Dys-mal

They had a system: One chipper/shredder chewed up the logs, stumps, limbs and twigs — whole trees, except in parts — into chunks that were then fed by conveyor into another chipper that made the bits even smaller, suitable for landscaping. Large tractor trailers hauled the mulch away. This went on for several weeks until the first machine broke. They fixed it in a few days and got back to the mulching. The next day the other machine broke down. The day after that both machines were gone. And the next, the first of many large fires were started. A week later and there is still much left to burn, yet there are now several large piles of smouldering ash and soil.

I want to take pictures but they are working. Plus, as I have many photos of various fires, I have begun to wonder if I may have a problem.

I could shoplift instead.

I know I've mentioned the big brush piles before. Without looking at back postings, I remain unsure how much I have told you, which brings up another little worry: Am I repeating myself too much? Comes with age, I know.

He sits at the head of the dinner table, for that's how it's done and tells you all you need to know. A cut glass ashtray to his right holds a lit Salem cigarette that he draws on between bites of food and sips on the third gin martini to his left. The filter is pinched nearly shut from how he holds it. You also already know this took place some time ago.

He has just finished telling a story. One he has told many times, but perhaps not in a while, for this table and house are new to the visitors. It is a forgettable tale, lost in a handful of others you need not be bothered with. The male visitor makes a comment about how we tell these stories we think define us, each time as if it gives new insight. The Head takes a drag and as he exhales, asks, "Who are you talking about?" The visitor apparently is not as slick as he thinks he is.

("You, you pathetic fuck!")

"I was thinking of Grandfather."

Large, rust and gray-colored, smouldering piles.

After away for Thanksgiving

Had I not entered the paddock to shovel their shit from inside the hoop house that is their shelter from the weather, the mules would have stayed in the far field, oblivious to the turkey flock that had wandered inside the fence in search of

what?

Food, yes; but diet?

Grass, weed seeds, worms in old dung and flies on fresh?

The mules were curious about other things: me, or rather, had I brought treats or hay? That wheel barrow and shovel again, and, no doubt a shove to clear them from the gate when finished; and only then, the birds. Heads down and at a trot, they divided the flock, some into adjacent fields, others flying a good hundred yards into the big firs out front and fifty feet up.

Chuck chuck chuck

The big tom calls out to meet under the crab apple.

The ladies chirp from their perch and one-by-one, glide over the house.

I watch this as I try to drown out a vole, hose down one hole until all of the other holes glisten with small reflections of the clouds.

Rain is coming on a strong wind and I still have chores, leaves to rake and add to the dung. Leaves the turkeys now turn over. (Dung piled against the compost pile.) I wonder if like chickens and guineas, they eat rodents, for none come forth.

More leaves foreshadow. The rain, that is, yet for the turkeys, in reverse as I approach with garbage bag and rake in hand.

(I counted twelve birds last week; today, ten.)

I will pick up more manure and leaves tomorrow.

Back from forth

"I don't know why she's being this way." This half-assed apology was further diminished in its sincerity when the owner of the little yapper of a shit-dog did nothing in an attempt to quiet the thing in its carrier across the aisle and one row back on the jet.

Knowing that if I made a big fuss, I might be the one who suffered the Marshall, I shot him an angry look and muttered, "Just plain rude. Next time, sedate the thing." Why the wife felt a need to defend the dog and its owner escaped me.

"People bring unruly children on the plane..."

"Sedate them too." Or, distract them with an activity, which is what the post-holiday returning mother across the aisle and one row back could have done with her toddler.

A good half hour of this crap going to and leaving the City of Angels like open and closing music selections and the perfect soundtrack for what awaited and, a week later, left behind.

Perhaps the saving grace was that we did not stay in the city proper.

Yet, business called, as did a certain type of culture, and a friend. "Do you think LA is an ugly city?" he asked just as I was thinking that it was just that.

"There is some nice architecture, but it is hidden under a film of dust and grime. The people make me think there is a larger concentration of misery per square mile than many other places." 

"Do you think you could live here if you had to?"

"I suppose so."

For a week or so

Expect very little, if anything at all.

Enjoy Thanksgiving.

Decisions and Process

Good, empty photograph
the print the aftermath
allows for the forest
while forgoing the trees

Clichéd, yes, and one should know that I passed up a good photo op while unsuccessful in another.

*

The gutters and window wells are cleared, although the weather promises wind tomorrow, no doubt bringing a good number of the leaves that remain attached to branches down to dam. We have not yet had cold to stifle all of the green, but it may not matter with a gust or two.

Still, there is little doubt winter will soon be here, not only, but certainly in the holiday spirit. The sound of helicopters assures it.

The Christmas tree harvest has been in full swing the past two weeks. Albeit tempted, I have resisted taking yet more photos of the process. The newspaper reports the farmers will sell the trees for an average of $14, forgetting to mention that the profit is $2 for the seven years (on average) the tree remains in the field. And I have already documented the wholesale ripping up of acre upon acre of the trees that have been given up on. I don't know how photojournalists do it. (I am aware there is a matter of degrees, which is the only reason to mention it.) When all is said and done, I am not motivated.

Evidence the two-day harvest no more than two hundred yards from our house. There was potential for some close-up action near the road. A big operation covering untold acres. So large, it was habitat for a flock of turkeys now displaced to wander the adjacent properties. And so close to Thanksgiving...

How could I not?

Buggy

There is a scene in the film adaptation of Dicken's "A Christmas Carol" where Scrooge, played by Alister Sims, is just about to be visited my his old business partner's ghost. Hearing voices, bells ringing where none are rung, he tries to convince himself that a piece of uncooked potato may be the cause of his hallucinations. For me, it might be a fast-food burger and fries, because I was certain of ghosts at the home game last night. Or, it may just be too much time playing No Fold 'em on Stars. net. Despite more than doubling up, it was less than a stellar performance.

It has been a couple months since I have played live poker, let alone for cash. Money has been a little tight, or rather, with the prospect of replacing the truck in the near future, we are reassessing our cash flow. I drove to the game trying to shake off a little dread.

I was second to deal and forgot to burn a card before the flop.

I played 3c6c from early position, turned the idiot end with callers, slowed down but there was no showdown with my value bet.

Value bets ruled the night, not because I was playing correctly but because I was afraid of coolers.

AK > AQ on a KQx flop and I'm worrying the guy who led out preflop had KQ. I did manage to get it all in good but I had just lost a hand with a bad kicker, so I was down to 2/3 of my buy-in.

Crazy Pineapple hand and I flop Queens over Kings, and I'm worried someone has Kings. They don't. My chicken shit bet sizing worked perfectly to keep a guy in with his Broadway. Bully for me.

Pot-sized bet on a dry flop when I have KK.

Value my ass.

I'm yawning and I can't stop. The time is crawling. It takes forty-five minutes for us to orbit once in an eight-handed game. I blow another deal. All I want to do is go home.

So, I do.

Today I have been tired all day. More excessive yawning. All I want to do is sleep, and have done a fair amount of napping. I have the chills. I shit my brains out just a while ago.And now I remember: I turned the compost pile yesterday in order to bury a diseased raccoon I had to shoot. No, I didn't touch the animal. I turned the compost.

It's the same every time. There are organisms at work that make that pile of shit and grass steam.

And I sure the fuck don't want to play any poker right now.

I'll be fine in the morning.

It's Not Supposed

That's the title of a new drawing. It's also the content, of sorts, in that the words are scratched into the wet surface of an overworked, smudge of colors. What can I say? Very little, as anti a hole, writing the story of the walls in a dry well or singing the song of a whirlpool, the aesthetic of bathos. I blame Beauty.

I have a list of such titles, long enough to needlepoint a sampler of self-reference. Out of that context, they mean nothing. The remains of remains of remains. The place it fell apart. Confessions of a low thread count. Seldom the twain shall meet more traces than traits. Denials in formalism. Reworked into little uncommitted touches. The titles are enough, but not of something. Parts are missing. And so, as hard to explain, too easy.

Thankfully, not everything.

I am tempted to post a photo. A revisit, meaning an image from a few years back, or a photograph made yesterday because of an old idea not yet fully explored. It occurs to me that both will bring some clarity to the above.

I now see the world is imperfect

 Primaries