The nearest snowflake is hundreds of miles away.
The morning is clear, the sky is blue, there is a hummingbird sitting in the tree outside my window.
I am lucky.
16.12.09
December 16th, 8:40 am, 55 degrees
I just received a Christmas card from a good friend.
The nearest snowflake is hundreds of miles away.
The morning is clear, the sky is blue, there is a hummingbird sitting in the tree outside my window.
I am lucky.
The nearest snowflake is hundreds of miles away.
The morning is clear, the sky is blue, there is a hummingbird sitting in the tree outside my window.
I am lucky.
14.12.09
Yellow, Grey, &--Javelina?
Nathan and I went for a hike yesterday. We've been a little better lately about gettin' outta' town, which is good--because it definitely makes a difference in how I feel. I need it! So much so that I often cry when I get out and away from the hustle and bustle, because it's such a relief! Not that my life is terribly hustly or bustly. (Heh.) I get up, I exercise a little, I go to work, I come home, I eat dinner, I go to bed, I get up, I exercise a little, I go to work. The most stressful part of my day is trying to make it to the bus on time. Still, I've determined that I want to spend more of my life outside, touching things, breathing fresh air, looking at the sky. (<---Link to my other [newish] blog.)
Here's some pics from yesterday. We encountered a few javelinas. It was the first time we'd seen them in the wild. We also saw a dead kangaroo rat who's head had been bitten off. So I took a picture of its feet.
Here's some pics from yesterday. We encountered a few javelinas. It was the first time we'd seen them in the wild. We also saw a dead kangaroo rat who's head had been bitten off. So I took a picture of its feet.
10.11.09
Dia de Los Muertos
Last Sunday was the All Souls Procession in Tucson, a day to celebrate and remember those who have died. That day was the Dia de Los Muertos for the pair of Converse I'd been wearing for the past five or so years. Farewell old friends! May you make it to shoe heaven, where feet smell like roses, and no one has bunyons.
Anyway, the procession got me thinking about death. Not the BIG death so much, but the little deaths we experience all the time. And that maybe it's time for me to let go of some of my old habits, really, and start anew.
Here's one of my most favorite poems ever.
In A Dark Time
In a dark time, the eye begins to see,
I meet my shadow in the deepening shade;
I hear my echo in the echoing wood -
A lord of nature weeping to a tree.
I live between the heron and the wren,
Beasts of the hill and serpents of the den.
What's madness but nobility of soul
At odds with circumstance? The day's on fire!
I know the purity of pure despair,
My shadow pinned against a sweating wall.
That place among the rocks - is it a cave,
Or winding path? The edge is what I have.
A steady storm of correspondences!
A night flowing with birds, a ragged moon,
And in broad day the midnight come again!
A man goes far to find out what he is -
Death of the self in a long, tearless night,
All natural shapes blazing unnatural light.
Dark, dark my light, and darker my desire.
My soul, like some heat-maddened summer fly,
Keeps buzzing at the sill. Which I is I?
A fallen man, I climb out of my fear.
The mind enters itself, and God the mind,
And one is One, free in the tearing wind.
--Theodore Roethke
Anyway, the procession got me thinking about death. Not the BIG death so much, but the little deaths we experience all the time. And that maybe it's time for me to let go of some of my old habits, really, and start anew.
Here's one of my most favorite poems ever.
In A Dark Time
In a dark time, the eye begins to see,
I meet my shadow in the deepening shade;
I hear my echo in the echoing wood -
A lord of nature weeping to a tree.
I live between the heron and the wren,
Beasts of the hill and serpents of the den.
What's madness but nobility of soul
At odds with circumstance? The day's on fire!
I know the purity of pure despair,
My shadow pinned against a sweating wall.
That place among the rocks - is it a cave,
Or winding path? The edge is what I have.
A steady storm of correspondences!
A night flowing with birds, a ragged moon,
And in broad day the midnight come again!
A man goes far to find out what he is -
Death of the self in a long, tearless night,
All natural shapes blazing unnatural light.
Dark, dark my light, and darker my desire.
My soul, like some heat-maddened summer fly,
Keeps buzzing at the sill. Which I is I?
A fallen man, I climb out of my fear.
The mind enters itself, and God the mind,
And one is One, free in the tearing wind.
--Theodore Roethke
15.10.09
Lately I've been spending too much time indoors,
alone.
Anthem for a Small Country
In my country we admire the ambitious dust: long into the night,
for endless hours, it practises such gentleness on the window's sill.
Our country's flower is the rose in the curved bed of the fingernail.
In the cloud's menagerie, our animal is the solitary wisp.
As for religion, we peer into drains and the old burrows
of earthworms, looking for the shyness of our shrinking god.
Our territory often dwindles to a smooth slip
of a pillow, a fleece blanket and the bed's four posts.
What we lack in fellow citizens, we address by mumbling
to ourselves. And to the white cat, and the calico.
From the industry of sleep, exporting
small, domestic sounds.
-Anne-Marie Turza
The Malahat Review
Fall 2009
Anthem for a Small Country
In my country we admire the ambitious dust: long into the night,
for endless hours, it practises such gentleness on the window's sill.
Our country's flower is the rose in the curved bed of the fingernail.
In the cloud's menagerie, our animal is the solitary wisp.
As for religion, we peer into drains and the old burrows
of earthworms, looking for the shyness of our shrinking god.
Our territory often dwindles to a smooth slip
of a pillow, a fleece blanket and the bed's four posts.
What we lack in fellow citizens, we address by mumbling
to ourselves. And to the white cat, and the calico.
From the industry of sleep, exporting
small, domestic sounds.
-Anne-Marie Turza
The Malahat Review
Fall 2009
14.8.09
It's much easier
for me to be critical, not so easy to be grateful. I'm trying, that's the important part.
Aimless Love
This morning as I walked along the lakeshore,
I fell in love with a wren
and later in the day with a mouse
the cat had dropped under the dining room table.
In the shadows of an autumn evening,
I fell for a seamstress
still at her machine in the tailor’s window,
and later for a bowl of broth,
steam rising like smoke from a naval battle.
This is the best kind of love, I thought,
without recompense, without gifts,
or unkind words, without suspicion,
or silence on the telephone.
The love of the chestnut,
the jazz cap and one hand on the wheel.
No lust, no slam of the door –
the love of the miniature orange tree,
the clean white shirt, the hot evening shower,
the highway that cuts across Florida.
No waiting, no huffiness, or rancor –
just a twinge every now and then
for the wren who had built her nest
on a low branch overhanging the water
and for the dead mouse,
still dressed in its light brown suit.
But my heart is always propped up
in a field on its tripod,
ready for the next arrow.
After I carried the mouse by the tail
to a pile of leaves in the woods,
I found myself standing at the bathroom sink
gazing down affectionately at the soap,
so patient and soluble,
so at home in its pale green soap dish.
I could feel myself falling again
as I felt its turning in my wet hands
and caught the scent of lavender and stone.
- Billy Collins
Aimless Love
This morning as I walked along the lakeshore,
I fell in love with a wren
and later in the day with a mouse
the cat had dropped under the dining room table.
In the shadows of an autumn evening,
I fell for a seamstress
still at her machine in the tailor’s window,
and later for a bowl of broth,
steam rising like smoke from a naval battle.
This is the best kind of love, I thought,
without recompense, without gifts,
or unkind words, without suspicion,
or silence on the telephone.
The love of the chestnut,
the jazz cap and one hand on the wheel.
No lust, no slam of the door –
the love of the miniature orange tree,
the clean white shirt, the hot evening shower,
the highway that cuts across Florida.
No waiting, no huffiness, or rancor –
just a twinge every now and then
for the wren who had built her nest
on a low branch overhanging the water
and for the dead mouse,
still dressed in its light brown suit.
But my heart is always propped up
in a field on its tripod,
ready for the next arrow.
After I carried the mouse by the tail
to a pile of leaves in the woods,
I found myself standing at the bathroom sink
gazing down affectionately at the soap,
so patient and soluble,
so at home in its pale green soap dish.
I could feel myself falling again
as I felt its turning in my wet hands
and caught the scent of lavender and stone.
- Billy Collins
2.8.09
Chipmunks & Eggs
Sunday morning--ahh. I love my days off. It's 11:30, early by Sunday morning's standards. So what's for breakfast? EGGS!
Several blogs back I wrote about going to visit Linda, who had just gotten some chicks. Well, her older hens are now a'layin, and their eggs are beautiful! I especially like the green Araucana eggs. They're purty. The chicks have grown, too, but they're not laying yet.
In addition to organic feed, Linda feeds her chickens all the scraps from the leftover organic produce we sell at New Life. It makes me feel good to know exactly where my food comes from and know that the animals that provided it are loved and cared for. Eggs from happy chickens make damn good omelets!
YUM.
But after breakfast, what to do? I'll probably stay inside most of the day, since it's gonna' be a scorcher like usual. (Maybe I'll do a rain dance. We need some monsoon action.) The only place to escape the heat of the Tucson summer is inside a movie theater or up on Mt. Lemmon. Nate and I drove up to Summerhaven with my brother Christopher the other day. On the way up the mountain we stopped at Rose Lake, where we encountered about 50 of these little guys:
I think that they're Alpine or Colorado chipmunks, I'm not sure which. They were bouncing all over everything and fighting with the Acorn Woodpeckers and Scrub Jays. So cute! We threw pebbles to get them to come closer--they were pretty tame. I think the people who go to the lake to fish have fed them one too many Cheetos.
Several blogs back I wrote about going to visit Linda, who had just gotten some chicks. Well, her older hens are now a'layin, and their eggs are beautiful! I especially like the green Araucana eggs. They're purty. The chicks have grown, too, but they're not laying yet.
In addition to organic feed, Linda feeds her chickens all the scraps from the leftover organic produce we sell at New Life. It makes me feel good to know exactly where my food comes from and know that the animals that provided it are loved and cared for. Eggs from happy chickens make damn good omelets!
YUM.
But after breakfast, what to do? I'll probably stay inside most of the day, since it's gonna' be a scorcher like usual. (Maybe I'll do a rain dance. We need some monsoon action.) The only place to escape the heat of the Tucson summer is inside a movie theater or up on Mt. Lemmon. Nate and I drove up to Summerhaven with my brother Christopher the other day. On the way up the mountain we stopped at Rose Lake, where we encountered about 50 of these little guys:
I think that they're Alpine or Colorado chipmunks, I'm not sure which. They were bouncing all over everything and fighting with the Acorn Woodpeckers and Scrub Jays. So cute! We threw pebbles to get them to come closer--they were pretty tame. I think the people who go to the lake to fish have fed them one too many Cheetos.
21.7.09
I need to get back in tune
with ma moon.
The Perpetual Migration (Gort)
How do we know where we are going?
How do we know where we are headed
till we in fact or hope or hunch
arrive? You can only criticize,
the comfortable say, you don't know
what you want. Ah, but we do.
We have swung in the green verandas
of the jungle trees. We have squatted
on cloud-grey granite hillsides where
every leaf drips. We have crossed
badlands where the sun is sharp as flint.
We have paddled into the tall dark sea
in canoes. We always knew.
Peace, plenty, the gentle wallow
of intimacy, a bit of Saturday night
and not too much Monday morning,
a chance to choose, a chance to grow,
the power to say no and yes, pretties
and dignity, an occasional jolt of truth.
The human brain, wrinkled slug, knows
like a computer, like a violinist, like
a bloodhound, like a frog. We remember
backwards a little and sometimes forwards,
but mostly we think in the ebbing circles
a rock makes on water.
The salmon hurtling upstream seeks
the taste of the waters of its birth
but the seabird on its four-thousand-mile
trek follows charts mapped on its genes.
The brightness, the angle, the sighting
of the stars shines in the brain luring
till inner constellation matches outer.
The stark black rocks, the island beaches
of waveworn pebbles where it will winter
look right to it. Months after it set
forth it says, home at last, and settles.
Even the pigeon beating its short whistling
wings knows the magnetic tug of arrival.
In my spine a tidal clock tilts and drips
and the moon pulls blood from my womb.
Driven as a migrating falcon, I can be blown
off course yet if I turn back it feels
wrong. Navigating by chart and chance
and passion I will know the shape
of the mountains of freedom, I will know.
--Marge Piercy
The Perpetual Migration (Gort)
How do we know where we are going?
How do we know where we are headed
till we in fact or hope or hunch
arrive? You can only criticize,
the comfortable say, you don't know
what you want. Ah, but we do.
We have swung in the green verandas
of the jungle trees. We have squatted
on cloud-grey granite hillsides where
every leaf drips. We have crossed
badlands where the sun is sharp as flint.
We have paddled into the tall dark sea
in canoes. We always knew.
Peace, plenty, the gentle wallow
of intimacy, a bit of Saturday night
and not too much Monday morning,
a chance to choose, a chance to grow,
the power to say no and yes, pretties
and dignity, an occasional jolt of truth.
The human brain, wrinkled slug, knows
like a computer, like a violinist, like
a bloodhound, like a frog. We remember
backwards a little and sometimes forwards,
but mostly we think in the ebbing circles
a rock makes on water.
The salmon hurtling upstream seeks
the taste of the waters of its birth
but the seabird on its four-thousand-mile
trek follows charts mapped on its genes.
The brightness, the angle, the sighting
of the stars shines in the brain luring
till inner constellation matches outer.
The stark black rocks, the island beaches
of waveworn pebbles where it will winter
look right to it. Months after it set
forth it says, home at last, and settles.
Even the pigeon beating its short whistling
wings knows the magnetic tug of arrival.
In my spine a tidal clock tilts and drips
and the moon pulls blood from my womb.
Driven as a migrating falcon, I can be blown
off course yet if I turn back it feels
wrong. Navigating by chart and chance
and passion I will know the shape
of the mountains of freedom, I will know.
--Marge Piercy
5.7.09
Graffiti Reflextions
I like to take liberties with spelling.
I finally made it to Bisbee! Nate & I went with our friends Leah & Jake. It was fun. We went on a tour of the Queen Mine, went to some art galleries, ate some Mexican food while watching a monsoon, and then had ice cream! My camera died while we were in the mine, so I took the photos below with my cell phone. Not too shabby.
I will be going back. There are more photos to be mined in Bisbee. Ha! Ha!
I finally made it to Bisbee! Nate & I went with our friends Leah & Jake. It was fun. We went on a tour of the Queen Mine, went to some art galleries, ate some Mexican food while watching a monsoon, and then had ice cream! My camera died while we were in the mine, so I took the photos below with my cell phone. Not too shabby.
I will be going back. There are more photos to be mined in Bisbee. Ha! Ha!
17.6.09
Fresh Fruit & Homemade Mozzarella
I am not a milk drinker, unless that "milk" comes from rice or soy--although now I try to avoid unfermented soy because it contains phytoestrogens. Nonetheless, a week and a half ago I bought a 1/2 gallon of raw cow's milk, the white stuff that's illegal to sell for human consumption in many states. This was not the Arizona raw milk that we sell at my work for a whopping $12.99 a gallon, but milk from some Texas cows. It still cost me five bucks. People are willing to pay the high prices, though, because it's apparently amazing stuff, rich in nutrients, enzymes, antibodies, and beneficial bacteria. Many people who thought they were lactose intolerant can drink raw milk. We actually reserve several gallons a week for our loyal customers and call them when the delivery comes in.
So Nate and I decided to try some. He initially wanted to make butter and I just wanted to drink it. He drank some and it made his tummy rumble, and I got scared that the same thing would happen to me. (I've heard that even seasoned milk drinkers have a different effect from this Texas milk, so I think I'll try the AZ kind next time). We ended up making homemade mozzarella cheese. It turned out a little rubbery (next time: less rennet and a little more salt), but it was fun and easy to do. There are several different recipes online to try. Below are some pics of the process and also some of the lovely produce I brought home from work. Don't those blushing apricots look beautiful? They're as soft as the butt of an angel. And that baby watermelon--so cute! In fact, after all this dairy talk, I'm actually thinking about doing a watermelon fast.
(The String Cheese Incident)
So Nate and I decided to try some. He initially wanted to make butter and I just wanted to drink it. He drank some and it made his tummy rumble, and I got scared that the same thing would happen to me. (I've heard that even seasoned milk drinkers have a different effect from this Texas milk, so I think I'll try the AZ kind next time). We ended up making homemade mozzarella cheese. It turned out a little rubbery (next time: less rennet and a little more salt), but it was fun and easy to do. There are several different recipes online to try. Below are some pics of the process and also some of the lovely produce I brought home from work. Don't those blushing apricots look beautiful? They're as soft as the butt of an angel. And that baby watermelon--so cute! In fact, after all this dairy talk, I'm actually thinking about doing a watermelon fast.
(The String Cheese Incident)
10.6.09
Road Trippin'
Wednesday: my other day off. Praise Jah! I have time to blog. Just got back (on Monday) from a little jaunt up to Northern AZ. Nate and I toured Flagstaff, Sedona, and Jerome. Here's the report:
Flagstaff is a one-dreaded sixty year-old white man (his dreads so natty they're fuzed into one) hopping around to some live dub music in a sub-alpine meadow, a feather stuck in his hair. His partner is a Native woman--Hopi? With black hair down past her ass. Her name is Shivering Birch. The two of them dance barefoot in thin green grass that is as soft as hair, trying not to step on the lupines. Humphrey's Peak rises up behind them.
Sedona is a tourist town with overpriced Mexican food and one too many Reiki Masters. But that doesn't bother you; you're there to climb the red rocks. You're there to hear the call of the raven, chase lizards, admire the mottled bark of the manzanita. And you do.
Jerome, an old mining town, is really just a bunch of crumbling buildings teetering on the edge of a cliff. Some of the buildings are art galleries and curio shops, some are bars; there's a candy shop and a cafe. In Jerome you can take pictures of the half-rotten buildings, taste some wines, and eat a haunted hamburger. What more could you ask for? Oh, there is the Puscifer store owned by Maynard James Keenan...too bad it's closed on Mondays.
Flagstaff is a one-dreaded sixty year-old white man (his dreads so natty they're fuzed into one) hopping around to some live dub music in a sub-alpine meadow, a feather stuck in his hair. His partner is a Native woman--Hopi? With black hair down past her ass. Her name is Shivering Birch. The two of them dance barefoot in thin green grass that is as soft as hair, trying not to step on the lupines. Humphrey's Peak rises up behind them.
Sedona is a tourist town with overpriced Mexican food and one too many Reiki Masters. But that doesn't bother you; you're there to climb the red rocks. You're there to hear the call of the raven, chase lizards, admire the mottled bark of the manzanita. And you do.
Jerome, an old mining town, is really just a bunch of crumbling buildings teetering on the edge of a cliff. Some of the buildings are art galleries and curio shops, some are bars; there's a candy shop and a cafe. In Jerome you can take pictures of the half-rotten buildings, taste some wines, and eat a haunted hamburger. What more could you ask for? Oh, there is the Puscifer store owned by Maynard James Keenan...too bad it's closed on Mondays.
27.5.09
The vacant lot
behind my house seemed as good a place as any to take some pictures, since I was in the mood and decided that Bisbee was too far away for today (about a two hour drive). I will go there soon, though. I've heard there are a lot of neat old buildings--hopefully some abandoned--and nice little cafes and galleries and things. It would probably be better to go when I have some spending $, anyway, 'cuz I don't right now.
So instead I took some photos in the lot between our backyard fence, our neighbors fence, and the fenced-in well that belongs to Tucson Water. There's nothing too exciting to be seen back there. Just some sad looking prickly pears (some of which we dug up recently and planted in our yard), tufts of grass and shards of glass. A gourd I threw over the fence back in November. A rotten grapefruit. Barbed wire and clouds. And in my neighbors lot, a bunch of rusting cars and old tires and corroded pieces of scrap metal.
(Poem draft/doodle thing circa May 2006.)
So instead I took some photos in the lot between our backyard fence, our neighbors fence, and the fenced-in well that belongs to Tucson Water. There's nothing too exciting to be seen back there. Just some sad looking prickly pears (some of which we dug up recently and planted in our yard), tufts of grass and shards of glass. A gourd I threw over the fence back in November. A rotten grapefruit. Barbed wire and clouds. And in my neighbors lot, a bunch of rusting cars and old tires and corroded pieces of scrap metal.
(Poem draft/doodle thing circa May 2006.)
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