Another Blog.

Dear Everyone,

Once in a while I send you places that I think you might want to visit in the www.  This is one of them- this Knowledgeable & Nice Person has a very lovely blog on California's flora and fauna.  I found it in the usual way, by wandering around with a vague notion of learning something about Parry's Larkspur.  Try it, you'll like it.  In fact, when you see what a wonderful job can be done on such things as a blog, you will want to make one too!  Think of it as a kind of scrap book perhaps, or a sketchbook; not to hold every little bit and piece, not to give the whole picture, but to shine a little light here and there, on the things you love best.

Cherry: jam & tart.

Dear Orchardists,

Here it is, the Montmorency cherry crop for the year!  I know you and the birds and deer have been waiting anxiously since this time last year.  It's a veritable avalanche compared to last year, and so we made jam.  Then we made a tart with the jam.

 

 

 

 

 

Both recipes are from David Lebovitz's excellent blog.  Here is the jam, and here is the tart.  Both were easy as pie, but I know you don't choose things based on the difficulty level or the labor-hours required to complete them.  I know that when you have cherries you let the winsome color of the fruit direct you to the appropriate use.

The Oft-referenced, Much-studied Effect of The New on The Old.

Dear Bandmates,

Isn't this the bomb? 







Isn't it delightful to see someone making music with this retired technology stuffs!?  It will be our song for today, and you can hear another version here. 










PS

You'll laugh, of course, because you are so much more mondaine and world-wise than I, but this 'novelty song' is one of my favorites from my impressionable youth, and its symphonic sound and operatic narrative always catch in my throat.  I was such a lucky one to be suckled on pop music that was so prescient and innovative! 

Remember Those Days?

Dear Whoever You Are,

Pretend you just got this desperate message attached to a rock that I threw up to your window in the middle of the night.  Pretend that you don't mind and that you are happy to help me make my escape from this world where I cannot understand the words and actions of anyone.  Pretend it is okay that we are surrounded, because we have each other, and a few others now and then, to form a club or a band or a pact with, or at the absolute least, to have a few drinks with.

I am feeling so much better already- how about you?  Read this for inspiration (or instruction, if you are as youthful as that).  If the Dodo was a real thing in our culture, a thing with currency, if it was a thing that had real writers, I think this author would be one of us.

Remember, don't worry:  If you hear a thunk, it's just me with my message tied to a stone.

6.20.2017

Dear Summer,

Yesterday, driving home on the eve of your return, I thought I might have understood finally the magic of the visual effect of that hour, the after sunset time:  The light, I believe, has become equally reflected from the ground and from the sky, so the substance of the space in-between is illuminated.
It isn't very long, a matter of minutes, before the ground falls into deeper shadow, and that is another kind of time; l'heure bleue.

Until we bid farewell in September.

ghhhh, hubscam blam, fibbletak!

Dear Fixers,

You know, of course, how photography works- with chemicals for developing, and fixer, a solution to 'fix,' to hold, the silver salts in the positions recorded by the light?  So that they remain in the form of a hill with trees on it?  And if they are not properly 'fixed' they will fade; at first just a little bit, and then more and more, until the image is just a pale, ghostly pattern of smudges?

Fixing things, feeling, events, images, in my mind is of chief concern-  to be able to take these things back out and examine them, to pore over, to revisit and experience all over again; but this is so tricky, isn't it?  How do we save things, and where, and when do we get them out again to look over?  It's a pickle.





A picture of the skate park:  We went to one in a town south of here; we have gone once before, and then tried several times in between to catch it empty.  I have a great horror of looking like the elderly-you-ought-to-know-better-than-to-try-that-at-your-age roller skater that in fact, I am. 

There was only a yuppie soccer mom and her progeny present; a young boy she referred to as "Bud," but he was certainly a Forrest, Hawkins, Seamus, or some such thing, on a two wheeled folding scooter.  He was tear-assing around the place in the usual 4 year old manner, so I steeled myself for a mild losing of face and began to fall on the very wee little hillocks.  He kept on saying "it's only a hill!"  He also asked us where we got those 'roller skaters,' and why were putting on all these elbow, wrist and knee pads.  I thought, but did not say:  I am wearing them so that when I stumble over onto you I don't feel your tiny hands smashed under my knees, you little goofus!  Well, whatever, but I am a 'fraidy cat and safety, or what I like to pretend is safety, first!

I fell three times in front of this pair, and then the young dude who sweeps the rocks I'd been falling on up, arrived.  I made sure he wasn't turned my way, and once more tried to stay upright down the short, shallow slope of concrete.  Yes, you guessed it!  I did not fall!  What a triumph!  But, that wasn't enough- I next tried to get to the bottom of the real ramp, the 4 foot or so one.  It dips down, lies flat for about 10 feet and then heads back up.  I got to the bottom and threw myself on my knees to keep from continuing my madcap pace!  Twice I ditched in this manner, then I crossed my fingers and let the momentum carry me on up the opposite slope.  I wanted to shout and sing it to the rafters!  I could not believe I had managed it! 

The thing, though, that I know, is that it seems like nothing to tell it like this, especially to anyone who's done it or doesn't want to do it, and that covers everyone,  doesn't it?  Or maybe even to anyone anywhere anyplace anytime.  Phooey!  I want to tell you how fun it is, and I cannot.  I mean, I can, but it's so much meaningless gibberish.  It sounds like this:  ghhhh, hubscam blam, fibble-tak! 












PS
Oh, yes;  I wonder, do you think this lovely photograph of a skater falling was taken at Cartier-Bresson's decisive moment?  Or was it a little late, or even too early?  I have adored and carried with me this notion of his for decades, as in a locket:  I never think about the movement of life and photography without it.  If you would like, please take it for yours also- get it here, for free, locket not included.

Oh my!

Dear Wheeled,

Look at this delight- can you live without them?  I wonder if I can.  I will let you know later, I guess.