27.9.08
Friggin' freezing in here, y'all. Period.
Sorry to the very few who have lain eyes here, but you'll have to pause for a stretch before you'll have the pleasure of squandering any more time perusing this glommed together ball of blog. Here it goes into hibernation...for the time being.
9.9.08
Vocab. Hyped
It's clear and unanimous; the most overused word of the year has got to be...panacea. This term has been bandied about in practically every media forum around, especially in recent months as most discussions in the public forum eventually lead to futile arguments over energy policy. Here is an offering of alternatives to that frankly played-out, antiquated, and progressively stale term so popularized today:
What's the best remedy for our energy ills?
Judging by the cost of that ear, do you still think corn ethanol is the cure-all for our oil addiction?
Do you know of a good medicament for herpes?
Why not offer up a catholicon to save us from a fatal, collective third-degree burn?
Does "Drill, baby, drill!" sound like the magic bullet for the global warming dilemma?
The GOP naively suggests a nepenthe to soothe the pain of our fossil-fueled woes.
Clean coal technologies and offshore drilling merely represent a nostrum to our energy crisis.
A certain few of these options could be the panacea to the problem of the word panacea's frequency in the media as of late. Although, it would be only slightly less surprising for armageddon to ensue than it would be for the talking heads to consult a thesaurus once in a harvest moon.
What's the best remedy for our energy ills?
Judging by the cost of that ear, do you still think corn ethanol is the cure-all for our oil addiction?
Do you know of a good medicament for herpes?
Why not offer up a catholicon to save us from a fatal, collective third-degree burn?
Does "Drill, baby, drill!" sound like the magic bullet for the global warming dilemma?
The GOP naively suggests a nepenthe to soothe the pain of our fossil-fueled woes.
Clean coal technologies and offshore drilling merely represent a nostrum to our energy crisis.
A certain few of these options could be the panacea to the problem of the word panacea's frequency in the media as of late. Although, it would be only slightly less surprising for armageddon to ensue than it would be for the talking heads to consult a thesaurus once in a harvest moon.
8.9.08
Another Title Rotation...
Still more titles for this blog have come and gone. In case you missed them, they're summarized here for your Latin learning pleasure.
"nolens volens" - this one is the Latin root of the common phrase 'willy nilly', stemming from the Old English phrase 'wil-he, nil-he' meaning 'will he or will he not'. I liked the sound of it and it fit my then state of apathetic indecision.
"talis qualis" - the continuation of the rhyming latin is purely coincindental, however nicely it rings! I like this one for its simplicity; it means only 'as such' or 'just as it is', which for me stands to describe the content I've gathered here. There's no pretense and I'm not speaking as an authority...so this is it.
"respice, adspice, prospice" - no, nothing to do with spices here. It means 'to look back, look to the present, and to the future'. Maybe the reader should read old posts and look forward to new ones. Also, it's a cue for me to be more contemplative and conscious of this life's path. Possibly, I just need to get some Mexican food soon!
More name changes to come...
"nolens volens" - this one is the Latin root of the common phrase 'willy nilly', stemming from the Old English phrase 'wil-he, nil-he' meaning 'will he or will he not'. I liked the sound of it and it fit my then state of apathetic indecision.
"talis qualis" - the continuation of the rhyming latin is purely coincindental, however nicely it rings! I like this one for its simplicity; it means only 'as such' or 'just as it is', which for me stands to describe the content I've gathered here. There's no pretense and I'm not speaking as an authority...so this is it.
"respice, adspice, prospice" - no, nothing to do with spices here. It means 'to look back, look to the present, and to the future'. Maybe the reader should read old posts and look forward to new ones. Also, it's a cue for me to be more contemplative and conscious of this life's path. Possibly, I just need to get some Mexican food soon!
More name changes to come...
Musical Titles...
Again, the need for clarification arises as the name of this blog continues to change. I realize, admittedly, that the constant moniker juggling probably makes it tough for searchers to find the site by name, although the url remains the same. No matter - the changes are meant to keep my approach fresh, even as my gripes may become stale. To begin the next round:
'sol omnia regit' - this is meant to remind me and the curious reader that the sun rules over us all. Life continues even in the face of struggle and suffering. The world breathes even if its lungs sting and wither. Even this blog whimpers and drags itself on...fortunately vel non ;)
Swimming at the Airport...
This Labor Day, I spent some precious moments immersed in the immense reservoir that is Lake Lanier. While submerged, I enjoyed the company of the previously introduced canine, Tallulah, who becomes more at ease in the water with every visit, provided sticks and tennis balls abound. The only drawback during this lovely, if brief, excursion into Lanier's shallow bathwater was, well, the rest of the world.
From our vantage point on an island (these days more a drought-borne peninsula), Tallulah and I floated, treaded, and dog-paddled for a short while until it seemed we were totally surrounded by humanity, each being executing his or her willful right to relaxation. The irony of the scene was that very relaxation that all sought simultaneously was what was keeping me and countless others from achieving any real serenity. Mindfulness surely would have served me well at that moment but for my inexperience with 'wet zazen', or zazen of any sort.
The people seemed to come from almost all directions by water. First, the mosquito-like buzz-bys of personal watercraft, the Sea-doo jetski, made their aural assaults. The crafts' operators, ranging from middle-aged and pot-bellied to pre-pubescent and thoughtless, were clearly oblivious of others in the lake or on its shores. Even hugging the cracked and dried shoreline, Tallulah and I were whipped by the jetskis' roiling wakes, testing my patience for Southern boaters, rattling the doggy's fragile aqua-confidence.
The auditory barrage continued throughout our swim, at times rising to a multi-octave cacophony of inboard cigarette boat rumblings, pontoon boat whirrs, and partybarges zooming sluggishly on the now turbulent lake. Skiers and wakeboarders sliced through the green water and red clay murk, led by Mastercrafts and rust buckets alike. Any calm, any inclining of peace was engulfed on all sides by an obnoxious echoing of wakes, the fumes of the carbon-burning-maniacs, the day off, drunken hollers of all who dedicated themselves to recreation on that holiday. Bobbing there, keeping on the surface to stay visible, I felt like a duck might, one who'd found its way to a cooling puddle centered in a vast empty concrete field, threatened with every webbed kick by the aluminum giants taking flight all around.
Regardless of class, race, creed, or social standing, those on the lake that day must have at least noticed the extent to which our 'good times' were affecting the environment around us. So, by the end of the weekend, the lake and all its struggling native creatures had the chance to drink in the rainbow oil slicks and litter strewn all about, gifts from its patrons on that very free day in the heart of a very free land. It is fitting though that a man-made, fingery "lake" such as Lanier should be so ecologically tortured by the very same folks who drink it up, feed their lawns, and wash their clothes and bodies with it daily. Even in times of scarcity, it is remote to think that we might cherish the natural elements. Instead, we manipulate the Earth's forms, turn valleys into lakebeds, and proceed to rape the rains of better years with machines made for the pleasure of men who behave more like parasites.
Still, with all the distractions, the dip was a cooling one and I can now say that the time spent was well-spent. Tallulah would agree that the trip was worthwhile, hot as it was that day, although she'd prefer a more placid scenario in which to master her paddling technique.
From our vantage point on an island (these days more a drought-borne peninsula), Tallulah and I floated, treaded, and dog-paddled for a short while until it seemed we were totally surrounded by humanity, each being executing his or her willful right to relaxation. The irony of the scene was that very relaxation that all sought simultaneously was what was keeping me and countless others from achieving any real serenity. Mindfulness surely would have served me well at that moment but for my inexperience with 'wet zazen', or zazen of any sort.
The people seemed to come from almost all directions by water. First, the mosquito-like buzz-bys of personal watercraft, the Sea-doo jetski, made their aural assaults. The crafts' operators, ranging from middle-aged and pot-bellied to pre-pubescent and thoughtless, were clearly oblivious of others in the lake or on its shores. Even hugging the cracked and dried shoreline, Tallulah and I were whipped by the jetskis' roiling wakes, testing my patience for Southern boaters, rattling the doggy's fragile aqua-confidence.
The auditory barrage continued throughout our swim, at times rising to a multi-octave cacophony of inboard cigarette boat rumblings, pontoon boat whirrs, and partybarges zooming sluggishly on the now turbulent lake. Skiers and wakeboarders sliced through the green water and red clay murk, led by Mastercrafts and rust buckets alike. Any calm, any inclining of peace was engulfed on all sides by an obnoxious echoing of wakes, the fumes of the carbon-burning-maniacs, the day off, drunken hollers of all who dedicated themselves to recreation on that holiday. Bobbing there, keeping on the surface to stay visible, I felt like a duck might, one who'd found its way to a cooling puddle centered in a vast empty concrete field, threatened with every webbed kick by the aluminum giants taking flight all around.
Regardless of class, race, creed, or social standing, those on the lake that day must have at least noticed the extent to which our 'good times' were affecting the environment around us. So, by the end of the weekend, the lake and all its struggling native creatures had the chance to drink in the rainbow oil slicks and litter strewn all about, gifts from its patrons on that very free day in the heart of a very free land. It is fitting though that a man-made, fingery "lake" such as Lanier should be so ecologically tortured by the very same folks who drink it up, feed their lawns, and wash their clothes and bodies with it daily. Even in times of scarcity, it is remote to think that we might cherish the natural elements. Instead, we manipulate the Earth's forms, turn valleys into lakebeds, and proceed to rape the rains of better years with machines made for the pleasure of men who behave more like parasites.
Still, with all the distractions, the dip was a cooling one and I can now say that the time spent was well-spent. Tallulah would agree that the trip was worthwhile, hot as it was that day, although she'd prefer a more placid scenario in which to master her paddling technique.
The Energy Ball
Despite its overly clever name, the science behind this renewable energy technology seems remarkably promising. It would be brilliant to see these sprouting from the roofs and chimneys of every dwelling on the block. The following link provides info on this breakthrough wind turbine highlighting its electrical productivity even in low wind areas. http://www.home-energy.com/engels/ebv100.htm
28.8.08
Gray Pride...
Although I've yet to achieve a full head of silver, I am beginning to realize that my notions on aging have begun to change. This seems to be happening in conjunction with the graying behind my temples and the gradually more frequent discovery of rogue, white strands hiding in my beard.
Somehow, it has become a part of my perception of aging that going gray is something to dread. That perspective may be rooted in childhood memories of my parents faces and the locks of family friends, having watched these people I literally looked up to begin to dimly glow from their heads even after dusk. Now, I'd say if one's mop transforms itself into a shimmer-in-the-dark type of bird's nest, then so it goes. That's how you'll know you've lived through struggle or simply walked through a less-than carefree life.
Unfortunately, I've lost most of my hair already, and the little I have left is starting to tell the tale of my past without any utterance on my part. Soon the salt will begin to win its battle with the pepper and that will be it! Maybe I don't fear this transition because of my early fondness for the comedy of Steve Martin or my juvenile attraction to a friend's buxom mother who began consistently frosting her hair at the first notice of a gray.
At its heart, I think the general "dismay at gray" for most comes not from the change in our superficial identity but the indication that the rest of the physiology stands on the edge of some wicked kind of tumble, an unstoppable, end-over-end plunge into a geriatric abyss with no hope of escape except by means of death.
It might be best to look to those who we regard to have aged gracefully - Paul Newman, for me, is one. He and Helen Mirren would make a lovely elderly couple, playing shuffleboard in slow motion, feathery, flickering locks waving in the breeze. For now, I'll choose to relish the debut of each new player in the drama between darkness and light that unfolds, daily and irreversibly, on my head.
Somehow, it has become a part of my perception of aging that going gray is something to dread. That perspective may be rooted in childhood memories of my parents faces and the locks of family friends, having watched these people I literally looked up to begin to dimly glow from their heads even after dusk. Now, I'd say if one's mop transforms itself into a shimmer-in-the-dark type of bird's nest, then so it goes. That's how you'll know you've lived through struggle or simply walked through a less-than carefree life.
Unfortunately, I've lost most of my hair already, and the little I have left is starting to tell the tale of my past without any utterance on my part. Soon the salt will begin to win its battle with the pepper and that will be it! Maybe I don't fear this transition because of my early fondness for the comedy of Steve Martin or my juvenile attraction to a friend's buxom mother who began consistently frosting her hair at the first notice of a gray.
At its heart, I think the general "dismay at gray" for most comes not from the change in our superficial identity but the indication that the rest of the physiology stands on the edge of some wicked kind of tumble, an unstoppable, end-over-end plunge into a geriatric abyss with no hope of escape except by means of death.
It might be best to look to those who we regard to have aged gracefully - Paul Newman, for me, is one. He and Helen Mirren would make a lovely elderly couple, playing shuffleboard in slow motion, feathery, flickering locks waving in the breeze. For now, I'll choose to relish the debut of each new player in the drama between darkness and light that unfolds, daily and irreversibly, on my head.
26.8.08
The Devil's Rain
Long ago, I read somewhere that when it rains in full sunshine, it's called the 'Devil's Rain'. Somehow the elements of the name seem contradictory: the sun being positive and hopeful and the rain, a typically dreary part of life. Personally, I seem to see rain as a life-giving element for our garden and the all of Earth's gardens. Too much rain, of course, leads to disaster, failed crops, disease, and misery. Not enough yields just the same.
As for today's so called 'Devil's Rain', I'd say it was exemplary. The droplets were rotund divebombers, smashing the pavement outside the building with all the force that terminal velocity could provide. The backsplashing of each crashing drop gave off its own crown-shaped ringlet of resonance, dimpling the puddles and sending tiny waves in all directions. The sun shined throughout, giving the whole shower an eerie, vibrant quality. Just as quickly as it whipped up, pushed here by the residual energy of a lingering tropical storm, it was over.
As for today's so called 'Devil's Rain', I'd say it was exemplary. The droplets were rotund divebombers, smashing the pavement outside the building with all the force that terminal velocity could provide. The backsplashing of each crashing drop gave off its own crown-shaped ringlet of resonance, dimpling the puddles and sending tiny waves in all directions. The sun shined throughout, giving the whole shower an eerie, vibrant quality. Just as quickly as it whipped up, pushed here by the residual energy of a lingering tropical storm, it was over.
24.8.08
The True Originals at Improv Everywhere...
If you've never heard of Improv Everywhere, you'll be pleasantly surprised and amused after a visit to their extensive site full of links to ingenious & creative social projects
(some would came them 'pranks'). These folks incorporate modern technology, social networking, and group dynamics to engineer some very unique and entertaining 'events' mostly in urban areas around the U.S. All of the content is better to see than to read about, clearly, so it's a must to check out their site at http://improveverywhere.com/ . Enjoy the evidence that in the masses, there is plenty of room for fun and infinite power for change.
Some of my favorite participatory works are:
Slo-Mo Home Depot
Sychronized Swimming in Washington Square Park
Cellphone Symphony
No Pants 2K6
Check these out; you'll surely smile!
(some would came them 'pranks'). These folks incorporate modern technology, social networking, and group dynamics to engineer some very unique and entertaining 'events' mostly in urban areas around the U.S. All of the content is better to see than to read about, clearly, so it's a must to check out their site at http://improveverywhere.com/ . Enjoy the evidence that in the masses, there is plenty of room for fun and infinite power for change.
Some of my favorite participatory works are:
Slo-Mo Home Depot
Sychronized Swimming in Washington Square Park
Cellphone Symphony
No Pants 2K6
Check these out; you'll surely smile!
18.8.08
James 'Super Chikan' Johnson
Every so often, over the past ten years or so, I'll throw in the one recording I own by Super Chikan. Before today, I thought this was the name of a band (and a good name it is for a group). Now, I've discovered my erroneous thinking and I'm glad I did. It turns out the name 'Super Chikan' actually refers to one James Johnson of Clarksdale, MS. Besides his funky brand of Delta blues, the man has a great story behind the interesting title. According to the Mississippi (yep, still using the old tune to spell that one!) Folklife & Folk Artist Directory at
http://www.arts.state.ms.us/folklife/artist.php?dirname=johnson_james, due to Mr. Johnson's fascination with the chicken in his yard as a boy, he garnered his first nickname, 'Chicken Boy'. Later, as a rather expeditious taxidriver, he gained the 'Super' part of his name and he's gone by that combined title ever since.
I first enjoyed his singing style on a tune all about how he had spent plenty of money on his lady and her hair care products (24 cans of hairspray) only to arrive home after work to find her snazzy hairdo all "messed up", presumptively by some unwlecomed suitor. This is some pretty serious business that Super Chikan approaches with plenty of levity, making the song a lot of fun. The rest of what I heard so long ago was just plain old good blues music with a funky flair.
Aside from the good quality music, Mr. Johnson is also well-known for his handmade, scrap metal 'Chicantars' as he calls them. The pictures reveal a wide variety of instruments made form oil and gas cans among other sheet metals. I'm not sure that the recordings I've heard were made on these incredibly original instruments, but if they were, then all the more impressive is his sound, in my opinion. Some 'Chicantars' for your own feasting eyes:
Listen to Super Chikan 'cause he knows what he's talkin' about!
Where I'm From...
As universal as the phrase may sound, to me, the lead in "where I'm from" will always evoke the lyrics of Brooklyn-based hip-hop group Digable Planets. Their song by the same title is an ode to their native NYC borough with many a reference to Flatbush Ave, flamboyant street vendors, Jamaican hairdressers, idle kids finding innocent trouble, and the inevitable heat of summer in the city.For me, where I'm from conjures up an entirely different brand of memory. My native land is one of subtle beauty, nothing as grand as the peaks of the Colorado Rockies, the temperate rainforests of the Olympic peninsula, or the vibrant coral reefs of Kauai, but somehow equally remarkable. No, where I'm from is filled with gentle hills, shady valleys, old beech-maple groves, and most of all, miles of crystalline, fresh water coast.
This is not to say that my place of origin beats anyone else's ~ far from it. We all have different roots and these are shaped, in part, by the landscape of our individual childhood and adolescent experiences, the places where we first howl with laughter, kiss, pray, cry, love and tumble down the knoll. In my life, I've loved the glimpses I've gained of the homelands of others, places that seem warm and welcoming in a way that is familiar but not native, not ingrained in my cells like the fair view of whitecaps carrying pollen and algae from another peninsula.
No matter what locale I may inhabit at present, it is my past that continues to define my identity. Someday soon I hope I will be able to relate to a new land in the way that I relate to the verdant place of my birth. Each place I go seems to hold its own unique features, the features that make it dear to those who've grown there. Down here in the South, it seems to be the lazily flowing rivers, deep green forests snarled with Kudzu and ivy, and the iron rich clay hard under every step. More so, here, I get the feeling that what defines this place are the muggy nights swinging on the porch with a glass of cool tea, the strolling through the neighborhood under a canopy of live oaks and mistletoe, all the while delighting in the cicadas' cacophonous serenade.
14.8.08
The Photography of Greg Seman...
Among photographers, those who practice traditional film and printing techniques are fewer all the time. Of this dwindling breed, I consider Greg Seman to be one of the medium's finest visual representatives. His work is straightforward, eloquent, and tremendously beautiful without offering up any pretense. He seems to approach his natural subject matter with very few preconceptions and for the viewer, the result is an intricate and accurate representation of his vision.
It's true that there are plenty of other talented photographers currently producing work in this vein. However, Seman is one who seems to effortlessly convey the subtle beauty of his varied subjects. His formal compositions are balanced and clear, which helps to surround the viewer with emotional impact, easing one into the presentation of these uniquely beautiful places.
13.8.08
Gunnar Norrman Drypoint Prints
Now, I'm fully getting in the mood to make prints. I came upon this gentleman's fine work via another blog around here. His style seems very compact and precise, although he seems to keep things simple and fairly austere. It could be the monochromatic approach or the common, natural subject matter. Whatever it is, it appeals to my own personal aesthetic and I hope to get a chance to see some of his work in person one day.
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