Zen Bunny

2010-06-25T12:25:00.000-07:00

Walks Along the Edge...

Its been nearly a year since I tried a consistent return here. I failed, and let time sweep me past my convictions. Perhaps this time, with a firmer anchor in place, I can be relied upon to be more consistent.

Its at times like these, as I walk my path, that I often look down, and think that if I look closely enough, it would not matter what I walked upon but that my feet would still be balanced on a precipice. Then, I remember I have walked this way before, and I only fall when I take my eyes off of the path.

Mustang

2009-07-24T07:54:00.000-07:00

To Converse...

Ensconced in my usual java shop perch, I was joyously oblivious to all the riotous early morning mental flotsam and jetsam trailing before, with and behind my co-dependent caffeine cohorts. At some point, the coffee engaged, neurons awoke, and electrons began to...well, not surge through my brain but surely lurch seems adequate to describe their collective efforts.

It was at this particular point in my pre-dawn cranial pilates that I happened to notice a young, cavity-prone couple sitting abaft my scuppers and that in fact neither had their speaking aids (i.e. cell phones) on their person. Ravaged from my efforts to ignore my rising blood chemistry, I was forced to notice that in fact, they spoke, and to each other. Up close. With words.

My curmudgeonly smirk was rudely dashed from my handsome face, and I sat stunned to see to young people, of opposite gender, speaking is complete sentences sitting across from each other in a public place with the apparent intent of communicating to each other without the emotional parachute of grotesquely abbreviated monosyllabic digital text-speak.

I sat, watched, and finally with brazen disregard to personal release forms and the possibility of being mistaken for a famous paparazzi absconded with this image of them. There they sat, so close they could have checked each other for ticks, osculatorially-exchanged DNA, or simply let the other one know they were experiencing a cascade of pheromone-triggered biochemical responses also known as happiness.

So, there is hope. There is hope that our future generations will speak to each other, will find a way to put down their silicon-based life coaches, and find the pure joy in the immediate vicinity of the opposite gender, and our species will continue to create classical music, literature, art and the occasional offspring capable of non-electrified speech.

And for the record, yes..the are both wearing Chuck Taylor Classic Converse Tennis Shoes..

Mustang

2009-07-03T10:23:00.000-07:00

Stretch before you lift...

Well, its been almost a year since I put fingers to keyboard and attempted to present a congent display of graphically pleasing electron-based pixels. So, I decided to just write this as a form of warm-up, to see if I still have the strength to blog.

So much has changed, but I won't bore you with my own perspectives on life, but for one exception.

Twitter

I will admit, I am older. I will admit that technology is outdistancing humanities ability to adapt. I heard the other night at a lecture that there were 1 billion people on the planet in 1830, and in 2008 there were 1 billion teenagers!

Twitter..the current social craze of micro-blogging in a mobile sense, so that any and all might come to know your innermost movements, thoughts, ruminations and near-insubstantial ideas. If you were worried about government attempting to monitor us, in an Orwellian form, we seem to be voluntarily offering up ourselves like so many micro-chipped puppies on the loose.

So, in closing..while you all "tweet"..consider a simple fact..that in 2010 almost 30% of the world's population will be without clean water to drink, that 40% of the world right now does not have access to electricity, and yet..we twitter. Frankly, it is a fine name for such a thing...

Mustang

2008-09-08T17:09:00.000-07:00

Sunlight...

We often ignore that which is present, in order to see that which is not. Sunlight upon the leaf is the appearence of accumulated photons of energy, traveling the vast distance from our Sun. But it is the object that is struck, and the reflection of that energy that accumulates in our retinal nerve, ultimately reaching the visual cortex of our brain, that compiles itself into the cogent image we see. In short, we see what is present because what we cannot see illuminates the path...

So as we travel in our little orbits, observe that which you see, but be aware that each observation is preferentially lit, and that what you see is only a reflection, and that the source of the illumination must be considered. This is true of all things, and is especially applicable to puppies, kittens, butterflies and most people.

In summary, we each and every one of us receive the same source of light, but each of us reflects it in a unique way. Open your eyes to the vast spectrum of reflected light, and you will see better, and judge more wisely.

Mustang

2008-09-05T16:58:00.000-07:00

Wandering Amongt the Stars...

Hello. I have been "gone" obviously, and with reasonable need. Nothing tragic or earthmover-ish, but simply a bit of time to wander different halls, and different trails, to listen to the rain along a different path.

That said, I will endevour to be more diligent in my efforts to not prolong the excessive gaps between which I write things that few read, and even fewer care to read again. Regardless, here I go again.

So, thought for the day...Has anyone ever seen Dick Chaney and Marsha Mason together at the same time and place, can you ever remember seeing a baby crow, and finally who found it necessary to put cute sayings on hot sauce packets at Taco Bell?

Enough for now, I will be back..if I can find the Bunny....

Mustang

2007-12-13T23:18:00.000-08:00

Dear Ether…

..I have some requests, or maybe they would qualify as wishes, or even very well-meant and thoughtful hopes. I realize that your lack of corporeal reality prevents a true face-to-face request, and your usual wishing well/fountain/oracle-in-a-cave outlets are kinda busy this time of year, so I thought I would take a whack at this approach.

I’m hoping that my personal curmudgeon-ishness can be overlooked, as these are not for me, and so are meant for truly nice and well-meaning people. OK, so here goes…

For my wife I wish for her the strength to be unafraid, and know that I love her and will stand by her no matter what forever.

For my son and daughter I hope for patience, so that in time they may see each other as they are, not as they were.

For Joel I wish a chance to swing away, knowing that it will clear the wall no matter where he is. For Katie I wish that everyday, she has one special moment, when she knows without a doubt that she is loved. For them both I wish my strongest wish, for love and joy forever.

For Marcel I wish one hour when there is no lack of just the right word, the right phrase, and that he can say it all in that hour.

For Jayne, my wish is simple, that she sees in her mirror what I see.

For Chris and Devon I wish a single moment of unlimited love together everyday, but always at a different time of day because they like surprises.

For Eric, I wish him peace.

For Erik and Sally, I wish good travels and amazing dragonflies!

For John and John, I wish barbecuing classes, and strong hugs.

For my parents, for whom the journeys end draws closer, I wish comfort knowing they have succeeded, and we love them for who they are and what they did for us.

For Cosima, I wish a never-ending sense of adventure, and one hundred years of joy with Little Man.

For SeaRabbit I wish contentment, knowing that her voyages will all end with her love in her arms.

I just know I have forgotten someone. Please forgive me, and let me wish for those whom I have failed to mention good health, fair sailing, and above all peace and honor.

2007-10-04T15:37:00.000-07:00

I enjoy…

…my kitchen stove. There are many reasons, but today the uppermost reason is my stove’s attraction. My stove attracts children who like purple pancakes and waffles with pecans. My stove attracts dogs that like apple-chicken sausage slowly simmering in maple syrup and chutney. My stove attracts friends who bring me cabernet sauvignon in a nice glass, in exchange for stir fried vegetables and curried chicken, and beer for simmered bratwurst, and a glass of 18-year old scotch if I nick off a bit of honey-butter simmered Canadian bacon for them, ahead of the rest of the crowd.

When my son was very young, I began teaching him how to cook. Essentially that entailed him watching me while eating a banana, and then demanding half of the scrambled eggs and potatoes I had just cooked. He developed an attraction for whatever came off of the stove.

My dogs know when I am cooking. Banished from the kitchen during meal preparations, they sit at the back door attempting to look under-nourished, in a useless attempt at convincing me to give in and share. I am convinced that dogs truly believe that they have sole provenance over gravity, and by merely focusing their little canine minds they can bend gravity to their bidding and make food fall to the floor. The sound of the tea kettle, and especially my favorite skillet, is all it takes to instigate a mad dash for the kitchen by my small herd of feline-hating fur buddies.

My friends congregate at the stove, invited in to the kitchen which is the center of all activity in our house during raucous affairs. Wine flows, voices rise and fall to the moment, and the stove soldiers on! I find myself dancing amongst my compatriots as they snack and drink, hug and laugh, smile and listen, all the while worrying over the sautéed mushrooms, the curry-glazed asparagus, and the smoked turkey-artichoke sausage bits. All eyes are cast at one time or another in the direction of the stove, as my friends find their palates and imaginations fired simultaneously by the food, wine and conversation. And all of this thanks to my stove.

Winter is coming, and that means my favorite time of year with the stove. It means cooking breakfast for my wife, and sharing the time I spend at the stove with her as we talk and keep warm while our breakfast occurs. The stove has heard it all, from news of my daughters impending arrival so many years ago, to plans for graduations and not-so-far-off weddings some day. I appreciate the stove, as solid and dependable as any friend. Much has changed in my life, but I can depend on my stove.

2007-08-03T14:05:00.000-07:00

The strongest…

Sometimes, over there in the dark corner of my psyche, I sit and sulk. Feeling sorry for myself, and all the rotten things that happen to me, or worse because of me, I wander around simply feeling awful.

On the rarest of occasions, I will seek the soft and warm embrace of my one true love, and that never fails to pull me back into a more functional present. However, there are those occassions when she is absent, and I must find my own way out.

It is at those times that I turn to the strongest thing I know of, at least for raising my spirits like almost nothing else. Music.

I first discovered the power of classical music on my soul as a teenager. I could close my eyes and let Peer Gynt and “The Hall of The Mountain King” lift me to a better place. With time, Beethoven, Bach, and Vivaldi all joined in my musical therapy sessions. For years I have collected unique voices, from Israel Kamakawiwo`ole, Willie Nelson, Nina Simone (ah..Sinnerman), Andre Boccelli, the Gypsy Kings, Harlem Boys Choir, and so many more.

If there is anything that makes me give a damn about the rest of the world, them maybe it is music. Not any music, but that which requires skill, talent and soul, rather than amplification and lasers.

Cosima had a post with a wonderful fellow singing about gorilla’s and missionary postions, and all the good stuff in life. Damn! I pulled out the ol’ accordian and started dancing around the flat deck it was so good!

Put on anything by the Gypsy Kings and just try to sit still! Try to be in a bad mood when you listen to them throw a rope around the world! Try!

There is a wonderful song by Montana songwriter Stephanie Davis called “The Gift” that can bring me to tears, as can Andre Boccelli when he sings “Ave Maria”.

So all in all, if there is one good thing about this place, the juke box ain’t half bad…

Mustang

2007-06-26T10:11:00.000-07:00

Lost in the Translation…

Living is about hope, dreams, fear, pain, love, learning, yearning, finding, seeking, reaching and so many other experiences. Life is about respiration, circulation, digestion and also about death, as they are linked and are one, for the moment we are born we begin the process of dying.

Where we often fail to understand death is when we fail to understand the difference between life and living. Inside of your head is your brain, not your mind. You can be alive, and not be living. Far too often we fail to comprehend the difference between merely existing, respiring, being alive..and living. We are essentially lost in the translation between existence and presence.

Death comes for us all, in all manner of ways, but relentlessly Death comes. Some people think that death is about being judged, that their lives will be determined worthy or not after they die. It is the manner in which one lives that defines the value of life. Possessions, wealth, and power do not define a good life. Honor, courage, and honesty no matter the situation define the character of one’s life, and that is living!

It has been said that dying is easy, but living well is hard. Death is an unescapable truth for each of us, and cannot be avoided. So then, all we have that we can claim as our own is to have a life lived well, filled with honor, courage and honesty.

Mustang.

2007-05-13T12:15:00.000-07:00

Inheritence…

It is here, in the birthplace of stars, where hydrogen and sodium atoms glow in the warm breath of x-ray and gamma rays, that I find some understanding of mortality. As I stare into the beauty of the sky, I finally grasp the futility of the moment. I shall never be closer than this to seeing what I am seeing now. This is as good as it will ever be, and no more.

And yet, I understand. I am looking forward into the past. The light my eyes see, that sets my soul dancing, is ancient. These deep blues and golds have been travelling for billions of years to reach me, and tell me their story. I will never live long enough to come any closer to those amazing places, and yet I can describe the path to where they are. I will never see them in my time, but only the ancient echo of what they were, and are not now. They do not know me, and yet I can see them when they were young, and not see them when they are older. The paradox of space and time…

So this is our inheritence. To know what is and will be, to see what was and might be, and to find the grace to accept our place as an observer rather than a participant in the grand scheme of things. And, to pass along to those that are behind us the knowledge that we have, and most importantly to tell them to keep looking.

Mustang

2007-04-12T18:19:00.000-07:00

Usefullness...

"Thirty spokes will converge in the hub of a wheel; But the use of the cart will depend on the part of the hub that is void.

With a wall all around a clay bowl is moulded; but the use of the bowl will depend on the part of the bowl that is void.

Cut out windows and doors in the house as you build; but the use of the house will depend on the space in the walls that is void.

So advantage is had from whatever is there; but usefullness arises from whatever is not."

The Tao Te Ching, as presented in Miyamoto Musashi's Book of Emptiness chapter, in The Book of Five Rings.

I have not written in quite a while, as I was being useful.

For now, suffice it to say that I can find no simple words, only complex ones. And this is a sign that my thoughts are not complete, for the essence of a thing is important. So I seek to understand the void, and tell a simple tale.

Mustang

2007-02-19T13:35:00.000-08:00

The Warrior Within...

Too often we cannot see the person inside of the person. As such, we tend to judge what we see, rather than what is really there.

With time, if you are lucky and hold still long enough to look, you can often see the real person inside. This does not work with mirrors, only with other people, and even then not with everyone.

I have a friend. She is not sure of her path right now, but I know part of it. She is a warrior, even though she may not see it yet. She is strong, courageous, just, kind to all, teacher to many, protector of some, and above all else she is true to herself. She is a warrior.

I count myself amongst the lucky, to know her as friend, and particularly lucky to see that part of her that may yet still be hidden to her. She is a warrior.

Mustang

2007-01-24T15:53:00.000-08:00

There...

It is called a Mobius Strip, named after a famous German mathematician and topologist. It is simply a strip of paper joined together at the ends, with a one-half twist in it. Whereas a strip of paper joined without the twist has two sides and two edges, a Mobius Strip has only one side and one edge. You might think that untrue, but run your finger along either the edge or the side, and you will find that it is in fact true.

Sitting on the edge of the deck, listening to the wind high in the Italian Cedar which marks the far eastern edge of the property, I ponder the simple elegance and significance of this mathematical construct.

A linear object when joined without distortion has two sides and edges, or two ways of being seen. Yet, with a twist, there is unity. One. No beginning and no end. Infinity.

And so I contemplate that idea, and how life is so much more like that simple twisted loop, with only one perspective, one side to be seen, and only one edge to touch. We travel in our loops, some so large you cannot see the twist, and others so small that their owners lives seem to spin and twist without respite.

The sun moves. The air warms. I wonder if I am on the edge or side of my loop, and how does life seem different depending upon the answer to that question. On the edge, I can see much further, but I little room to move, but in the inexorable straight line. On the sidw of my loop, I can stretch out a bit, but all is flat and lifeless.

So it is with much of life, spinning and twisting, only to find yourself back at the beginning. Perhaps it is our fate, to wander these loops that are our lives, endlessly moving from edge to side, edge to side, hoping to find more than a beginning that ends, or the end of the beginning.

I remember paper chains decorating Christmas trees. If our loops are joined we each other like those chains, then regardless of our eternal spiraling, we stand a chance where edges meet, or we can see the other persons side...

Mustang

2006-12-22T09:46:00.000-08:00

Reach...

There is something about the open sky at night. I stand there and stare upwards, and suddenly yet quietly, a feeling comes over me, one that makes me feel like I could simply...move upwards and reach the stars. It is that intense desire to go see, to understand, to fly...

I suppose that this is what is at the heart of all scientists, and dreamers, and poets and artists. An intense desire to see and know, both the furthest reaches of time and space, and the deepest secrets of our hearts. So we explore, we look, we write and we tell our stories.

As I listen to their music, I realize that I want to be able to express what I see in the stars, and in the earth, in the same way that their music touches my soul. I am frustrated that I cannot find the words to describe the colors I see in the Orion Nebula, or the movement of water beneath our feet. There are mathematics, which in their own right are both beautiful and fierce, that can describe these things I see. But there must be some other format, some other means to share these images in my eyes...

It is said that scientists seek facts, while philosphers seek the truth. Perhaps in that I can find my voice..

Mustang

2006-12-18T17:12:00.000-08:00

Absent friends...

Meterologists will tell you that those streaks that appear between clouds, (also thought to be sun beams) are really just shadows cast by clouds amongst the water vapor illuminated by the setting sun.

Perhaps...but when I stand on that particular rock, high in the mountains and look west into that sunset, to me they are reminders of absent friends. That glorious light disrupted by a space where something should be, and is not.

It is important, at least to me, to pause in the everyday rush to remember those friends that are gone. Kevin died too soon, even when he seemed to be better. David took his life because he couldn't see what we could. Hal left recently, as did Anita. There was the little boy I rescued from the hit-and-run, who died from pneumonia in the hospital, his heart just not strong enough for the effort. My friend Keith who died of cancer, and yet had more life in him than any one person I have ever known.

I can see their faces, hear their voices, smile when I remember their laughs, and almost stop breathing when I remember them standing right there...

I am only afraid on one thing on this whole earth, and that is losing my best friend. I cannot even write about that...

I shall make a trip soon to that rock, and stand their to watch the sun rise, to think about all there is to come. And I shall stay by that rock, and stand on it as the sun sets, and remember all those who have gone before me, and call their names in my mind, and wish them well.

Mustang

2006-12-15T14:39:00.000-08:00

Christmas...

It doesn't take much to tell that this time of year is hard on me. I find Christmas far to emotional, too trying, and utterly saddening to eek any joy out of this season.

As a kid, a lot of bad things happened to me, my brothers and my mom, and it seemed especially worse at Christmas time.

As I grew older, the joy that was supposed to accompany this time of year was often lost on me, as I struggled with the hypocrisy. I could not reconcile what was supposed to be a time of religous reverance with shopping sprees. With time I abandoned both.

Lately, the tendencey towards pre-mature Christmas decorations, gift cards and cash instead of a single well thought out gift, and the forced nature of our annual relatives-around-the-camp fire meetings depresses and saddens me. Too much angst over deadlines for shipping out Christmas cards to people who won't care to read them, battling stores for gifts I don't care to give, and pretending to be happy about something I am not happy about in the first place.

I am at a loss for the words to describe the saddness I feel.

I will say that there are still some wonderful redeeming moments to Christmas yet. Small childrens' Christmas morning glee, music that makes me want to cry (and that is tough to do), hopes that someone will be able to make it one more day on that free Christmas meal...

Hope. Perhaps that is the one last shred of humanity that can carry me through this time of year. I am not much of a hope person, preferring action and effort over hope. Yet, I cannot do it all, and so a little hope may be called for. Not for me, or my black heart. No, hope for the rest, for those who deserve a better place in life, a warmer blanket in which to live just one more day, and hope for the children, especially for the children...

I am sorry to all for airing my lousy attitude. Please forgive me..

Chris

2006-11-27T17:17:00.000-08:00

Escape...

It is raining now. I can here the rain falling against the windows, gently at times, and then with sudden urgency and fervor. It is just the wind...

I go to the window in the kitchen. It is dark outside still, the sun hours from making an appearance. I stand quitely, listening to the dogs sleep, breathing softly as they have doggy dreams...

Outside, in a small space between my house and the next, is a quiet place in my world where I can be alone, or I can share with friends. Now, it is empty, and as such it is at its' best. I stare until I see...a raindrop.

A small pot is left out there, to act as a playground for the raindrops as they arrive in my yard. Every now and then one finds this small place to play, and produces the singularly most beautiful natural form I know of...the splash

Mathematically, this structure can be described, but not loved. Physics can explain the behavior of a liquid, but not my imagination. Chemically, each drop changes the water in the pot ever so slightly, but not my enjoyment.

So..drop by drop my world changes..but I do not. I am unchanged by the rain, but changed by the rainfall...

Mustang

2006-11-08T22:37:00.000-08:00

Eureka!

OK, so I have been harboring this silly, dumb ass idea for the Rogue for over two years now. We grab a camera, wander around the Rogue, and offer free T-shirts to women who will show us their "treasure chest"! We would call it "Girls Gone Rogue", sell the CD's and make a killing. Except nobody was exactly "wild" about the idea.

And then it hit me....

"Girls Gone Squirrel"!!!!

I'm gonna get filthy rich....

Mustang

2006-11-07T16:48:00.000-08:00

Frozen pebbles rest

Different yet alike

Similar discord

2006-11-06T09:32:00.000-08:00

Quest…

It is dark. She moves silently, like liquid ebony. Yellow eyes reaching into you, finding you. She is hunting, and she always will.

I believe that inside each of us lies the Quest. That is what I call her, Quest. She is mine, and yet we all share her. She is the embodiment of all those things I want to be, do, see, learn, hear, smell, taste, feel, think, and live. She is real in my mind, as she is in each of our minds.

She is control. Taut, searching, alive. She is abandon. Burning, striving, yearning. She is, for me, my companion in life.

Elusive. She withdraws when approached, to run and fight another day. To stand on that rock, to show me just how magnificent she is, and how far I have to go to reach her.

Subtle, she teaches me about myself. Mocks me as I try to understand and explain my world to myself, my wife, my children. She moves through my mind, showing me places where I could go if only I was a little more able, a little quicker, a little more like her.

It took a long time for me to see Quest. She was always there, always pushing and pulling, always present and yet unseen. I have felt her pass at times, close enough to feel those hot yellow eyes. When I have done something so well that I feel proud, she shows herself, to applaud and yet taunt, as if I had done something well…yet, missed the point of doing it at all.

In time, I could usually see her. That flash of movement in my peripherial vision, that ghost image just beyond my gaze, that disappears when I looked directly at her. She is there.

I have come to accept myself more with age, and understand that it is more about being then arriving, that destinations should really only be places from which to continue the journey. Quest is still here, still hunting me. She has drawn blood on many occasions, when I was feeling particularly proud, or angry, or simply being stupidly human. She is unrelenting in that way. No quarter given, none asked. As it should be.

Perhap, in time, I will finally get to face her, to feel that hot breath, embrace those eyes, and with luck, humility and grace, I will make her blink.

Mustang.

2006-11-01T17:39:00.000-08:00

Friendship...

I read something today that caused me to pause and reflect on my friends. More specifically, what qualifies them, and perhaps more importantly what qualifies me, to be friends.

I expect a great deal from myself when I am someone's friend. I do not befriend someone haphazardly. It is too important to me and to them, and so I am very demanding of myself. And yet it is not a perfect system. I am friendly to almost everyone, and try and be polite and considerate towards them. However, I will not "stand in the breach" for just anyone. That privelage is earned.

It is not so much that I need to feel important or special about who I am friends with. It is more that as I grew up, I dealt with "friends" that were not, and suffered greatly for my mistakes. As such, I do not give it lightly, as I do not want it taken lightly.

Dana is my first, best friend. For her there is no limit to what I will do for her...none. Yes to those who ask, I would..for her..always..any sacrifice.

There are a few others to whom I have said "any time, any place, anything" and meant it. They know who they are..in fact one or two of them might read this. And for that matter, in general, their friends are mine, and that offer usually extends to them.

Next there are people to be nice to. I will always try and be nice to them. There are many people here, but few of them are friends.

Lastly, and there are very few here, are those people to whom I am not nice. I do not want to write about them.

I hold my friends close, and they are important to me. I think I may need to write more about this, after I have wrestled with my soul on this a little more, and gotten over the hurt I felt a friend write about.

Mustang

2006-10-30T09:04:00.000-08:00

The Point...

Last day in Paris. We're walking along the Roman Viaduct that was re-built such that there are shops inside the arches. Trust me.

Anyway, towards the end of the viaduct, this building appeared. Like looking at the bow of some futuristic financial ice-breaker, it jutted out at us, impressed with its' own immoviability. Dana turned to me and said "So, what's the point of a building like that?"

Uh..um..err..well..the neo-gothic resurgence during the Arceolithic revival of post-Judean architecture demanded a pre-modernistic return to post-modern views on exterior expression of internalized visions of non-judgemental structural expressionisms. Editors Note. The preceding sentence is principally bullshit, generated by the author during cranial down-time, whilst attempting to process a sufficient reply to his spouse.

In the end, I had to admit that it did seem somewhat pointless. I mean a box is so much easier to fill efficiently, and easier to plan around, and easier to maintain, and so forth. And then the answer slapped me in the face! "Dear..it is because we can, because we can create a thing of wonder and beauty, and be adequately satisfied that it really doesn't have to have a point. It is simply good because it could be built that way, not because we needed another box".

Their is some universal truth and grace to the "blank stare". When directed at you, it can convey utter joy, rapture, and love because you've said or done something that has profoundly affected the other person that there is simply no emotion available to adequatly respond with other than shear, razor-sharp, and totally complete blancus starus. On the other hand, it is possible that you have somehow stumbled upon one of the eleven incantations of stupity, and uttering one of them aloud, have so offeneded your audience that they are simply struck dumb with disbelief. I apparently had in fact, whilst attempting the first, managed to achieve the second.

I spent a good deal of the remaining walk attempting to explain myself, or more accurately my most recent statement, as explaining myself would require a walk from Paris to Hong Kong. I had little success.

The plane flight home afforded 15 hours of luxurious claustraphobia with which to contemplate. The best that I could do is as follows: In some instances, there is not a requirement for something to have a point. Simply being able to do something may just be justificiation enough. The art crowd has afflicted me with this line of reasoning, to wit, art is simply the manifestation of the human spirit, translated into something tangible. That there is no meaning to it, is irrelevant.

My father once said that gentleman is someone who knows how to play an accordian...and doesn't. As such, I could go on but won't. I will leave it to the jury to bring forth both arguments for and against this theory.

2006-10-26T18:14:00.000-07:00

Symmetry...

Berlin..the Holocaust Memorial..a somber, quiet place. It was difficult to understand why all these concrete blocks, arranged in rows, varying in height and placement, would represent some kind of feeling about the Holocaust.

I walked quietly amongst the blocks, searching for something, anything that would reverberate such that these simple geometric blocks made sense. Nothing..and then...something. Shadows on corners, edges next to light/dark....light and dark. I had it.

For me, it was the contrasts between the light and dark sides of the blocks. Blocks of essentially the same shape, but some bigger and smaller...like people. When superimposed on each other, they generated a geometric pattern, a symmetry if you would. It was then that the differences in the color of each side struck me..some dark..some light.

Perhaps the purpose of these blocks, at the right time and place, with just the right light, is to remind us that we are all the same, and yet...still capable of having both a light and dark side. It is tempting to expound upon the light and dark side of human nature..and foolish. For me, suffice it to say that at times our dark side rules the view, and it is our responsibility to shine the bright light of day on the scene, such that as a whole, we can tell the difference between the two.

Mustang.

2006-10-25T10:16:00.000-07:00

Wonder...

Despite my personal opinions on religion, it is still possible to enter a church and simply marvel at the wonderous nature of man. While in Paris, we visited St. Chapelle, a small church in the courtyard of the Federal Courts building, about 4 blocks from Notre Dame (thanks to Generik for the tip...). Even on an overcast day, the light that streams through all this stained glass almost has a sound to it...

Gawking is such a crude word, but it does convey the feeling.

It is at times like this, that even though I don't have a god, I think of the innocents who have died before they should have and in that tiny part of my soul that still harbors some compassion for humanity, I hope that there is one to take care of these people.

I took many color photos in the chapel. Zen teaches that words too often do not adequately convey a feeling (good sex or a good joke requires no explanation, nor are there any words that would suffice if you attempted to do so) and so I tried some black and white. For whatever reason, the meaningfulness of this place seems to resonate best in black and white. When I look a this photo, I can almost imagine this place in 1945..late winter, the war has ended, and people gather to remember Christmas.

Regardless of your own beliefs, as the year approaches ends, perhaps keep this picture in mind and find some friends and charish this greatest of gifts amongst humans, and find a way to be just a bit nicer to each other.

Mustang

2006-10-04T14:53:00.000-07:00

Montmarte...

The cathedral of Sacre'-Coeur sits atop a hill in the area of Montmarte. This area is where alot of the original Bohemians hung out, but now its just were a lot of wanna-be Bohemians hang out, attempting to convince you that despite your true need for a cold beer after the hike up the hill, you should have them draw a portrait of you. I'm sorry, I am thirsty and I have a camera. I will support the arts in a different manner, such as helping brewmasters with their art of making "happy fluid"!

Anyway, in the spirit of artsy crap, I experimented with black-and-white photography, constrast, pattern, and other artsy/photography-centered stuff, and took some pictures of the stone road. Art...go figure.

The Cemetary...

We went looking for Jim Morrison's grave. It was covered with film crews, actors, gaffers, grips, electricians, best boys, make-up, and caterers. Making a movie (not Bollywood, but we saw that at the Louvre and Arc de Triumphe') and so we were "discouraged from paying our respects". However, I had more fun watching the cats in the cemetary. The one on the right was hunting mice...

We then went to Pigalle, or as it is also known, Pig Alley. Moulen Rouge is the nicest place in the neighborhood! We went during the late afternoon, and you could tell then that this was a wild and crazy place.

Anyway, more photos than I can post.

M

2006-10-02T15:21:00.000-07:00

LOUVRE....

OK, we went to the Louvre today. All is well, nothing really important appears to be missing..

Overall, a great experience. The highlight for me however was getting to see one of my favorites paintings up close and personal!

Long story short. Leonidas is the dude in the middle with the odd hat. He is King of Sparta basically. He and 300 Spartan bad boys are in the center of a battle at Thermopalyae in Greece. About 200,000 Persian naughty boys wanna kick the Spartan's ass. So the Persian king sends a mouthpiece, who tells Leo to give up his spears. Leo replies..."come get them". Cool.

So the Persian mouthpiece says.."We will fill the sky with so many arrows and spears, we will blot out the sun!" To which one of the Spartan tough guys replies..."Great! We prefer to fight in the shade!" Gotta love a man with great big brass balls!

Mustang

2006-10-01T12:42:00.000-07:00

Europe....

OK, finally got a decent enough connection to post some stuff. I will be terribly brief, and let more of the photographs talk then me. I have wonderful stories to write, about Berlin and Paris, but I must get this quick note out first.

The picture above left speaks for itself, and just goes to prove I have found civiliation. The center picture is...well...European. And the picture on the right is out the window of our hotel in Berlin. Nice little spot to watch football in the park across the street.

I will post more and more, but for now just wanted to get this one out quick.

Mustang

2006-09-21T09:31:00.000-07:00

Gone...

Mrs. Mustang and I are headed out for awhile. Two weeks in fact. One week in Berlin, Germany; and then one week in Paris, France. Tough duty....

I will post pictures if possible, along with pithy literary ramblings about the post-Cold War reconstruction, excellent trains, good beer, and such.

Thanks to everyone (Lecram, Kosima, SSM, and others) for the advice, directions and well wishes. This is our first real vacation in 13 years, so we are hoping for the best.

M

2006-09-03T08:46:00.000-07:00

And that was all it was....

The picture says it all..before, impact, after.

Raced home from Lecram's always-stellar BBQ Pit & Ta-Ta Review, pulled out the ol' 8-incher (telescope ladies, please behave) and set up for a night in lunar bombardment. I was still realing from an overdose of bbq pit smoke, as I commandered the post of Head Meat Burner (once again), and several adult beverages handed to me in gratitude for my meat-heating skills, but also out of pitty for my efforts at the 'Q in the face of a 100 degree day in the big 'NO. So, I was sitting there, all agog, and....nothing. Couldn't/didn't see squat. Dissapointed. The above pictures were taken by a 3.7 meter (about 12 foot) diameter telescope in Hawaii, up on some cold dead volcano. Me, I was using the ol' trusty 0.235 meter telescope in my highly air-polluted back yard. Go figure. More late when Blogger will let me create paragraphs.

2006-08-31T16:53:00.000-07:00

You Are NOT seeing things....

OK, for those of you planning a good time on Saturday night (like me), and you happen to be looking up at the Moon at about 1030-ish that evening, and you see a bright flash of light on the dark side of the Moon...you are drunk, it is NOT the final performance of Pink Floyd..but rather the planned impact of SMART - 1. The following link is to the European Space Agency site, discussing this lunar fender-bender
..http://www.esa.int/SPECIALS/SMART-1/index.html

The map on the left shows where the impact site is, and this link gives you the NASA site with another maphttp://science.nasa.gov/headlines/y2006/30aug_smart1.htm

So...when drinking with gullible friends, at about the appointed hour, claim supreme powers and demostrate them by making a small explosion occur on the Moon.

Mustang

2006-08-25T15:31:00.000-07:00

Pre-Dawn....

I find strength each day when I can be up and operational before the sun rises. There is something cosmically energizing about beating the Sun to the day. I feel more alive, more awake, more in the present when I can stand on the back deck, cuppa-Joe in hand and smile as the first pink clouds appear.

There is a large pine tree due east of my house, and over the last twenty years I have watched it grow, until now it too stands with me to greet the morning. I watch as the first rays of light sift through the highest pine needles, and sometimes it seems as if the tree is stretching to get just a little more light a little sooner.

It is usually quiet at this time of the moring. The dogs are still curled up, nose-to-tail, dreaming of rabbits and squirrels. The cat, although awake in that never-asleep way cats do everything, stares at me from under the covers of the bed. SHE is still asleep, gathering her strength for another day of dealing with small children learning to learn.

The air is cool, and crisp, as if I was standing in an invisble shower of energy. The coffee is warm i n my hand as I cast another glance at my friend the pine. The last stars of the night are slowly going to sleep, until night wakes them to dance again above my head.

I keep still, hoping to slow the rising Sun, so that I can compress this moment just a bit more. I often close my eyes and let my ears explore the sounds around me. I can hear the sparrows chasing each other through the Modesto ash trees around the front and side yards, and a mockingbird harrassing the neighbors cat. A slight breeze send the leaves of the Chinese Pistachio tree beside the gargage stirring...and that starts other memories.

For now let is suffice that this tree was planted in memory of our dog Abigail. A runt-o-the litter black labrador, she found a place in my heart, and our home. She died at the age of four, the victim of a rare blood cancer in dogs. Her death hurt, and planting that tree has helped heal that wound to some degree. I often entertain myself with the thought that when I hear the wind in the leaves of that tree, and think of Abby, she thinks of me. Sentimental, yes. Realistic, no. Necessary, absolutely.

So pre-dawn is the time for self-energization, appreciation of nature, counting sleepy stars, and remembering absent friends. Next time life seems hard, or unfair, give yourself the gift of an early morning.

Mustang

2006-08-10T13:16:00.000-07:00

OK, I'm not listening anymore....

I promised someone I would post an HNT, if they would just stop pestering me. Here it is...

I'm sorry..I won't do it again...I apologize

You now might all understand the avatar..

2006-07-21T11:58:00.000-07:00

The Original Palm Pilot…

Some things, and behaviors, need names. Some of us remember the 1980’s craze of Sniglets, and how names for even the simplest items, things, behaviors were given names. I generally found them entertaining, if not just a bit silly (which I like on occasion).

However, there are some things that are in desperate need of naming. As such, I submit that the behavior of thrusting one’s hand outside the window of a moving vehicle (aircraft in-flight excluded), and “playing” airplane be called…Palm Pilot!

We’ve all done this. Each of us has experimented with drag coefficients (palm parallel to the road, moving effortlessly through the atmosphere versus held perpendicular, which increases the drag, thereby raising the coefficient), pressure differentials (tip the hand up and the palm rises, down and it drops), and the concept of “drafting” which is done by ducking in behind the rear-view mirror where there is less drag and less turbulent air.

Now, I must admit this form of flying is for the “open-cockpit” types, those brave soles who venture into the wild blue sans Lexan canopies to guard them. They brave the prop wash with only goggles, silk scarves, and sheer panache! In the context of this idea, that means turn off the AC, turn up the radio, and roll down the window.

This could go far! Mini flight helmets and goggles, with tiny silk scarves attached to a glove you wear whilst driving. And for those of us with slower, more rugged-terrain type vehicles, perhaps…dare I say…a mini Pith?

So, now when you are out supporting big oil, big business and big war by driving your big car with the big gas tank (and bill), you can take solice in knowing that you too can fly the friendly skies…

2006-06-20T17:30:00.000-07:00

Dana...

She has such fine, small hands…
There is a place in the small of her back that is so smooth…
Her smile, more rare these days, still utterly crushes my soul…
Walking is mere locomotion to her, and simply art to me…

She is so small, and yet lifts me with such ease…
Sleeping, which comes so easily to her, I watch her breath …
Her laughter makes me cry…

The bed is a prison when she is gone…
Rooms are but boxes for sorrow in her absence..

I miss her..

2006-05-22T11:45:00.000-07:00

Rain...

Physics and meterology tell us it is the change in barometric pressure that we first sense, regarding the immenent rainfall. The clouds are liars when it comes to predicting just the moment when it will rain. However, if you pay attention you will sense the change in the atmosphere just before it rains. The barometric pressure drops, you can see and hear more clearly, and your sense of smell is often exaggerated.

But something else detects the rain first...something that is difficult to find a definition of, or an explanation for. I suspect it is some ancestral or vestigal ability. It is perhaps one of the few unbidden moments of Zen-like intuition that does not require meditation, but merely existence.

The rain begins. Most often just a few over-achieving drops that have surged ahead of the crowd, desperate for their cataclismic arrival on Earth. Sometimes the intensity builds, and other times it is like the softest of cloths, smothering you in some kind of aural embrace.

I sit at the edge of the deck, listening to the various sounds as the rain strikes different surfaces in the back yard. The deep thrumming of the rain falling off of the roof onto the large broad leaves of some unnamed plant, the soft and consistant drum against the wooden deck, and the various flat, untuned barks as individual drops collide with various rocks in my back yard.

The temperature actually rises ever so slightly when it rains, as this exchange of energy pays homage to the laws of thermodynamics. But my pulse usually slows, as I focus on hearing each raindrop.

Finally, when I feel the moment is just right, I close my eyes and begin to walk between the rain drops...

2005-12-23T07:51:00.000-08:00

Return of the Knights Templar…

The Bunny and I were having a discussion, or more accurately, the Bunny was reminding me about something, and it took him three hours to do so. Non-stop. Bunnies are quite chatty if you are willing to sit and listen.

The monologue was about the cyclical nature of history. The Knights Templar, and the fact that the whole of the Crusades (vol.1 and 2) for that matter were religiously driven on both sides. The Bunny felt that we were once again at this point in time.

I did a little reading, and found this article about the current religiously-justified mind-set prevalent in dee-cee (http://www.newyorker.com/fact/content/articles/051205fa_fact).

It is a somewhat chilling read, especially the parts about being “in the grey area” and “being held prisoner and not knowing it”. Apparently the US Air Force is about to become the avenging angels of god, and that all is required is a complete abandonment of common sense relative to target-acquisition, combat-forward-air-control, and one immense sense of faith in a population that permits “honor killings” of abducted teenage girls and “sullied” women (http://www.kwahk.org/index.asp?id=77) and (http://www.peacewomen.org/news/Iraq/May05/honour.html).

So. The Bunny sits and watches as I contemplate this current event, and I am certain he will sit there and wait until I have something worth listening to. Or, he will go find a carrot somewhere, as he knows there is nothing I can say to salve this horrible feeling in my soul.

2005-12-22T21:01:00.000-08:00

A Compass Points North…

When I was young, I received a compass as a gift. The gentlemen who gave it to me explained that it would always point to magnetic north, no matter where I was. I was stunned. How could something so simple be so incredibly useful? I spent days exploring my neighborhood, desperately trying to find somewhere that this little gizmo did not point north. And for that matter, what was magnetic north, and was there more than one North?

I have carried a compass almost continuously for over 40 years, and have never failed to marvel at the consistency and utility of such a simple device. I learned about magnetic north, geomagnetic poles, magnetic polar wandering and True North. It made me appreciate having to find your way through the world without one, navigating by the stars, landmarks and often sheer dumb luck.

Tonight I listened to a woman on the radio, describing her imminent ejection from the American middle class, the result of downsizing and out-sourcing overseas. I was struck by the fact that this woman had followed her social and moral compass for over 40 years, believing that she was “on course”; only to discover that her compass was correct, but “north” has moved.

Geologists know that the geomagnetic poles “wander”, and the geophysicists have explained “magnetic pole reversals”. Apparently this same sort of thing is going on in politics.

Regardless, it should make us all pause to appreciate both what we have, and the very thin veil of karma, luck, fortune or chance that separates our insulated lives from sheer chaos. I once saw my compass “dance”, as I walked over a large mountain of essentially magnetic rock, lured into the gyration as a result of the rapidly varying magnetic fields surrounding this mountain.

Hopefully “north” settles down. Seems to me that an intelligent designer would have fixed this early on…..

2005-10-21T23:07:00.000-07:00

Loss...

Madoline's bare feet rested on the cool tile of the garden patio. She sat in a low-backed chair from Burundi, with her back to the French doors. She could hear her Grandmother preparing tea in the small garden kitchen. Madoline was not uncomfortable, but she sensed that she might be apprehensive. She did not know why.

Anna was Madoline's grandmother. Anna was 88, and Madoline was 25. Anna had spent almost her entire life in Europe, mostly waiting for Madoline's grandfather. Anna carried the solid silver tea service, a gift from a shiek in Yemen, and set it on the small wooden table in the garden. Anna pulled her chair to the table and began to pour out.

Antoine had been an engineer for the Republic Nationale Institute de Petroleum. He had met Anna shortly after the end of the Second World War. They were both orphaned teenage Jews, lost within their home, without family or friends. They had found each other in a refuge camp run by the Americans. Mostly ignored by the rest of the world, they had found time to eat, sleep, and regain their strength. And fall in love.

Antoine and Anna married, and had two children. Jacques had died when only a small child, supposedly from a fever. But Anna felt that the French doctor, solidly supported on a daily ration of wine and morphine, had mistakenly injected Jacques with morphine instead of peniciline. Anna did not know that this regime of pain and despair would be a constant companion for her until she died.

Michelle was the child that lived. She had a daughter, Madoline. Michelle's husband was an officer in the French Foriegn Legion, and had been killed in Chad fighting the rebels.

For a long time Anna, Michelle and Madoline lived together in a small home near a lake outside of St. Loupin. Antoine was gone, traveling in the Middle East and Africa, searching for oil. On those rare occasions when he was home, there were often grand parties with friends from all over the world, gifts from these same places, and exotic stories that facinated and sometimes terrified Madoline. There were also terrible arguments between Anna and Antoine. Not over money, but love, or at least the abscence of it. Anna missed Antoine. Antoine loved his work.

The telegram arrived on a rainy, misty day in November. It was one of those days that was neither too cold or too warm, and the rain fell at times, and then rested while the mist kept the world at bay. Antoine was dead. There had been an accident, somewhere in Borneo. HIs body could not be recoved. He was gone.

It had taken almost a year for Michelle and Madoline to console Anna. Eventually she had found her feet, and began going about the village. She accepted the kind words of her friends, and the sad looks of the shop keepers as she shopped with Madoline. Eventually, Anna adopted a rather steely demeanor about Antoine's death. She also began speaking of him, almost (but not quite) as if he was merely away again, and when he returned it would be for good.

Madoline noticed that Anna was especially quiet this morning. Her grandmother had become more reserved in the last several months. Madoline was not sure why, but suspected that perhaps her grandmother was growing senile.

Anna and Madoline spoke for some time. Anna never mentioned Antoine during the entire conversation. Until the end.

She spoke for almost an hour. She never stopped. When she finished, Madoline was sobbing. It was clear that Anna was terrible sad, lonely, and something else. Madoline could not put her finger on what it was. She sensed that Anna had reached some decision, some cross-road, and that she was about to do something. But what?

Madoline left Anna sitting in the garden that day, and walked slowly back to the home that she shared with her mother. Madoline almost turned back, almost went and asked Anna what was about to happen. But she did not.

Madoline liked surprises.

2005-09-23T20:32:00.000-07:00

Cats...

And there she was. The bunny had not seen her. I had not seen her. And yet, there she was. I had sensed her, in that terrifying, something is coming up from behind me way, and so I turned and there she was.

I had to admire her, for she sat there as if this was the most natural thing in the world to do. Actually, it is if you are a cat, and particularly if you are a deaf cat. She is fearless because she does not have as much to fear. It is amazing what we can be oblivious of when we cannot hear, or smell, or see, or touch.

So I went for the camera, hoping that she would have the decency to stay until I returned. She did. And so I took several photographs of the small white cat.

She continued to look at me, as if sensing my inability to be with her, and that it was merely my shortcoming and not her's in any way. And she was right.

She lived next door, and would come visit me in the garage as I worked on my carpentry or furniture projects. She was unafraid of the tools, as she could not hear them. So she would perch on the top of the work bench, or perhaps move to the shelves, all so that she could have a better view of what I was doing.

It is un-nerving having a pure white cat stare at you while you used a saw, blade whirring at 14,000 rpm, and she seemed so...disappointed. Perhaps karma had led her to me, as she was a famous woodworked in the distant past. Or not.

And so there she sat, on the very peak of the roof of the garage. Fearless, alone, and quite happy I think!

I enjoyed her visits, even when I had to rescue her from all to frequent attempts at playing with power tools larger than herself.

She is gone now. Hopefully she went with the neighbors when they moved. She was a good cat, as cats go. Quite, yet friendly. Respectful, yet attentive. A decent cat, the kind that you don't mind having in the wood shop on a November day, to share in the moment, and not judge but simply enjoy being there with you.

Perhaps, this is the key to cats. In Japanese, the word shibumi means understated dignity. The little white cat was surely the finest example of that. Perhaps someday I will find such dignity, even if I have to climb up on the roof.

M

2005-09-22T23:26:00.000-07:00

Traveling...

San Francisco, Los Alamos and then San Nicolas Island. The bunny and I have been everywhere in the last two and one-half weeks. The bunny is not tired, but I am.

I was robbed of an opportunity to see our dear friend generic, who lives in SF, because some of the same manager-types that SSM ranted about recently also seem to work where I work, which is where SSM worked before he didn't, and now works at a similar but not same work as I.

The bunny seems more restless this evening, probably just trying to get more settled back into the world here rather than there, which is where we were when we were not here.

SSM and lecram have tried to convince me that blogging is a daily thing, like poo and sex, which in fact are no longer daily occurences. As such, I will try to write more regularly.

I was tasked with writing about Writer Boy. Or perhaps it is Rider Boy, or Ryder Boy. Or maybe even Wrider Boi? Regardless (twice), this must wait for a more lucid moment.

M

2005-08-28T22:14:00.000-07:00

Frogs...

I have lived in my house for 19 years. Each year, I look forward to many annual events. One of these is the Frog Arrival. Unlike the much loathed June Bug Arrival, the Frog Arrival is warmly (that is a pun that will become apparent momentarily) anticipated.

Shortly after the June Bugs begin their suicidal flights into my front porch windows and front door lights, the frogs begin to emerge from the...somewhere. The June Bugs and Frogs begin to arrive when the temperature goes up (up is a relative term here in Fresno when referring to heat, much like calling molten rock merely hot), ergo the aformentioned pun about a warm arrival (I am truly sorry for that). Mostly small to middlin', with the rare occasional whopper for a momentary fright as I walk along the poorly lit sidewalk, these frogs are quite enjoyable.

One thing I cannot fathom though is their total distaste for water from the hose as I water the various (and still unknown to me) species of foliage forced into the soil by my wife; whereas they seem to literally spring from the grass itself when the sprinklers come on?

Ah..frog husbandry is so fulfilling. Nothing better than a good horse beneath you, a cold beer and my trusty six-shooter as I watch my herd of rough-hided non-amphibian frogs mosey across my 0.00436 square acres of lush bermuda, on a slow trail drive towards the rhodedendrum patch. Turns out that June Bugs make good barbecue...

2005-08-13T10:58:00.000-07:00

ILLUMINATION

It often happens just when I least expect it, or as someone wrote " things that have never happened before happen all the time ". It is usually early in the morning, moments before the sun rises, when I notice that the light outside carries what seems to be its' own energy.

I used to say that it was the last smell of cut lawns, the impending chill in the air, and a change in the light that let me know it was time to play football. I couldn't understand what it was, by I sensed that this favorite time of my childhood was upon me. In later years, I would realize that it was the change in the light intensity as the sun began to shrink away from the unyielding heat of summer, and tilt her head so that autumn could find its way home. Physics class would teach me about light intensity, luminosity, Planck's constant, quantum theory, quarks and other such things.

I still like to stand outside and watch the light change, and I realize that the light didn't change, I did.

M

2005-07-21T23:38:00.000-07:00

A very quick assist to SSM, currently in mourning over the departure from "potential penis support system" to the ranks of "currently entertaining another, and far more wealthy (but less deserving) DNA-delivery system"...of Sandra Bullock..

The one and only Mila Jovovich...

2005-07-21T23:22:00.000-07:00

The sky was crowded with desperate, schizophrentic rain clouds this morning. Aching to yield some moisture, they seemed determined to hold on to their unborn precipitation. This was all rent from the sky by the dawn, the sun tearing neat little holes in the backdrop where photons of previously existing people streamed into our atmosphere, setting the oxygen and nitrogen ablaze.

Actually, the sunlight was merely defracting through the horrible pre-dawn dust/haze/smog...yuck.

Blogging it seems has supplanted masturbation, social drinking, cable TV and illegitmate sex.

Where is Jag when I need a good, socially-depraved rant on everything that is both right and wrong with everything right and wrong?

There is a small rabbit in my garden. Only I have seen him. He has only seen me. He sits quietly and without effort beneath the southern edge of my apple tree. He does not move, yet there he is. He does not eat, yet he is alive. He does not smile, yet he makes me smile. He seems calm, and not rushed. He is the source of the shibumi in the garden. He is the Zen Bunny...

2005-07-20T23:32:00.000-07:00

The garden seems to be sad, or at least tired. The heat is oppressive, and most of the flowers are cringing away from the harsh, uncaring light. No matter the amount of water, or love we pore on them, they continue to die. What courage to stand still, face the inevitable, tolerate near drowing on a daily basis and still stand unweeping.

The grass is ignorant and uncaring, like a old man for whom time has cruely ignored his pleas of death, it can only sit and wait until winters harsh cold can kill it enough to die for just a while.

In a small corner, a large brown spider quietly kills the smaller insects in the garden. Death is everywhere, and yet so is color. Splashes of red, yellow, orange and blue all mix in to celebrate this annual triumph over permenant existance. To hell with forever these little bits of chlorophyll seem to say, for I shall be wonderful for just a moment and that should be enough for anyone.

The rocks are the least bothered by it all. They are the oldest in the garden, even older that the dirt. The rocks were here first, and they constantly show off to the others by not only not moving, but not even not caring that they are not moving. The rocks have found shibumi...