The Blue Room

wooden room

entrance blocked by strings

hollow room

empty till it's strummed

guitar man come back

fill up the room!

...

The Time Of One

This is Island, a continent surrounded by the sea. Those who live here, even those who do not know much of anything, know the woodlands is the birthplace of the Bird Of Life. And, most everyone knows if they, themselves, were born in The Time Of One or The Time of Two.

Each dusk, a tiny bird lifts above the trees. It circles inland, then turns and flies directly towards the sea. It flies across the bare field, over the river and disappears into the white fog expanding the reaches of Island's outstretched fingers into the sky.

Each dawn, the tiny bird reappears through its foggy gateway from some unknown world beyond Island, perhaps beyond the sea itself, carrying in its beak one tiny seed. The little bird flies back over the river, across the fields, into the trees and buries its seed in the woodland's floor.

After many years of planting, one of the seeds, only one, begins to grow into a tree. When its crown reaches through the protective bower of the woodlands into the sun, seemingly overnight, the bird builds a nest on its highest branch.

The next morning when it returns from its mysterious flight, the little bird carries not a seed but a tiny white egg and places it in the nest. That same day, from out of the whiteness which is like the whiteness of the fog through which the egg appeared, another little bird is born. Thus begins The Time Of Two, The Days Of Song. For many years, the two birds sing and fly together through the woodlands.

One dusk, the two little birds fly side by side into the mists. In the dawn, only one returns, carrying a tiny seed in its beak. Those few who have seen this solitary flight swear that this seed is planted with a tear so small there can be no smaller tear.

This is Island, a continent surrounded by the sea. The sea holds Island much like earth holds the sea and, in turn, much like sky holds earth. Everything gives way to something. Yesterday gives way to today, the day of the smallest tear.

A Clay Figure

She is called "Elizabeth" after the name of the model who posed for sculpture class.  I made her by molding and carving damp clay I had shaped around a stick figure made of strong wire which is, in turn, supported by a metal pipe. She has stood for years between two windows in a corner of the old shed. The clay is very dry now and if she were to be moved or jostled, she would crumble away from her armature. As it is, she is both disintegrating and standing in time.

Winter Rainbow

yesterday's rainbow following the rain

leading off the holidays

Back in 2010

Dragon Under Wisteria

I just found this embroidery I began years ago. Maybe if I take a picture of it, I will want to finish it. Or not. Maybe I can't remember how to work with ribbon embroidery. Maybe I don't have the time. I also doubt I could even find the ribbon, should they make it anymore. Maybe I like it unfinished to remember those days when I saw things like a dragon in the garden underneath the wisteria. I used to think it was important to finish things then.

In Front Of Our Eyes

I don't have to go out into the cities of industry with their opaque skies and brutal noise levels or to the mountain rivers where the salmon are dying to notice the changes in our environment which have taken place in, all things considered, only the few past years. I don't need to read the news about male small mouthed bass now having female characteristics, or the most recent addition to the endangered species list. Nor do I need to learn of yet another environmental violation to know there are many who think they can continue on in this ever escalating game of pillage for profit and remain unaffected. All I have to do is look out into my little garden and notice the redwood sorrel that now dies from lack of watering in the summer when a few years ago they needed no help from me to survive, or tip my head skyward to the diminished returning flocks of barn swallows and chimney swifts in the spring, or notice that the ever growing legions of cars has wiped out the sound of the ocean.

Every day, we loose something and what kind of void follows each loss? Every day excuses are made in the name of gain (who's gain?), and that which 'we' gain, what is it? A random void filler most likely. (The sound of cars where there once was silence? I'd call 'car noise' the void and 'noise stress' the void filler rather than referring to silence as a void, as some have been want to do.) As for random void fillers, I listened last summer to the recent novelty of hearing crickets chirping in dry soil which had always before remained too damp year round for their liking. I see this house being invaded by armies of piss ants looking for other than sugar, year round - this 80 year old house which has never seen colonies of ants within its walls before. What this house is experiencing is as nothing compared to other abodes out there in the world. Crickets are a sign of good fortune and piss ants are not venomous. Neither are toxic.

Whether we admit to it or not, whether those with the resources to do something about it acknowledge it or not, we have willfully engendered in our world too much loss and the effects of even the tiniest and most invisible of these losses touch every single person place and thing on this planet and beyond. Anyone who thinks otherwise is foolish.

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Pelargoniums

This 'rose scented geranium' is not that common in the garden shops that sell scented pelargoniums. It has slightly wooly leaves and might be Pelargonium capitatum sometimes called "Attar of Roses". I doubt it is the rose scented Pelargonium graveolens which is much more common in the gardens of this geographical area, the Pacific north coast of California, as the leaves are not lacily lobed. When the leaves are distilled, they give up the most lovely rosy scented floral water, the hydrosol. Every winter when there is a bit of snow, many of them die ulesss we remember to throw a light tarp over them in the evenings.

After the really cold winter we had a few years ago, it's taken many cuttings and until now for there to be enough to distill in my funny old pot still that we set on the top of the stove - one large grocery bag packed full of leaves.

I've never tried growing this plant indoors, though some sources say they do fine in front of a bright window. I think I'll take some cuttings before the night freeze comes which means I should do this tomorrow as their has been frost in the mornings and otherwise quite cold.

If I am able to keep the bulk of the rose geraniums from freezing this winter, next spring we'll be able to distill some hydrosol, perhaps a quart or two. 

Somebody Hung A Gong On The Buddleia

.

It makes a good doorbell.