Sunday, February 18, 2018


I took apples, philosophy, and technical news, and we rested in the silences between topics.  The visit was followed by departure the next week.  The obituary was a collective effort.  Wrenching at times, but I remain and need to speak on behalf of those who cannot.  Meanwhile a family member (who was unconditionally accepting) and a childhood friend also departed.  I have never felt more alive and vital.

Wednesday, February 7, 2018

From the field

I still need to complete a correspondence as a tribute to a friend, whose dimension continues to expand as I converse with acquaintances.  A series of vivid dreams has stimulated my imagination and sharpened my senses to an acute level.  Meanwhile I continue a weekly vigil to another friend.   Although this activity is uncertain with regard to call and response, I take the time needed, knowing that this is very precious and rare time, and I honor my promises.

Monday, January 15, 2018


Idealized and fantastical scenes have their place, but reality and what is needed always settles and takes over.  I do visit elsewhere occasionally, and will continue to do so.

Sunday, January 7, 2018

New Year Meaning

When limited time included meaningful conversations, when such time was acknowledged with unsolicited "high-fives" and "thumb-ups".   And when hand-holds in greeting and departure are heartfelt.

Thursday, December 28, 2017

Thursday, December 21, 2017


Despite being laden with grief and many tasks, a few opportunities arise and I seize them.  I look forward to future projects.  This is no different from my typical outlook, which seeks the long view.  I find ways to move around obstacles.

The golden waxing sliver of a lunar cup is in the low southeast and is especially beautiful on this very long night.

Sunday, November 12, 2017


It seems like an eternity, but it has been especially pronounced for a year: each day has had dismaying WTF moments of disbelief. These past few months with hurricanes, earthquakes, local fires, and friends succumbing to illness are especially trying.  And it is difficult to understand what is the truth of a situation.

Each episode is a reminder of how fragile our connections are.  At this time I have only a few that I am able to spend time reinforcing, allthewhile knowing that they could be severed at any moment.

"How are you? how are things going?" is met with "I look over to the horizon to remind me why this is important, especially when I begin to feel burdened or discouraged by immediate circumstances."

Each day has a moment of surrender and ensuing resurrection.

It is helpful to write down instructions for others so that current intentions can be fulfilled.

Sunday, October 29, 2017


Life is for the living.
Death is for the dead.
Let life be like music.
And death a note unsaid.

-Langston Hughes

Monday, October 23, 2017

Words, no words

Orpheus, Eurydice, Hermes
Rainer Maria Rilke
translated from the German by Stephen Mitchell
That was the deep uncanny mine of souls.
Like veins of silver ore, they silently
moved through its massive darkness. Blood welled up
among the roots, on its way to the world of men,
and in the dark it looked as hard as stone.
Nothing else was red.

There were cliffs there,
and forests made of mist. There were bridges
spanning the void, and that great gray blind lake
which hung above its distant bottom
like the sky on a rainy day above a landscape.
And through the gentle, unresisting meadows
one pale path unrolled like a strip of cotton.

Down this path they were coming.

In front, the slender man in the blue cloak--
mute, impatient, looking straight ahead.
In large, greedy, unchewed bites his walk
devoured the path; his hands hung at his sides,
tight and heavy, out of the falling folds,
no longer conscious of the delicate lyre
which had grown into his left arm, like a slip
of roses grafted onto an olive tree.
His senses felt as though they were split in two;
his sight would race ahead of him like a dog,
stop, come back, then rushing off again
would stand, impatient, at the path's next turn,--
but his hearing, like an odor, stayed behind.
Sometimes it seemed to him as though it reached
back to the footsteps of those other two
who were to follow him, up the long path home.
But then, once more, it was just his own steps' echo,
or the wind inside his cloak, that made the sound.

He said to himself, they had to be behind him;
said it aloud and heard it fade away.
They had to be behind him, but their steps
were ominously soft. If only he could
turn around, just once (but looking back
would ruin this entire work, so near
completion), then he could not fail to see them,
those other two, who followed him so softly:

The god of speed and distant messages,
a traveler's hood above his shining eyes,
his slender staff held out in front of him,
and little wings fluttering at his ankles;
and on his left arm, barely touching it: she.

A woman so loved that from one lyre there came
more lament than from all lamenting women;
that a whole world of lament arose, in which
all nature reappeared: forest and valley,
road and village, field and stream and animal;
and that around this lament-world, even as
around the other earth, a sun revolved
and a silent star-filled heaven, a lament-
heaven, with its own, disfigured stars--:
So greatly was she loved.

But now she walked beside the graceful god,
Her steps constricted by the trailing graveclothes,
uncertain, gentle, and without impatience.
She was deep within herself, like a woman heavy
with child, and did not see the man in front
or the path ascending steeply into life.
Deep within herself. Being dead
filled her beyond fulfillment. Like a fruit
suffused with its own mystery and sweetness,
she was filled with her vast death, which was so new,
she could not understand that it had happened.

She had come into a new virginity
and was untouchable; her sex had closed
like a young flower at nightfall, and her hands
had grown so unused to marriage that the god's
infinitely gentle touch of guidance
hurt her, like an undesired kiss.

She was no longer that woman with blue eyes
who once had echoed through the poet's songs,
no longer the wide couch's scent and island,
and that man's property no longer.

She was already loosened like long hair,
poured out like fallen rain,
shared like a limitless supply.

She was already root.

And when, abruptly,
the god put out his hand to stop her, saying,
with sorrow in his voice: He has turned around--,
she could not understand, and softly answered

Far away,
dark before the shining exit-gates,
someone or other stood, whose features were
unrecognizable. He stood and saw
how, on the strip of road among the meadows,
with a mournful look, the god of messages
silently turned to follow the small figure
already walking back along the path,
her steps constricted by the trailing graveclothes,
uncertain, gentle, and without impatience.

Wednesday, October 11, 2017


Curate, Critique, Create

Collect, display, and try to make some sense to convey an arc of development set in a context imposed and biased by the selections.

Based on a context and bias (personal and ignorant), have an opinion on a work that was created by another.  Usually developed by a person with very little knowledge in the process, or by a person with  a methodology already in mind.

Play, explore edges, inquire, and bring rules and non-rules into the development of an opus.  Can involve collaboration with others who have some similarity of approach, and even with this initial affinity, can have an outcome that could not have been predicted at the beginning of the partnership.

...distilled from what has been brewing lately, and recently reinforced.