yet to be seen?







PS 
Still wish you had a lawnmower?  Try another version.  Thinking about the Tree Museum?  Try this version.









Saturday, June 20, 2020

Midway




 








Dear Summer,

Today I send you a photograph and a poem.  It's the middle of the year, and the longest day to enjoy the season.






Stacking the Straw
-Amy Clampitt

In those days the oatfields'
fenced-in vats of running platinum,
the yellower alloy of wheat and barley,
whose end, however gorgeous all that trammeled
rippling in the wind, came down
to toaster-fodder, cereal
as a commodity, were a rebuke
to permanence – to bronze or any metal
less utilitarian than the barbed braids
that marked off a farmer's property,
or the stoked dinosaur of a steam engine
that made its rounds from farm to farm,
after the grain was cut and bundled,
and powered the machine that did the threshing.

Strawstacks' beveled loaves, a shape
that's now extinct, in those days were
the nearest thing the region had
to monumental sculpture. While hayracks
and wagons came and went, delivering bundles,
carting the winnowed ore off to the granary,

a lone man with a pitchfork stood aloft
beside the hot mouth of the blower,
building about himself, forkful
by delicately maneuvered forkful,
a kind of mountain, the golden
stuff of mulch, bedding for animals.
I always thought of him with awe –
a craftsman whose evolving altitude
gave him the aura of a hero. He'd come down
from the summit of the season's effort
black with the baser residues of that
discarded gold. Saint Thomas of Aquino
also came down from the summit
of a lifetime's effort, and declared
that everything he'd ever done was straw.




 











Wednesday, June 17, 2020

Tonight.











Dear Friends of the Music,

Here we have our song for today, sung by Iggy Pop with backing by David Bowie.  And here, is another version, sung by David Bowie duetting with Tina Turner (I know; we are not worthy).  If you call me right now, I won't be able to answer, because I will be playing this on Old Blue, my not very old at all green guitar.



PS
A dance mix, too, if you can dig it.





Saturday, June 13, 2020

The word.









Dear All,

What's the word?  Justice.  Equity.  Kindness.  Pick one, it should do for now.

A few days ago I asked at my workplace that we draft a position on issues of race, and this is what I got as an answer:  "Well, where would we put a statement like that?"  And that, my friends, was the end of that!

Officially, in the case of my workplace, we are going to stick our opinions where the sun don't shine. 

It is a pity that my co-workers are not ready to make a statement, but, I don't have to keep silent elsewhere, and so I won't.  We need to examine ourselves and make corrections accordingly.  Are you ready?  I will go first:  in my family, we were brought up to believe that if you treat people equally, you are doing your part.  This is nice, but ultimately inadequate.  I think I knew it was inadequate when I was 11 years old, and walking down a paved road with a rag tag bunch of kids that included people of color.  I felt a kind of child's mistrust in unfamiliar things- I felt worried about how different these kids looked from me.  They knew stuff I didn't know, and they dressed different too.  It was a long walk; we were going to a pool 4 miles away and back, so in that day, in those 8 miles and the hours in the pool, and in the subsequent meetings with these compatriots, a lot of my anxiety evaporated.  They were still much cooler than I was, and I worried about making a fool of myself in front of them, but that was something I was used to already among my white friends; used to being un-street smart, to not knowing the right songs, the right films, the colloquial names for drugs and sex.  That walk, a chance encounter really, was a start; a step in the right direction.

I still fret over making a fool of myself and I worry I will make things worse, and I bet you worry too, but we have to risk making a mistake.  We have to keep on stepping out, keep on moving.  There are lots of opportunities to say something or to bear witness, or to put yourself in a place you think you don't belong.  There is also sending your support in the form of money, and here are two places you can do that, and hopefully you will investigate the statements that these two groups have made, and then, I hope you ask your workplace, and your knitting circle, and your fly fishing club, and your families, to draft a little statement of your own. 














Friday, June 12, 2020

A poem for today.








Dear Seekers,

Are you sorting and sifting through what you had?  Choose wisely what to keep.  I was talking to a lovely woman one day, on the occasion of making some prints together, and I mentioned my keeping tickets in pockets so I can revisit the events when I find the stubs.  We were talking about the way we seem to save all the wrong things; china plates and furniture and old baby clothes, and what we ought to save is little grocery lists and diagrams of toy cars, maps to people's houses, letters, and lists on the backs of envelopes.

All these words, all these times I have written you are not very saved at all, despite the brittle permanence of the Internet.  You won't ever find this under your socks in the bureau, and you won't use it as a bookmark in Anna Karenina either.

Researchers at the Dodo have brought these fine poems to my attention, and I give them now to you, save them, or discard them.  Read them or remember them.  Keep maybe one word, or a scene from them.  Maybe put one in your pocket for later.











Tuesday, June 9, 2020

To the world











Dear Modern World,

Here is your song for today.  It is one to watch also.

Until soon,
au revoir.










Saturday, June 6, 2020

On the Road.













Dear Ones,

Here is a poetically relevant and formally beautiful work for you by artist Francis Alÿs.  I am totally enamored with this artist; whom I was completely unaware of until this morning when another artist sent me a link to Francis Alÿs' project titled Color Matching.  You can watch that one too, if you visit his website, here.   I offer you the standard Way of the Dodo's money-back guarantee of satisfaction with this artist's work!





















Tuesday, June 2, 2020

Fetishizing.


















Dear Makers,

Look at this wonderful tableau!  Note the artist's feet in the near center of the image.  Explore the meticulous work of paper and wood artist Ann Wood, on her website, here.  I am a fan of the crafty re-presentation of things, of course, but Ms Wood has a very good eye for arrangement and composition that we could all learn from by studying the photographs of her work until our eyes go squinty!











Tuesday, May 26, 2020

Farewell-to-Spring

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 





 

 





 


 
 
 


 
 
 


 
 
 


 
 
 










Friday, May 22, 2020

From their rooms.










Dear You,

Are you in your room right now?  I am in mine, and there are two pots boiling in the room to the right, and to the left, the porch lamp holds the House Finch nest and eggs again.  This room, is nowhere near, and it is not now, but it is great, and it is your song(s) for the day.  I love this series of performances called In my Room, brought to you by Rolling Stone.  I hope it inspires you to play in your family band, because I am playing in mine.











Monday, May 18, 2020

Valuable Time











Dear Valuable Time,

Heaven knows you're miserable now.  Enjoy your song for today, with all the double entendres, subtexts, and significance thrown in for free. 


Friday, May 15, 2020

A rubber biscuit.










Dear Gumby,

I think I want to say something positive, and not because I don't want to say anything negative.  I want to say something positive because I am actually thinking and feeling it:  you are so flexible, my dear humanity!  You are capable of such remarkable pliancy! 

I applaud you and I wish you decisions that bring you joy.  Here is a song for today.





PS
A bonus feature from the same year: 1956.




Wednesday, May 13, 2020

On flight.











Dear Winged,

Here are two fine songs for today that share lyrical directions.



 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Saturday, May 9, 2020

A hurry.








 
Untitled (doll's shoe & drupe), 2019








Dear Little Ones,

I must break my pattern to send you this right away!  You have probably noticed lo these many years, that I like to send you something every few days, maybe twice a week, with a kind of flexible reliability.  I don't want to leave you so long that you get lonely, but I also don't want to crowd or overwhelm you.

I was sent this beautiful bit of writing from a valued & treasured pal, which is what makes up so much of my substance in this venue.

I know you will love it as I do!










Friday, May 8, 2020

Love & Envy














Stop Looking Like a Sweater,
wool, 142 x 65 x 5cm, 2013,
Celia Pym




Dear Dying of Envy,

Oh I know how you feel!  You plod along for years, you think you are getting somewhere, you feel, 'yes, this little square of felt with threads through it is really saying things, this is it, I have made something relevant!' 

And then.  You find someone like Celia Pym and you know that you have wasted your efforts, because here is a her that is really making beautiful, poignant, elegant, expressive objects.  The kind you have always wished to make.

Well, tough cookies.  There is nothing you can do but try to bury your hurt and soldier on making things that are not as clearly distilled as these.  A better one made by someone else is just that; a better one made by someone else, and our job here it to minimize the suffering we cause, and that includes our endless, whingeing self-suffering.  So let's rewind, and re-phrase this post:


Dear Looking Out for Beauty,

Here it is, an artist and maker who is sending me over the moon with the wonderful things she has made!  I know you will love them too.  Let's run and get our needles right now, and start to stitch together the beautiful old broken and tattered scraps.  Let's not worry about it coming out good, let's just let each stich come like a drop of rain, with only gravity to guide it where to fall.  Let's just make little marks until we have daubed out a poem of plenty, an elegant pile of eraser rubbings, a page of smudges that mean that time happened here, and it was.









PS
Be sure you investigate a piece titled Blue Knitting.






Monday, May 4, 2020

Seven Hundred










Dear Skates,

Thank you for the days.  Which is also your song for today.

Yes, it is time again to note my total consecutive days of roller skating, today at 700.  It also signals me to invite you again to try it, to take a chance on eight wheels.  If you want to start out right, you could take this thorough and helpful lesson online. 

I really feel that you want to roller skate, and if there is a time that I could convince you, let it be now.

Oh, and let's have Petula Clark, too.  And why not have Los Imposibles also?









Friday, May 1, 2020

Chance Encounters with Fragile Materials








Dear Would-Be Gallery-Goers,


      I have made these objects, dear viewers, primarily out of leftovers, scraps, and found materials.  My mind as I am making these objects is open- I try to let the materials tell me what they would like to be paired with, or attached to.  It is a kind of visual listening.  I am thinking of how lovely these little bits are in their own right: this short stubby worn stick, this little bit of watercolor sea, this calligraphic rusted and run over wire, and how perfect this little square of dark linen is with the small pink oil paint stain on it.  I would like these to feel like they grew, or accumulated, more than they were pushed or crafted into existence.

     Transitory and temporary materials are used in building these objects: branches, powdered graphite, wool batting, string.  Many of the works will change over time:  tape will unloose, grasses will shatter, threads will break.  Some pieces may go to ground entirely over the years.
    
     These funny little objects seem right to me now, during this time.  They feel like the imperfect offering in Leonard Cohen’s song “Anthem.”  I hope you will find poetry and love in them.

Ring the bells that still can ring
Forget your perfect offering
There is a crack in everything
That's how the light gets in
-Leonard Cohen






















Thursday, April 30, 2020

More bloom.

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 











 
 
 



 




































 


 
 
 

 








 

 
 
 





























Tuesday, April 28, 2020

The Hub.















Dear Darlings,

As it has been in many homes in many eras, the hearth is taking the place of prominence:  The kitchen is the hub of sheltering in place.  Students are doing their chemistry lab assignments there, and humans are busily baking wild yeasted breads there also.  I know, because I talked to someone, that I am not the only one who is now in the luxurious position of not having to put all the cookbooks and recipes away on their shelves and card boxes, because no one is coming over, and I am going to need it again soon anyway.

Any excuse to make a list, and stacking books is a great one, so here is a list of the cookery books I have out on the table, coffee table, and kitchen counter (two locations!) right now:

Everything I Want to Eat, Jessica Koslow
The Rancho de Chimayo Cookbook, Cheryl Alters Jamison and Bill Jamison
Joy of Cooking, Rombauer and Becker
Tartine Bread, Chad Robertson
Celebrations Italian Style, Mary Ann Esposito
The Fanny Farmer Baking Book, Marion Cunningham
No Need to Knead, Suzanne Dunaway
Gourmet, Ruth Reichl, editor
Hot & Spicy Sauces & Salsas, Sally Griffiths
Tartine, Elisabeth M. Prueitt & Chad Roberston
Desserts by Pierre Hermé, Dorie Greenspan
Nothing Fancy, Diana Kennedy

The other day I also had out TV Dinners, Emeril Lagasse, so I could make Chicken Pot Pie with a friend via video conferencing.  Next week we plan to meet again remotely (she wrote, oxymoronically) to make this pie.  Maybe you will make one too.







PS
Minutiae:  The Salted Maple Pie is a Chess pie, a Just pie, a Sugar pie; meaning that it's like pecan pie with no nuts; it is Milk Bar's Crack Pie; a custard type pie with eggs and sugar, butter, sometimes milk or cream; but no fruit, no nuts, no nothing: Just pie.  Here's one that I adore with chocolate chips.  If you get all into antediluvian pie recipes, check out Shoofly pie, a breakfast pie.











Saturday, April 25, 2020

Transmutation!











Dear Artists,

Oh how I love a good transmutation!  Here is a very fine one; sent to me by a dear co-worker, who combs through all the other interesting blogs and sends me the best of it, which I send then to you!  It has your song of the day in it, so be sure you push the red and white play arrow.









Thursday, April 23, 2020

What next?










Dear Wondering about The Future,

Me too.  There is so much to think about right now.  I know you are thinking it too;  what will we want, what will we need, what will we do when we can do what we did before? 

I have been keeping track of what I miss, and, it isn't as much as you might think.  I miss the idea of getting to go places, but maybe not the actual going, if you see what I mean?  I miss the libraries.  I miss my job because sometimes it felt like it was 'important work,' but I am not such a fool that I didn't know that feeling was a bit of a vanity.  Mostly, I was around some mighty nice people, and now I am not.  I miss the ice cream and the coffee shop, but not as much as I would miss the empty lot if it were developed and turned into an ice cream or coffee shop.  I miss sharing close space with some people, but not all people.

This article crystallizes and echoes some of my vaporous thoughts about what I miss and what I don't miss.  I hope you will take the time to read it, and begin to imagine what you will want when you can do what you did before.











Wednesday, April 22, 2020