Not much of a book

I suppose this time of year one should be most charitable in both heart and wallet. I have the latter out of the way, and while filled with love for those I cherish and good will for the merest acquaintance, after purchasing and reading my step-cousin's tell-all book, I am afraid I can muster a mere modicum of the former for her.

I initially thought to compare my duty to some degree of compassion for her, albeit highly contrived, to the contract one might make with oneself regarding porn sites on the Sabbath, for the analogy would fit a construct that disregards the pangs of guilt of an unrealized resolve the other six days of the week. The subject matter of this small tome suggests the parallels as well: a salaciousness that is for the most part empty of merit. Yet there is no release to be found in these pages except as a relief that it is brief.

Thirty-one chapters and an epilogue (preparing us for the sequel) in the span of 109 pages of 12-point type might begin to give a clue as to the skill of the author, yet there are books of poetry that maintain a similar word count to achieve the sublime. One might even overlook the oversight of a comment about a character before said person was properly introduced as some kind of experimental foreshadowing of the plot. Yet, I cannot understand a description of an event interrupted with an editorial "blah, blah blah" as anything more than laziness or a recognition of the blandness of the book itself. 

Far be it from me to suggest that my command of the language or genre is without similar fault. My inadequacies would fill a bottomless pit if those shortcomings were not responsible for the excavation itself. Yet, even such humility does not prevent an assessment that is less than kind.

Not that there is not some compassion to be found for a young girl who was raped at thirteen years old. However, although there is a brief outline of the event and its bloody aftermath, the word "rape" is not used in that chapter. The story line that immediately preceded and followed tells of a very young girl given the body of someone more physically mature, and of these attributes she was fully aware, using them to garner attention at the swimming hole, along the streets of her small town and in her trips to the bathroom as she passed the bedroom of her step-brother twelve years her senior. This book is about her relationship with this man, the love of her life and the recipient of her pre and extramarital, and eventual nuptial affections until his death a few years ago.

The tragedy is compounded by a partial awareness of a longing for a replacement for her deceased, alcoholic father, something the author acknowledges as the reason behind much of her behavior, yet the more subtle manifestations that led to a life of additional poor choices appear to have eluded her some forty-plus years later. One might even suggest that the need to expose her history to a larger audience is to the same effect: attention at any cost.

As I have mentioned in an earlier post, I was present for a brief period of time in the earlier years of this story and know certain details of her life since. I can confirm that her portrayal of her promiscuous childhood is accurate. However, key elements of that time, plus the damage to others because of her dysfunctional life have been left out. This is, no doubt, for the sake of the tale's arc and it allows for a fictional element that may be the saving grace of an otherwise hackneyed, trite and pathetic first endeavor.  

Good for the soul

The gut thing has found me in a foul mood the last several days, yet I shall not bother you with the details except to say that it is a good thing the sun attempted to show itself today.

The wife had told me about pumpkins still laying in a field south of us a good twenty miles. She mentioned it because she knew that a few weeks ago I came home disappointed after planning to take photographs in a ten-acre field of pie pumpkins alongside the interstate. I saw them one day, another, and then thought that my flags would look nice amongst all of that orange and dirt (the leafy matter and vines long rotted away). In that I had to take that road the following day, I did not stop, or rather, turn around at the next exit (for the flags and camera are always in the rig). The next day... they had been plowed under.

And, in that the sun had teased today, I thought to make the trip to the remaining patch.

Test #13

As you can see, the sun was not as accommodating as I would have liked. It was there, behind me, but its glow softened by clouds.

I have gotten ahead of myself.

As readers know, these trips out into the country revitalize me. Although I have been on these same roads many, many times, I never tire of them: The hills, the trees, the river and creeks, the fauna... I was singing along with lined-out hymnodies by Old Regular Baptists. I could feel myself purging the bile and was glad to see the diner, Shirley May's, I thought had closed for good had a lunchtime crowd. I counted two raptors devouring their prey roadside and at least five nutria as road kill. And I am sorry to say there is likely a Western Jay in my grill. (I forgot to check but felt the thunk.) I thought to write a poem about all of this.

Then a toilet break.

More clouds seemed to be rolling in, but I wasn't ready to call it a day. I called the wife to say I'd be taking the long way home, for I had another location in mind for a flag photo.

Thomas Creek

 Test #14

Served with a smile

We've had an appointment for a couple weeks for the local phone co-op to install our fiber optic line from the road into the house. I was just about to make a call to find out if they were running late or we had been forgotten when I saw them pull in the drive. I opened the door while the technician was still about twenty feet from the back door.

"Saw ya comin'."

"Well, sir, I am about to provide you with a state-of-the-art service that will make this cloudy, rainy day seem like one on which the sun is brightly shining on you and yours!"

Finding it a little strange that there should be a sales pitch forthcoming for a product and service we have already purchased, I replied, "You sound like a Jehovah's Witness."

In this neck of the woods, one should know better than to make such a statement. Yet, after some embarrassment and a couple apologies, we had a lovely conversation based on mutual, certainly more general ethics, beliefs and opinions. We even discussed whether the internet in its pervasiveness was inhumane and to what extent it effected familial relationships. He related how his house rules conflict with his children's friend's visits to his home. I could feel a mini-sermon coming on and interrupted.

"Again, I am sorry for any offense."

"Don't worry, I get it all the time."

I am not unfamiliar with their doctrine: "I have a couple friends who were raised as Jehovah's Witnesses, but in that they are both gay, they have been shunned."

Oddly likening their predisposition to drunk driving, he asserted, "Well, there's always free will." And knowing that I would not be able to dissuade him from such a perspective, chose to end our chat with a story.

"I'm an artist, so I see things a bit off kilter sometimes. When we started farming, one of the things that bothered me was the perniciousness of some of the weeds, and when you farm organically, it's tough to get rid of them on a wholesale basis. I asked myself what I could use to kill weeds besides a hoe.

"Now, I know from large-scale farming that a type of ammonia is used on crops as a fertilizer, but use too much, and you'll kill the plant. Urine has ammonia in it, and I had a ready supply of piss, so I decided to see if I could kill a weed just by peeing on it on a daily basis. And, because I'm an artist, I thought to videotape the process.

"I chose a thistle just starting to come up by the barn door there. Every day I'd pee on it, camera in one hand and up to my eye while I aimed with the other hand. Well, sir, one day while I had my eye stuck to the viewfinder, a van full of female JWs pulled up in the drive, but I didn't see them until I was done with my business and they were backing up."

We had a good chuckle but we did get down to business immediately thereafter. And it is only now, several hours later, I wonder if his "wife of eighteen years" had been in the van.

Book preview

I've gone ahead and done it, ordered the tell-all book by my step cousin. Half price, mind you, online. Read the reviews, all five stars. Salacious stars, no doubt, for this tale of love between step children, she of early blossom and the male drinking age.

And her mother still with us...

And the reviews speak of a sequel.

"She writes lovely letters," so says another relative.

"I've been meaning to tell you for several weeks that the book has been published," says my mother. "She's having a signing this week at the deli," and another one is in the works at the hotel over in the county seat.

"And why would you want to buy the book, Mom?"

"To help her out."

"To encourage her."

I was there for some of it and I can tell you she wasn't picky... at least regarding which step-brother. It was just a matter of which one was the wiser of the two.

Not that I am completely innocent. Well, in fact, I was innocent, as in thirteen years old, but also with those surges. Well, not exactly surges, for it seemed constant, or at least embarrassingly inconvenient in that tight pants were all the rage. No telling what had I copped the feel I bargained for but failed to acquire as that other brother would not kiss her first.

I suppose I should be grateful. For my mother's sake.

Proportion

Poker, I've played my share, including a home game last night and a trip to the casino today. I had thought, albeit last minute and very briefly, to hop on a flight to Vegas for the WBPT, but realistically knew that four or five days away might be too much of a drain on my constitution, not to mention an expense I didn't know I could justify despite the support of the wife.

So, in short, last night's game was a card-dead wash and today saw a double-up in a few short hours. "In short" because although I wanted to tell you about the set of Kings and the Aces against Queens, something far more interesting happened elsewhere in the building.

Yet, before I go on, I have a little set-up:

A few days ago, an old PAO friend, John (AKA Mad Mosby) wrote to say he would be making the drive to our local rez casino and asked if I wanted to go. We met in the poker room where I found him at a 2/5 table. Just watching the huge pots made Thumper flutter despite the beta blocker, and I thought that even were I able to afford that game, I would not be able to justify putting that much money on the line just for entertainment. I was happy when John later informed me that he had done quite well.

Then we went to dinner.

The plan was that John would head home and I wold hit the 1/3 tables again after eating. We said our goodbyes, and I headed back to the poker room. Then I remembered I should call the wife and headed outdoors. John was coming back inside. He changed his mind and decided to play roulette for a little while. Having never played roulette, nor wanting to, I was nevertheless curious and decided to watch.

We both watched for a while, and then we again said farewell.

But I couldn't bring myself to go back into the poker room. Dinner set too heavy, which meant my head would not be in the game, so I played a slot, broke even and decided to call it a night.

John was playing roulette.

Now, as I said, we had watched this game for a while. The table was full at one point and the chips were flying. I guess 37 to 1 odds will do that, but it was the Asian couple on the far corner that caught my attention, for while she was putting a hundred or so in play each roll, her husband was placing out anywhere from 900 to 1,000 dollars all over the board.

Both were well dressed. He had some card in front of him on which he wrote after each roll. While we watched, he managed to stay about even. When I found John the second time, no more than a half hour later, he informed me that the guy had already gone through $7,000 in that time, and I watched him go through another 2K in ten minutes.

My lord.

But it wasn't just him. And the house was killing. Granted, others had less but everyone except John seemed intent on getting all or most of their chips on as many numbers as they thought "prudent." All bent forward over the board placing chips like charms, it was more like ritualized hysteria than a game. And perhaps knowing that success was surely fleeting, no one smiled when they won.

And while I could pat myself on the back for sticking with a game I knew I could beat, I also knew that nothing could beat the warm fire and bright smile waiting an hour away, so we said our final goodnight.

A quick poem

Fountains in the yard where moles and gophers 
once roamed. Small back flow in the basement.  
The pond is over its banks. 
Little sun breaks turn to a starry night 
and thin ice on the porch.

I flop Jacks Full on a spades draw board but fold 
with three players in to that black King turned
and a reraise, re-reraise, all-in, 
call. Flip 'em. The one-outer comes 
on the river for a Royal.

No Spring-Back Chicken

So, I was in Illinois, first at my Mom's for five days and then in Chicago for three. Mom's a bit of a pack rat. Not a hoarder, mind you, but her sentimentality does get the best of her, enough so that her car sat in the drive. Twenty contractor bags later, we're still friends. Now there's plenty of room for the vehicle and just in time for her eightieth birthday.

Good son.

Then Chicago. And on the first night, scotch. Lots of it. These people hadn't seen me in many years: some just three years; some more like twenty. I couldn't say no, could I?

I should have.

This was early. It was also a bit of frivolity as the officer who has my arm wrenched behind my back is a friend of friends. I asked for a photo with him and got a little more than I expected. That's my bad arm, so maybe the booze was a good thing at this point.

But not later. Not five hours later.

Yet, I must say that I haven't laughed so much in one evening in a long, long time. I forgot my troubles and ills, and I wasn't reminded of the latter until the next morning and for the next thirty-six hours, most of which found me asleep.

That was a week ago. Let's just say my acupuncturist was none too pleased this week.

Lesson learned? Yes. In fact, lessons.

But I'm still a bit too exhausted to list them out. (And hence, my prolonged absence.) Just thought you folks would get a kick out of the photo.

Poker....

Truth be told, I have not been very good at hanging around the house and resting as I was told to do. I've been fishing once and tried to go again today, except the rivers are too swollen with the recent rains.

I thought that might be the case and came prepared. You see, the highway to the river I wanted to hit passes right by the local casino, so I brought three hundo. Just in case.

Now, if I was to have put on my waders instead, getting to the river at dawn would have been part of the plan; and it was, but one slip on a deserted bank would have found me  feeding crabs part of my face and hands a few miles further downstream. A losing day at the casino would be a better option, but arriving at 0815 hrs finds an equally empty poker room.

"How long before things get going in here?"

"About nine."

So I fooled around with $20 in the penny slots for a while and checked back occasionally until I saw a table full of white chips. Yeah, I'd play Limit for a bit in hopes of a NL table opening before dinner.

"You gonna play in the tournament?" an older gentleman asked.

"No."

"It's cheap. 40 bucks."

And by the time I got my rack of whites, the table broke for said tourney, so I bought in.

The levels were 20 minutes, 3K in chips, 25/50 to start. By the end of the first level I was short stack on the table. AK and JJ didn't cooperate, loosing both to the same codger. Yet, by the fourth level I had a well above average stack and he was gone. AA and QQ held up nicely, as did some well-timed aggression. And so it went until the final table. I did manage to make the bubble (4th) and jammed with my three big blinds from the big blind with deuces. (The first time I was able to actually defend my blinds.) Spades. Nice hand, sir.

Oh well.

Truth be told, I had a couple cups of joe beforehand. And, having not had any for a while, let me tell you I noticed a difference. I was wired for sound when I first sat down. And then I remembered my little tin with gum, Immodium and Thumper pills. I was chomping the gum, I was plugged up for the time being, and by the second level I was as cool as the seasoned pro.

So, I would like to dedicate this post to beta blockers.

Well enough alone

I'm still quite capable of running errands or taking drives into the country.  The above was taken behind our vet's clinic. I thought to add my flags to the scene but a tad bit of self-consciousness snuck in as another vehicle pulled into the lot.  Out in the sticks, it's not an issue.

OK, I'm back.

Kind of... Enough, anyway, to try to redeem myself with another, more readable essay. Be sure to check out the links at the bottom, especially the first one. It gives a good picture of the environment in which the photos were taken.

I haven't gone public with the following yet, but you guys are special. I have been ordered by the medical folks to curtail my travels to the city, except, of course to keep my appointments with them. Seems I was beating a nearly-dead horse, largely fueled by coffee and Pepto.

Yeah, I know. How rough is it to work from home with a road trip twice a week to look at art?

My one editor, the one that pays a living wage, took it pretty well. The other one I'll wait to tell as he owes me money. The former has suggested I work on my memoirs and do some broader cultural commentary pieces for him at my leisure, at least until I get to feeling like my old self.

And when, exactly, will that be? I was told a year. I'm hoping it's considerably less, for it's not just the city stuff that she wants me to forgo: Trips of any kind, certainly that wood pile, and anything else that causes stress or exertion. (Judging from the way my gut and Thumper reacted last night, this includes poker.)

Well, it's going to have to wait a bit. I have one more obligation up north and need to go help my Mom in a couple weeks. In the meantime I will do as I'm told as best as I can by confining my activities to the studio. Upon my return I need to organize the thousands of photos I have (mostly trashing) and ready myself for a March exhibit.

I do need to turn this ship around in case we get a buyer for this place next spring.

I think it's also time I write a piece about an eccentric relative...

And hey, thanks for being there.

Metaphor for my week

The low tide is twelve to eighteen hour of sleep each day. See you when I get back on my feet.

Oddities

Grass field burns yesterday and day before. The latest I've seen, but given the air quality from the forest fires, understandable. That and today it's raining for the first time since early July.

Found a stupidly bingo-ish PLO full table. Apparently they're regulars to this game nightly. Variance is massive but I'm still making fake money by the worthless hand fulls.

And speaking of "nothing," I have another essay published. If you've thought others esoteric, just wait until you read this one.

And I've gone ahead and started putting away the firewood. The pile is tarped right now, but I kinda amazed myself yesterday by enduring several hours of hauling and stacking. And my back hurts just a little.

Bad calls

"Why would you go all in?" She turned to look at me.

"Why would you go all in?" I tried to get a read. She gave me nothing. What did she have?

Home game last night. I was dealing. Three players limped, as did I with 86d.  The flop was 34Jd.

A woman in MP bet $6. Gloria in the CO called, as did I.  The turn was an 8c. The first woman checked.

Gloria pushed in her stack. "I'm all in."

I was doing pretty good for a change. The home games haven't been too good for me lately. Not that I've been attending on a regular basis, what with work calling me away on many a Friday evening. But when I've gone, the cards haven't cooperated. I started hitting hands as soon as I sat down last night, and it therefore crossed my mind that things were changing for the better.

"What could you have that would make you go all in?

You may remember me writing about Gloria in my previous incarnation. She is Randy's wife, then new girlfriend back when Randy had a twice-monthly game. At the time I worried that our game would disappear, especially after she moved in with him. As it turns out, Gloria quite likes the game.

And the thing is, I have a pretty good handle on her game.

She flats on the flop, jams on the turn. The 8 helps nobody unless they have a set. But there's a flush on the board. I flatted the flop with the flush. Did my flat suggest I was on a one card draw? Was she protecting a set of fours or threes, or even Jacks? I've seen her limp preflop with Kings more than once.

Kick me.

The river was the 2d, giving her the steel wheel.

The hand haunted me for an hour.

Yeah, hindsight. Add to it that you weren't in the hand, which makes it easier, especially for you guys who play a better game than I. And, if I hadn't been in the hand, I would have known exactly what she had. Like I said, I know her game.

Gloria is a sweetheart. She plays because of the social component, and because of that, she's not there to ruin anyone's night. And so she telegraphs her nut hands by overbetting.

Kick me.

I had her covered but not by enough to keep playing effectively without reloading, so I dropped another fifty in the kitty. By the end of the night I was up $21.50, so I'm happy.

Randy, on the other hand, not so much.

As the night progressed, the host's son and daughter-in-law showed up, giving us 12 players, so we split up into two6-handed tables. I said goodbye to my money as Gloria was moved, but I now had randy to my right. King nit, master of getting sucked out on, pouter supreme.

The host's kids were at our table. They love watching the WSOP on TV. They both by in short. The daughter-in-law begins to amass a few chips, mostly from her hubby, but also with a tad bit of aggression.

Wayne limps from early position, as does the DIL and hubby. In the BB, Randy pops it up to match the pot. Wayne three bets and both DIL and hubby call. Just so we're clear, there's now $44.50 in the pot. Randy tanks and then bets $30. Wayne folds, DIL calls, and hubby tosses in his last $17. The flop comes with two clubs, Randy jams, DIL calls and flips over KJc. Yep, crubs. Say no more.

To Randy's credit, or perhaps because he had her covered and still has chips, he doesn't storm off, choosing instead to lecture her about making such a preflop call with bad cards.

"But those were good cards."

I smelled blood.

Hubby helped her stack her winnings, counted out a few stacks and said, "This is what we bought in for. Do not play with these chips."

I know a fake yawn when I hear one.

To her credit, she bet me off of top pair, so-so kicker. And, of course, when the time came, her Aces held up quite nicely.

Waggin' and braggin'

Just killin' PLO.

Little Mr. Sunshine

3.5 cords of wood remain to be stacked in the barn. The wife says we can tarp the pile should it come to that. My back tends to agree.

Been a rather rough last few days, not because of the wood, but the anterior portion of my torso that shares in discomfort. The gut issues seem to be longing for the needles of relief, the sludge alone no longer enough to calm things down. Appointment is more than a week away, this after a month without, and I will admit to some degree of frustration.

We have called in the troops: tree trimmers, landscapers, a handyman and painters, hoping that the expense will be justified come spring when the place goes up for sale. The plan was to do most of this work myself over the summer despite orders from the medical folks to resist. And now I am considering a couple high school jocks to finish the woodpile, but in that decision lingers a fate I'd rather not admit to. No doubt, I have done this to myself to a large degree.

Coffee curtailed. And perhaps knowing this was coming, no booze for two weeks now.

Such a downer.

However, I did manage to go fishing last Thursday. Saw fish, but the water, as clear and low as it was, they also saw me and would have nothing to do with the morsels placed in front of their noses. Waxing moon did not help.

The road to and fro fishing spots passes a casino. It was on the fro side I called the wife to say I was going to check out the poker room. 3-6 Limit and 1-3 NL. Two stacks of red became 1.5 stacks after 2.5 hours of up and down. Mostly 2-6 and 2-9 off (three time each), defended my blinds a few times, and big suited starters went nowhere with four callers. I will say that had I stayed longer, there would have been a good chance of a big stack as post-flop was generally atrocious and playing styles predictable.

Yet, Thumper threatened and the comfort of home beckoned.

Shortly thereafter, paragraph two began.

I did get a photo. Taken with my iPod.

Another nap is in order. Then wood?

Picture this

Lots of little things:

A couple more essays. Here's the latest. Pretty mild, as is the show. Editor says, "Good job," which keeps me self-assured, at least as far as a paycheck is concerned.

Went to Stars' O-8 since last I wrote. A couple times to PLO as well. 70K magically appeared in my account. Seems that way, as while I don't remember any serious suck-outs, yet the wins elude me as well. I do recall tripling up last night, only to leave with double. One thing remains consistent: few other players seem to notice that I fold pre-flop more than anyone else at the table, which in the parallel world of real poker would advise caution.

The field burn season is over, as is my photographing of the process. The wildfires on the other side of the mountain have seen to that, the smoke from them filling the valley like it was LA. (Acclimating me early, I suppose.) Precious few good shots this year, what with the reduced burnings and a lot of the grass seed fields plowed under and replaced with winter wheat or baled. Winter, for me, will entail readying the series for pimping.

I do wonder about the wisdom of so much writing about art, partly at the expense of time thinking about and working on my own. There is also the issue of the writing naming names, artists and galleries alike, which may not play in my favor when pursuing an exhibition for myself.

The wife has taken on more responsibilities with the Neighborhood Watch, adding lost pet notices and holding the hand of those bereaved over barn cats gone further astray. In all of the back and forth, mention is made that is news to us: a local cougar has been seen. No doubt, as it is common knowledge there are a number in the area, just elusive. So, when the wife says she's walking the dog at dusk now, I'll be accompanying her while staying silent as to why more than an opportunity to hold hands.

Lastly, the tribe of folks who live on a nearby mountain and are known to be aficionados of aboriginal musical instruments were in town today. Their car, you understand, not to mention attire, body markings and pierced accessories. They were loading up on many items in several of the same stores I was visiting, taking their time, conferring, seemingly a bit uncomfortable as if the credit card was borrowed. Items included a rifle scope and 600 rounds.

I'm figuring the Mayan thing and share such with the guy/poker pal behind the gun counter. "Shit," he says, "I'll be really pissed if it turns out to be true after working this dead-end job for the last two years."

I came home and mentioned a need for some new purchases.

For what?

Been playing PLO, play money, of course. I switched from O-8 a few weeks ago as I felt I was stuck in a rut bouncing around the 400K mark for too long. Not that the accumulation really matters beyond the amount of time involved and, hopefully, an indication of a certain level of skill. So, perhaps I'd lost some of the latter along the line somewhere and wasn't ready to face it, instead distracting myself with the memory of cleaning house in PLO early in my "play Money at Stars" days.

In no time at all I had added 25% to my roll. Now, for three days in a row I have been relieved of my buy-in plus substantial winnings on the table by gutshots and two-outers, odds be damned.



Yes, I know.

At least Thumper kept in his cage. Still, tonight I think I'd rather read a book.

It ain't pretty

I've been away again, this time for three days to cover an arts festival up in the city. Long days that bled into the nights. I saw a lot of performance art, painting, sculpture, and artists. A few friends as well, but for the most part I was left to my own devices, which means that when I was away from the art I sat outside of a bar, had a smoke, a scotch and coffee, all to work up the motivation to go back to my hotel room to write, get a few hours of sleep, write some more and then go out and see more art.

I ain't complaining, but it was exhausting.

I managed to knock out a short essay about one performance I saw. You ain't gonna like it. Or you might. Not quite sure how it's going to float, but it's out there.

Now, I can imagine that instead of clicking on the link and reading the essay before you continue to read this here blog, and knowing that all of you have a screen large enough to see what follows this paragraph, you're going to wonder what the hell is going on.

This young woman is self-flagellating with a home made cat o' nine tails. The whip has a contact microphone embedded in it. What you can't see is that she has another mic in her mouth and fake menstrual blood in the crotch of her shorts. I will review this performance, so I will spare you commentary at this point. I can't say that I will be kind. Generous, yes; kind, no.

And I will ask you to imagine my mood after having seen this bit one night after having seen the performance I wrote about.

Getting along

I don't like to go this long without posting. I really don't. And, I suppose had I taken my laptop with me to New York, I would have found the time. I was, after all, alone in my hotel room for hours on end each day, sleep came hard, I had a pint of scotch and a bucket of ice... all conducive to spew.

My daughter is now married. A simple ceremony in a park officiated by the city mayor, she made for a lovely bride, and better still, I like the guy. Old wounds appeared to have healed between her mother and I, and the thunder storm stayed away until well into the reception.

Matters at home were otherwise.

Due to a tight budget, the wife stayed back. Tight because we are readying the house and work was planned and going before the kids decided to get hitched (no, no shotgun). You see, as much as I'd have liked to do the work myself, I have orders to go easy on the sweat-inducing activities for the foreseeable future. Hence, the heavy writing schedule that keeps me away from here (I gotta make a buck, not to mention stay "active.") and us fed. It's complicated, but the bottom line is that we have to hire out, which meant the wife had to deal with the contractor and painting crew.

He said I used the term "cluster fuck," which I don't remember doing, even though it is in my lexicon. Of course, it was to some degree, so I might have to drive home the point that he was fired. And although he thinks I just needed someone to yell at because I couldn't do the work myself, well, that I won't admit because that ain't me.

Besides, he let the job go a bit too easy. No argument, really. He just came and fetched his stuff. Like there was something he wasn't telling us.

So, now we're in a race with the rains and I may be getting up on the roof anyway.

I still have four cords of wood to put up, plums and berries to pick, a lawn that needs mowed and I'm leaving again Wednesday for three days to cover an art thingy. (See above.)

I'm thinking a condo might be our next move. But that means constant proximity to people.

Maybe buy more ammo.

BTW, I'm all caught up on reading blogs.

Jaunt(y)

The wife and I took a couple days together in the city. As often as I go, the times together up there are few and far between. It's a production, what with the animals (pets) and check-list. Combine that with the fact that we are both rather fond of the homestead, going seems to be a bit of a sacrifice, except that we know we have to prime ourselves for the eventuality of city life again and there are people who live in cities whom we happen to enjoy.

My intern acupuncturist was graduating and it was high time the wife met my editor and his wife.

So we bit the bullet, endured the bumper-to-bumper and the multitude of homeless and had lovely conversations and meals.

The wife took her laptop while opted for my iPad. I mention this only because I had to use her machine to put this essay to bed.

And I mention the essay not only because I always do when one gets published, and mention it again in this sentence because I am awfully proud of the thing. And editor, artist (friend) and wife agree that it is quite good. So, please give it a read.

I took some pictures:

Ring of Fire

Perhaps it was the threat of rain today that forced a flurry of fields afire the past two. As is their practice, the plumes started rising into the sky around 1500 hrs and gained in frequency until a haze filled the valley.

I had things to do Monday, which I'll get to at some point, that prohibited a photo op. Yesterday I was free and clear and took full advantage. Or rather, I pursued the fires and photos until the light became such that contrast was unavailable.

No surprise that the sunset last night was as orange as it was.

I'll be heading out in another hour and a half to shoot some more and probably put another 100 miles on the new rig.

Yep. New rig.

Pooped to pop

Either too busy or too tired or both. Up to the city three times this week, coffee IV in my left arm. One essay written and posted, another one remains in note form waiting for the fog to clear.

Maybe it's all of the smoke, either from forest fires or grass field burnings (photos in the can from this morning). Whatever it is, would someone (me) stop beating this horse? It's already... No not quite yet; not by a long shot.

But man, I'm tired.

No idea why they call the town Riverside

I've just returned from a weekend east of LA. As I mentioned last week, another uncle has died, and I went for his memorial service.

It was a very interesting weekend and I came back with new insights about family and myself in that structure. Good stuff that I am frankly too tired to go into, yet I feel a bit better about moving down there should it come to that.

The real adjustment will be living in the landscape. Wholly unsustainable, this oil well masquerading as urban and suburban sprawl.

Back at it

Well, yes, I'm a bit excited. The light was good. The only thing wrong is that I didn't make sure my lens was clean on several shots. This one makes the cut out of a couple dozens shots. Still need to get a better lens for these long shots.

In other news, having grown weary with O-8, and hitting the 8 Game tables a bit more, I've played a bit of PLO. Guys don't understand betting at all. Good for me.

Will go out tomorrow morning and shoot some more. Funny thing though, there have not been any burns the last five days or so. Maybe because of the smoke from the Siberian fires that has made its way over here.

New review

If you're so inclined, thanks for reading it.

I've done better. The opening section is a bit rough, I suppose because I felt I had to remove some pretty harsh stuff. Too catty. Now, stiff.

Here you go

I note that it has been some time since I last wrote here. Again. I could say that since I have not had any photos worth posting, Mojo, I saw no need.

Soon, I will mark one year with Spot... No, a quick check shows that I missed the anniversary, August 2nd. That was the day I took the last photos I posted here, so it's a perfect world.

I have been thinking about photos, or rather, my photography that I'd like to think of as art as opposed to documentation, and in that, I am beginning to understand others who indulge the genre and are even more critical than I as to what constitutes photography as fine art. It's a hornet's nest of judgement calls having to do with more composition than observation, I suppose, and narrowing the field gives one something to do when not actually in the field snapping away. Just like my being coy when I really shouldn't bother you with this stuff anyway.

***

Speaking of coy, I'm a bit slow on the uptake sometimes. Combine that with preoccupied, I wonder if it is too late to extend birthday greetings. You kow who you are.

***

Another uncle has died. My mother's brother-in-law. Suddenly, but only because everyone thought he had turned a corner for the good. If you knew my Mom, you'd know how hard this is for her, first her younger brother last month and now this. I'll be headed out for the memorial service next week but the physical distance between family and myself during times like this makes me wish I lived closer.

There was a time when the death/wake/funeral span of time was shorter. Maybe it still is as a rule, yet it seems to me that ten days or two weeks is too long, even for an urn. Closure, it seems, is paramount even if it is elusive. Still, families are more spread out these days, with schedules too busy to pencil in a death.

I might have just kept my luggage packed.

***

The above was written a couple days ago. Since then I have taken some pictures, and had some taken. Those of you who have befriended me elsewhere, I apologize for the duplication.

Test #4

This series is getting some notice. Rather, positive comments from some discriminating types. For my part, I'm glad to have them as a project for although this is the time of year I would normally be out photographing the field burns, the ones I have seen that haven't already been plowed under are far from the road. I hesitate to trespass and my zoom lens sucks.  No doubt there will be more burning today and next week, so I will get the opportunity. But I'll take my flags along for the ride just in case.

Crown

Not for the squeamish. Long-timers will remember that my internal physiology is problematic. Everyone is talking and nobody is listening. Next week's procedure promises to be even more elaborate, including some stigmata points on the hands and feet. Can't wait.

All in service to art.

Intrepid

Lamb Vindaloo. I should have known better, anticipated the Lamb V. in da loo.

I was on my way to that last galleries for the day and called the wife.

She advised, "There are some food carts up there you should check out. But hurry. They might be closing soon."

In fact, most were closed for the season as the school nearby is in summer session and the majority of young, hearty gastrointestinal tracts no doubt off elsewhere to eat that which awaited them at their parents' tables. My choice would be between a burger place, three Thai places and the Indian truck. 

Not that the outcome would likely be any different had I chose otherwise, except then I would not have the wordplay.

***

Saw some stuff.

 

All in the same alley.

Thoughts behind the wheel

The grass seed harvest has begun in earnest. There have been a couple field burns as well, although I haven't been out to see where they took place. Going out today.

It is also berry season. Blueberries, varieties of blackberries and raspberries are available at all of the stores and several roadside stands. We are buying them by the flat and freezing those we can't eat now. Our own blackberries are a later variety. Can't wait as they taste very much like what I am used to back home.

Oh, and peaches. Our friends up the road are beginning to pick theirs.

We traded some fruit for photos of their trees.They'll be using the photos to help sell their place. Shame, but now in their mid and late sixties, I can't say I blame them.

Meant to call my Mom today. I heard Illinois got some rain. As the grass farmers here gradually moved out of grass into wheat, hazel nuts and grapes, meaning that those markets will soon be glutted, thousands of acres back home are at best silage. Expect rises in corn, beef, soybeans, swine and chicken commodities. Not that anyone but the traders will be getting rich off of it.

Coming to terms

I have some time to kill while The (Brain) Powers That Be upstairs has her way with my cover letter. Maybe a lot of time.

Josie writes today that she doesn't usually play freeroll poker. Can't say as I blame her for a number of reasons. The style of play alone at some levels of buy-in is stupid, and I have a notion stupid can rub off. Therefore, the transition from the free game to an actual cash game might mean that a player is working at a deficit until a time the cash chops get back up to speed. Free games put a whole new spin on the phrase "recreational player."

Still, when that is all that is available, as it is for this fellow who can not justify dropping a hundo into one of the remaining cash sites, let alone lay out the sixty bucks to play in the monthly home game, and inasmuch as I still seem to have a jones for this game, the free games are where I go at the end of my work day.

There was a time that I considered myself a competent poker player. Trips to Vegas paid for themselves. The irony of this is that I got my chops on a free site, Poker Academy, by playing with the best players of that substantial (12,000 members) community.  Yet, since PA was owned by those shitheads at FTP, those days are gone, which in itself has diminished my skill level. Add to that the above-mentioned issue of fundage, and, well, there you have it: grinding out that which one can't eat. No nutrition in that.

Nevertheless, I hold onto some of the lessons learned and apply them: odds to call, hand selection (sometimes), range of opponents, bankroll management, etc., although I have yet to rid myself of the weak tight handicap that comes with scared money. (Yet another irony considering there are not real financial consequences in play money games.)

Readers may recall that a short while back I made mention of moving up a level in the O-8 game. Doing so only when my roll allowed it (PS has a fixed 50/100 game and then it jumps to 200/400), and hearing  that the competition was not necessarily better, I had high hopes. Not so. After a month or so at this level, I have not improved my roll. Oh, I managed to make a little, but over the course of the last two weeks or so, I am back to where I started.

I'm a little frustrated by this lack of performance. And while I can blame chasers and the river as much as I want, I know deep down that I must ultimately look within. The evidence for this comes when I move back down to 50/100, for it takes little for me to double up. Good for the ego, good for the bankroll, and Thumper tends to stay in his cage.

At 200/400 I found myself considering closing out the site, never to return. It just wasn't worth the aggravation. The struggle of coming to terms with my perceived skill level against the "bad run" just made me want to take up tiddly winks. Or, heaven forbid, read a book, but, even though I knew it would be beneficial, not about O-8.

There are signs: all of my poker books are packed away to make room for books on topics pertinent to my writing; I know where the old PA players have since congregated online but I can't seem to muster the wherewithal to carve out an hour or two earlier in the day when I know there will be full tables. Poker is kicking and screaming not to be moved down even further in my priorities. It cries, "Don't you still love me?"

After having my ass handed to me yet again in the higher-level game last night, I dropped down. The game was easy and the players friendly. Humor could be infused into the chat. There was a French woman at the table, a horrible, losing player, yet we exchanged pleasantries in her native tongue, something I hadn't done since my days at PA. I sent her 2000 chips and won it back from her in a few hands. I had no concerns that my roll might take a hit to such a degree that my ego would suffer. For better or worse as far as my game went, I was comfortable, relaxed. I was enjoying myself.

I went to bed with a bit of a smile, but not before giving that woman another 10K to play with.

There will come a time when my financial situation will improve. I know that I will again return to live, cash tables. Yet, to do so, regardless of how severely my skills have been depleted in Donkeyland, I will have to remember to find ways to keep this game fun.

Not quite the same ol' saw

Well, fuck.

Oh, it's not all that bad. There's no blood, even though it does feel like I'm getting ready to bang my head against the wall.

You see, a guy I know who teaches at a local art school has told me that they're looking for someone to fill a part-time slot this coming semester. And it's a position for which I'm more than qualified. He's even gone as far as to tell the person responsible for finding someone to fill the position that I would make for a great fit.

Now, at this point, putting together a letter, teaching philosophy, CV and references should be a piece of cake. Indeed, it is so easy that I have already done it, of course pending the approval of the wife.

This, despite my friend suggesting that I just send a quick email expressing interest, attach my CV and suggest that we meet for coffee.

Something that casual? Well, there's more to the story that makes me think not.

My friend also said that the person in charge of hiring is already considering candidates, and in fact does not like it when he pushes too hard on someone's behalf.

And never mind that this will be the third time I've sent this person a packet. And did I receive any response from the other two attempts?

So, there's the rub. Or, at least a portion of it, for I'm still licking some wounds from the last concentrated job search. I believe I received rejection letters or emails from about half of the colleges and universities to which I sent my application. That's fine. I understand many are most likely short-staffed. But what really frosts my ass is that only two of the schools bothered to look at my website, and even then, neither went much further than the "Welcome" page.

Granted, I have begun psyching myself up for another run at them this fall when job announcements start getting posted. And given that my resume (non-teaching) has gotten a bit deeper with this new writing gig and a couple shows on the horizon for next year, I may stand a better chance of getting an interview, if not a position.

Maybe. Perhaps my talents are better suited for something else.

It's not exactly like pissing in the wind, but it's close.

Meanwhile, all is not lost.

Part of my writing responsibilities for the two online sites to which I contribute is keeping an eye out for comments. Albeit rare, they need to be answered when they do show up. And, as they not only demonstrate that I am not writing into a void, but that people care enough to start a dialogue, I rather enjoy responding.

This week I saw that a column I wrote earlier this month had two comments, both written on the same day. My heart skipped a beat (even though, as you know, that's not unusual) when I saw the name of the first commenter, for I recognized the name immediately.

There is a large art market on this coast but considerably further south than here. The name of the commenter belongs to one of the two most significant arts writers of that area. And his comments were complimentary.

He and I have made plans to meet next time we visit the wife's parents.

First Day

With Trickle Down pretty much in the crapper, I, too, have had to take a shit job. No, not that I think any job is below me, but with certain physical limitations, I have the double dilemma of not having a lot of options while also not being able to be picky.

Fifteen miles further up the canyon is a small town that could very well be considered the edge of civilization for the next seventy miles. Except for the summer vacation town a bit further on filled with hundreds of campers each season before it dies back to a skeleton population after Labor Day, Grist City is pretty much the last place to fill the tank and get a bite of food.

Grist City has three gas stations, four restaurants, five bars and three convenience stores. Of those, only two of each are not boarded up. The two-lane highway constitutes the main drag through town, but my place of employment is not on it, Instead, it sits on the edge of town on the back road the locals take between Grist City and the town I live in. The place I work at is a combination of all four of the above-mentioned businesses, plus a section they call the "Pet Store."

I am told the building used to be a mechanic's shed in which vehicles were serviced for a now-defunct lumber company (two remain, out of twelve). As such, it is not all that surprising to find that the two gas pumps are inside: one for diesel (taxed grade) and one for 87 octane gas. The lane to the pumps are blocked by saw horses until a customer pulls in, at which time the blockades are moved to create a lane through the restaurant seating area so the cars can exit through another bay door.

That's right.

The restaurant, as one might glean, is a rather casual affair, and is combined with the convenience store. The food, for the most part, is fried or pre-wrapped and stored in a glass-front cooler. While one has to point to the hot stuff one would like to eat, the refrigerated foodstuffs are self-serve. There are three laminated wood booths along a bank of windows looking out onto the road and parking, and two "deuces" a little deeper into the room and on the other side of the traffic lane. The chairs for this seating are white plastic, and between them is a 14-inch square box painted with a off-white enamel. All show their age, with cigarette burns in both the seats and table tops.

The restaurant, and therefore the gas station, permits smoking.

The pet store is in the next room. Access to it is either through the restaurant or the bar. Yet, to say that it is a room is a bit inaccurate. It is more a bay, no doubt used earlier for vehicle repair. There are no shelves, per se, as most of what is sold is large bags of cat and dog food, and cat litter. The bags of what the pet store/restaurant/gas station/bar manager (more on her in a sec) call the "cheap stuff" are left on the skids on which they arrive. The fancier brands, as there are fewer of these, are displayed in old, unplugged produce coolers. Dog biscuits, animal toys and the like are put on a wire structure that looks like it might have at one time displayed videos.

I have not ventured into the bar, yet I understand that I am eligible to work as a bartender after two months, and until then, I might be called on to carry cases of beer in on busy days, and certainly required to clean the adjacent bathrooms. You see, when hired, one is expected to work in all four sections and perform all aspects of those jobs, none of which require any more brain power than to do the simplest arithmetic.

No doubt, there are many who could fill the position I have taken, and I must say I'm a bit surprised that I was hired at all. Yet, I will admit to altering my diction during the interview. No resume was required, and my sole reference was a guy I know from my monthly poker game who is occasionally visits the bar on his way home from work.

Orientation was minimal and completed fairly fast, as I am familiar with the operation of a gas pump. deep fryer and cash register, I was not shown into the bar, and in the two hours it took to be show me the ropes, there was not a single customer. When completed, the manager, Delia, told me to get myself a soda from the fountain (heavy water glasses instead of paper cups, although I had not seen a restaurant-style dishwasher and the food was served on foam plates), have a seat in a booth and she'd be back to get me in a bit.

There were four of us on duty: Delia handled the food; Josh, a younger guy with a perpetual smirk about my height but sixty pounds heavier, manned the pumps; I did see a guy with a beard behind the bar from the hallway that led into that room; and, for my first day, I was to work the pet store. Yet, as I mentioned, there was a rotation of duties depending on the situation, so I expected to be called to pump or serve at some point as well.

"Except Josh," Delia said. "He works the pumps and that's it."

So, I sat and waited. I had a smoke, poured myself another coke, and eventually had to use the john.

I will not go into detail about the maintenance or cleanliness of the facilities. I can tell you, however, that there was hot water, a bottle of dish soap (mystery solved!), a roll of paper towels, and Delia's name had been scratched through a number of places.

Delia was waiting for me when I came out. She appeared to have been in a hurry to place herself "just so," which did give me pause, but I'd prefer not to go there.

"I have your schedule for this month."

Although I am often loathe to describe a person's physical attributes when relating something about their character, I suppose I can do so as long as there is an understanding that I do not, as a rule, equate the two. Delia appeared to be in her late twenties, although she may have been no more than twenty-one years of age. She had dirty blonde hair cut in what might be described as a long shag, not quite a mullet. She was slender in build, dressed in jeans with silver designs on the back pockets and those bleached-out stress marks one sees on a lot of new jeans these days. Her beige t-shirt had a small hole on the left shoulder but was otherwise clean. For shoes, she wore Romeos, the shoe of choice out here for folks who are engaged in heavier forms of labor. She was not unattractive but her demeanor seemed to lack any trace of a sense of humor, which worked to her disadvantage. She did not wear a ring.

"You'll be working Saturdays from eight to five. And then I'll need you an hour on Tuesdays and Fridays."

"That's it?"

"That's all I can give ya right now. Maybe more later. We'll see."

"Heck, driving back and forth is gonna eat up most of that in gas. $87 ain't much worth it."

"$87? How ya figure?"

"Well, ten hours of work, give or take, at $8.70, the minimum wage."

"Three-sixty."

"What?"

"Three dollars and sixty cents. You have to make the rest in tips. We're a restaurant."

"That's not what the ad said."

"I didn't place the ad, so I can't help ya there. The boss says three-sixty."

"I don't know... I'm gonna to have to think on this a bit."

"Well, take your time. We ain't busy, so go on and finish your soda and then meet me in the pet store."

I was in shock. I needed a job. I needed some additional income, but how the hell was this going to help? I walked back toward the restaurant area.

My soda and cigarettes were not in the booth where I had left them.

"Josh, seen my soda and smokes?"

"Over there." He pointed to one of the deuces.

On the box sat a broken glass, still wet, a glass half-full of Coke with very melted ice in it, and my pack of smokes, now emptied of most of its contents.

"What the hell, Josh?"

He walked over. "I broke your glass moving it so I poured you a new one?" 

"You mean you poured it into a new glass. There glass shards in that Coke?"

He smiled big, picked up the glass of soda and tossed it over his shoulder, the glass shattering on the concrete floor. "Well, then, we'll just get you another one!"

To everything

First of all, the review.

It has occurred to me that keeping a blog for the last four years or so has helped in this new endeavor. First, practice, and Lord knows I needed it, and continue to need it. Second, voice, which is a lot more complicated and difficult than it may seem. Third, both have bolstered my confidence.

And don't for a minute think I have forgotten you, my dear readers, as disparate a bunch as there ever was, except for that infernal game of ours. You, who have stuck with me on this journey.

Admittedly, suspecting that the piece would be published today, I hung around inside waiting so that I could do the social media thing with it. I'm glad it happened sooner than later, even though I would have surely, eventually pulled myself away, for I did not want today to be a repeat of yesterday, and spend most of it inside.

There was mowing to be done.

I'm almost embarrassed to say mention that we've been getting rain, what with most of the country in a severe drought. Thunderstorms rolled through last night and will most likely come again tonight, although much of what is headed our way is stopping at the mountains. There is flooding on the east side of the Cascades, which is most unusual this time of year. Anytime, actually.

Despite last night's moisture, the grass was sufficiently dry by noon. I knocked out the two acres in about as many hours and turned my sight to other chores, namely bush-hogging some tall grass laced with thistles and spraying yet more thistle in another paddock we've been letting the neighbor's llamas take down a bit.

This paddock, the same one in which we had a garden last year, was overrun by thistles. After the llamas had done their business, I was shocked to see just how many there were, especially after I had worked so hard last year to keep them at bay. Needless to say, the llamas won't be going back in there for a few days.

While spraying, I noticed quite a few potato plant volunteers. I find this rather exciting, for we didn't plant anything this year (doctor's orders... or rather, warning). I believe I might do a little digging this weekend. And look for tomato volunteers while I'm at it.

Digging. The mowing I have been doing the last couple of weeks has exposed a dozen or more places where gophers are foraging. Yes, I'll be digging to place traps.

Tunneling. I have another story, but it'll have to wait because I want to include some photos.

A year ago today, bastin went blogless.

Notice

Another essay under the belt. Just a bit of playful pontification that may or may not hackle. I'd prefer cackle and then a bit of head-nodding. I'll link when it's up.

The writing, and now a persistent sinus thingy have pretty much kept me in the dungeon. Otherwise, I'd attempt something entertaining here. I do have a photo.

Although there is potential for this new series, a few problems persist. Where color is concerned, the camera seems to prefer the flora over the plastic. Likewise, the surface of the flags makes the contrast untenable. And while conceptually the stark differences might be suggestive, I would prefer an overall softness... or maybe blending. I would try shooting in a softer light except I already have done so with similar results.

Speaking of light, I have made a special note to not leave the flags outside. Four days of indirect sun still begins to bleach out the red ones. 

I have what I believe to be some good ideas for this work, especially when I move into the woods and fields, so I'll keep trying to figure out what I need to adjust.

And speaking of the dungeon, you will have to pardon me, for I've become acutely aware of the build-up of paper: notes, receipts, magazine, flyers and postcards that really should be cleaned up, put away or tossed before I do anything else... or rather, before the wife makes her way down here. She's due shortly.

I'll take it

Geez, I hope I don't jinx this.

First off, let me say that I'm getting nowhere playing the higher limits in O8.  It's a nit fest and I don't have the patience right now. Oh, I could go on at length about what I'm doing right and wrong, but frankly, you guys already know this shit inside and out, so why bother?

What you don't know is that my exhibit in Salem, MA has been 86ed. I rather expected this as the guy who wanted to show my work has been doing other things besides finding a new space for his venture. We finally talked about it yesterday, and I'm okay with it because I don't need to go off half-cocked at my age. If I am going to have an exhibit, it has to be done right.

Not that this guy is a... what's the phrase that dame uses... Douche bunt? No, he's a muckety-muck, which means he prioritizes based on what he thinks is more productive for all concerned, including himself... and me.

He's making it right.

First thing he said was that he knows the local art museum curator is interested in my work, so he's going to pitch the show to him. It's already in the mail on a CD.

We'll see. And in that it's a bit of a long shot, it's better to move on to the best part.

This same guy wrote me this evening to ask if I still had a video piece I did in 2000. He's curating a show and wants to use it. He mentioned two other artists who have confirmed participation: this painter and this photographer.

Now, I've known this guy for a long time. Long enough to know that he owns a couple pieces of work by the latter artist. And, if he owns something by the former, well then, I'm fucking impressed. Still, there's a bit of a taint that I'll have to ask about, for if he is just showing work he owns, well then again, it just ain't as special as it could be, regardless of the esteem in which I hold the Japanese guy.  Could be I'll be riding the coattails of a dissolution of part of a private collection.

Still, what isn't smoke and mirrors?

And still, who the fuck wouldn't want to be shown alongside these two GIANTS?

We'll see.

Test

Here's the idea: It's very formal in arrangement, precise, even, if such a thing were subjectively possible, and hinges on a subtle simplicity that is color theory.

So far, the camera hates it. I'll futz until... 

I just wish I would have started earlier this year as very little will be blooming during the upcoming dry spell.

And field burning season will start soon.

New review

If you're so inclined, you can read it here.  'Nother almost finished.

Here's the other one.

Folly

It's hayin' time and the grass seed farmers have started windrowing as well. I've waited until I saw these signs to mow my paddocks, figuring that the heads of grass seed might stand a chance of competing with the thistles, brambles and tansy.

I overstate. I've done a fairly good job of eradicating the thistles and briars, and hit the tansy before I left for Illinois. Yet, I was surprised at the amount of the latter remaining in the fields upon my return. The bushhog took care of a fair amount Saturday and today, leaving some close to the fence rows where I dared not tread with tires and a blade, for it has been my habit to lay the 3-inch aluminum irrigation pipes close in, and with the overgrowth it is difficult to see — and even more difficult to remember — where they lay.

Of course, some were further from the fence than I anticipated and lost two pipes and one sprinkler head.

But back to the tansy. I will spray tomorrow.

It does not help that the two neighbors to my east do not tend their fields for invasive species of plants, for as thorough and diligent as I can be, drift and birds bring more for the next year. Mind you, I know I miss a few myself, and the seeds can remain viable for years. The gophers till the soil very well, which helps... the plants, not me in the battle. And yes, the terrain is hilly.

But this year I noticed a good deal more Tansy Moths than the previous few, which meant I would have some much-needed assistance. Except... Even though the moths still flutter about, I see precious few larvae atop the flowering plants. And I can't wait to see if more show.

So, I mow, no doubt killing comrades. Now, if the mowing killed the plants, I'd accept the trade off, but pernicious is perennial, and shortened, harder to detect when a second flowering occurs too late for the moths to lay more eggs and therefore for caterpillars to do any good. My best hope is that the plants that have been mowed will come back stronger and earlier next year so that I can nip them, you know, in the bud.

A little pun to keep me from going mad.

The mowing also gave me an idea of the number of voles hiding in the grass. Quite a few. Good thing the crows know what mowing brings for them. While content with injured grasshoppers, they caw with excitement when chasing down the rodents.

The two barn owls will have an easier time of it as well.

In related news, something has made a home under the pump house and something else is insistent at digging out the gravel I have put at the corner of a barn door. 

Time to increase patrols.

Details to attend

Mom looking at family photo album. 

The picture in the lower left is her in college.

 "Do you remember where you were a week ago today?" the wife asked. We were eating a latish dinner in front of the tube, something routine for us.

"Walking around my hometown. And it wasn't too much later than what it is now when I took that piss I told you about."

"Where was your sister while this was going on?"

"About twenty feet away, hiding in the shadows."

"People were home?"

"Yep."

Turns out another sister used to work with the current owner. Small town, even though it has a population four times larger than when I lived there thirty-five years ago.

But that's all behind me now... at least for now, for I imagine there will be other funerals and the church lunches afterward that I'll feel obligated to attend.

Speaking of obligations, I'm in the middle of several, some involving promises made to kin last week, some to pay bills, and others simply known as "chores," all of which have kept me from posting.

I believe I owe you, at the very least, a photo dump.

Dunno.

The uncle who is still living.

Luncheon

Sister's house

Bank-owned development

I slept in the Princess Room.

What close to crop failure looks like.

What ostentation looks like.