Into the computer world for muck and mire. And yes, dependent I am. I have spent a few not-so-short days committed (the operative word) to the overall health of my Macbook Pro persona. I’ve lost things into that gray fuzz of nowhere land that does indeed exist. Accessing it is another matter. And the mean part of it is that I have been successful a time or two which leads to an unmistakable passion to repeat. That longed-for success. That desire of freedom that comes with Independent Actions leading to my overall comfort. You might think this has happened as I’m here posting, aren’t I?
Well, yes. But not in the way I had intended. I surely wanted to recover what I had done as I did not want to recreate what had been lost. Twice. Let me be specific: Lost twice, recovered once. In between fails. I was a lone cat wandering amongst the bars of dive taverns looking for a dish of cream when there was only beer in saucers.
And last night I dreamed I was part of a rebellion, The Industrial Workers of the World. (That too was unsuccessful, by-the-way.) And I was being shot at while tasked with the reconstruction of some desk-top machines. Again back in the office. I kept finding spare parts on the floor where I was working. The subconscious at work in the field of dreams.
The much sought-after pieces I wrote were about Consciousness. They were quite well done in that mystical form of the no-longer-visable accomplishment. Of course.
Posted by The New Yorker?
Naturally we can never know what’s behind the visible form. Perhaps that is a metaphor for life, or computers, or Consciousness. We can only ever know what’s on the screen.
Mumzie died on Thursday morning. She was 94 years old, having just had her birthday in May. We had the funeral service today. It was a very lovely little graveside service, which is what she wanted. Poor Shirley, left alone in the house that had held all of them now gone: her husband, her children, and her mother. I don’t really understand how she goes on. I think caring for her mother gave her great purpose.
Tao and Zen
I signed the guest book and included Tula (in spirit). This is not a silly gesture—Mumzie loved Tula & Tula loved her “grams.” And Tula was there with us on some of the days toward the end. She would run to the bedroom first thing upon entering the house. Grams was always giving Tula too many treats and telling me that she was hungry.
So here we are again. Left with those waves and spasms of grief, and the resurfacing of past losses. Each new ending bringing a trail of the beloved. All gone gentle into that good night, no rage against the dying of the light.
posted by Atlas Obscura
These trees were meant to create an inviting, impressive path to a wealthy estate, but grew together to form a tunnel that’s more creepy than it is welcoming.
The “Dark Hedges” were planted in the 18th century by the Stuart family on their estate in Northern Ireland. As the trees matured they began to bend over the road, and their upper branches eventually intermingled into a shadowy arboreal tunnel. The bent trunks and gnarled branches give the road an aura of the supernatural, which has landed the Irish thoroughfare a number of background roles in both movies and television shows such as Game of Thrones.
The Dark Hedges have even developed their own ghost story.
Harking back to The Catholic Girls’s Reader, I’d say the moral of the story is You Can’t Predict The Tree By The Branch.
During this silence here, most days and nights now are spent with my dear friend in hospital with her mum. She (Mums) has now been moved to hospice. Some of the family is still not at peace with that. It is a struggle. Mum is 94 and the thought of an operation is out of the question. It is a cancer that is causing the calcium to leave her bones and cause the other problems. Now the idea is to just make her comfortable.
She said the sweetest thing: “I’m going to go see my mom and dad.” “Mom is building a house for us to live in.” Going Home.
Rob Blair Munroe Falls Lake
With dreams of seats that swing and rivers that flow. When I was young the family visions of our neighborhood were a cabin in the woods on the river. Two of the neighbors on our block had cabins. One of them, living right next door, had children my age and so I was invited from time to time to join them. How golden it was there.
During those times it was nothing for children to swim in the river unwatched. Admonishments were few but consistent: watch out for the current! Be careful of undertows! Undertows were the closest we had to river monsters. I don’t know (and didn’t know then) what they were supposed to do but they did strike us as fearsome things meant for our destruction. If you felt one slightly with your body, the challenge was to put a leg or arm into the underwater tornado while keeping the rest of the body safe. It was indeed tempting to throw the whole of self into that fast moving undercurrent, but none of us did. A challenge unmet, we swam unwatched, and unharmed.
Both photos posted by Room With a View
I dreamed of Lilith again last night. In the waking times I’m always surprised that this has happened. Why do I think and dream of her so often? It seems there must be a significance to her though I cannot dredge it up. It was such a lovely connection, and maybe that is it—about connecting. And I note that connecting is quite different than being anchored, for I am well anchored here, in this place where I live.
Lilith the Black Widow Spider with her egg sack
In the dream I was surprised to see her again, walking toward me in firm little steps (not at all the scrambling movements of spiders in the real.) She wanted to know why I was surprised and I couldn’t answer her because in that moment I no longer was. That’s such a fine thing about dreams—wherein you only begin to think a thing and it is. Additionally there is no becoming, only being.
When she came to live with me in Colorado it was such a special time. We waited daily for the birth of her children, waited together. After they were born she moved on. I was so honored to have her in my life, in the sojourn there, in that courtyard, in that place. Maybe her visits only mean to be a reminder, a reminder of the wonderful places we have been.
San Fransisco Chronicle
Some quick notes from the Chronicle and the time of the late 60s. This took place in San Francisco.
During the days of protests over the Vietnam war, the Hippies had a brief infatuation with Bikers. It lasted until the bikers returned to form and began breaking up meetings, music concerts, and generally causing mayhem. People got hurt. (This reminds of the story about the scorpion who got a ride from some other river creature by saying he would not harm him. The river pal let the scorpion ride on his back and took him to the other bank. Once there, the scorpion bit the creature, insuring his death. “Why, why? How could you! You broke your word,” shouted the dying pal. The scorpion replied, “What could I do? That’s how I am.”) Being true to self… So too with the hippies and the Hells Angles. Doomed. And true to self.
So this photo is of the last of days, all winding down and the war retreating. Allan Ginsberg is debating with the bikers. The bikers were and had been attacking protesters as they marched, breaking through police lines. The bikers chanting “America first,” Down with traitors,” and a personal favorite: “America for Americans.” Bedlam.
Another march was being planned and to get ahead of potential danger, Allan and Jerry Rubin invited the Hells Angles, The Avengers, et.al., to a debate. I’m pretty sure that the meeting did not change anyone’s beliefs, but the bikers did not harass the large protest when it took place the following month.
In the end, nothing changed and everything changed. The Vietnam war ended, the bikers continued with their beliefs, and the beats continued beating. And that’s the way things were then, and the way things are.