On the farm:
Last twilight I wandered down to the duck pond with dog friends Zaphyre and Hanna. An orchestra of multi-timbre frogs sang out a zesty piece. In fading light I threw scattered cedar limbs and “bucking thuckforn” onto one of many piles that becomes instant habitat for small critters. The cedars belong here – I am grateful for their steadfast presence – although we trim some lower branches for better grazing. The invasive species known as buckthorn (or see the name above coined by Jerry) – which apparently was well behaved in European hedge rows – is the most selfish plant I have ever encountered. (Yarrow, which I enthusiastically planted some years ago, has taken over our yard, but it doesn’t grown into tall thorny trees.) I sit on a patch of ground where my Dad had pulled out the biggest offenders with tractor and chains. I pluck out tiny buckthorn seedlings as thick as grass. Next week I buy the poison and begin my warfare. Protecting my homeland.
Cooking in the kitchen this morning with Steely Dan’s “Gaucho” and Laura Nyro’s “Gonna Take A Miracle”, so lunch turned out great.
My friend Melanie came over yesterday to pray and play. We gave ourselves words to use, turned on the timer for a few minutes, scribbled and shared. This is a refreshing change from writing solitaire. Here’s a piece of the silliness:
The old razzle dazzle had worn thin. He gave his winning smile through teeth tobacco stained, cracked like masticated olive pits.
“I think I’m going to have to leave now,” I told him while we were hunting for morels. His back crumpled slightly, but then he whipped out a “trumpet”, curling fingers to lips, tooting out a tune like Fats Waller on acid.
“You’ll never find another quite so entertaining.” He leapt onto an ancient stump for a “Ta-da” moment. Rotting wood collapsed under hard heels, bony arms flapping like a drunken crow.
“I’m tired of being entertained. I’m ready to feel blue.”
That was where I left him, training pretend tigers, the wind hopelessly trying to catch his soggy cape. It was not a scene I could complete. I am looking for new ways to radiate, with no staged gesticulations.
I will spit out all his kisses. No more fungi.
What I’m seeing, reading, listening to:
I watched “Good Night and Good Luck”, the film about reporter Edward Murrow and Senator McCarthy’s aggressive anti-Communist crusade, for the second time. It is beautifully shot in black and white and well worth a second viewing. I couldn’t help but hope for someone like Murrow to speak up today, reporting what needs to be said in his fearlessy articulate manner. (We’ve been blessed with Bill Moyers, but unfortunately his program “Now” goes off the air in a month or so.) Diana Reeves sings jazz tunes in the film from the late 40’s and 50’s, and is stellar. I’ve resolved to track down some of her recordings.
For a completely different kind of music I am in love with the recordings of Snatam Kaur. Singing mostly in Sanskrit, I never ever ever tire of hearing her. To say that her vocals radiates purity and love is just a cliché, but to hear it… well, let me know how you respond!