A Found Week-end . . .

     Kathy's parents spend each summer at Burro Mountain Homestead. They usually visit us each spring and fall on their travels to and from Desert Hot Springs, CA. Kathy's eldest sister and her husband spend their  winters in Las Vegas and stop by on their journeys to and from their summers at Burro Mountain. This autumn their visits with us coincided and whilst Kathy's parents looked after the cats we took the opportunity to get away to Lyman Lake State Park which is not far from St Johns, AZ. Frank and Karen joined us.

     Isn't it always the case that locals rarely visit nearby tourist attractions? People from the Valley of the Sun (Phoenix) visit the mountains regularly in the summer months to fish, camp and hike and in the winter months to ski or hunt. There are archæological digs to explore; the Petrified Forest National Park is just up the road. there are local hunters and fishermen to be sure. I'm often asked if I do these things which seem to be expected of you if you live in the White Mountains. But I do ski, just not so often now, and I do like to go camping (no longer under canvas) and walking in the woods and by lakes and streams.

     I need to verify this but I am lead to believe there are only two natural lakes of any size in Arizona. All recreational waters are on lakes created by damming streams. Lyman Lake is one such. For the past three days we've been relaxing, crocheting, playing music, fishing, walking and taking pictures, admiring the full moon through a telescope, catching glimpses of wildlife and just generally taking time to do something a little different from the quotidian round.

Friday night jam with Frank: Red Haired Boy (hornpipe)

     Each evening we relaxed round the campfire and watched the sky whilst the sun set and the full moon rose.

A fuzzy shot of the rising moon.

     The rising sun the following morning. At this time of the year it gets quite windy too. And it did blow. This is also the time of the year for tarantulas to be on the march finding shelter for the coming winter and we saw a few. Rangers are happy when we don't indiscriminately kill the local fauna from fear.

One unlucky angler . . . but the ladies were productive crocheting and chatting.

     Did I mention the fourteenth century pueblo ruins? Much of the site is covered to preserve what remains after the looting of the white man. Ancestors of the Zuni and Hopi or the Mogollon people or perhaps the Anazasi built these dwellings along with a sacred kiva.

     An immature buteo possibly a Swainson's or a red-tailed hawk, I'm not an expert.

     A snapshot taken on one of my walks . . .

'Nother Day

Cooled off and got some rain; so whenever there's wet weather the bookshop is a little busier. I am also happy when someone comes in looking for a book and I am able to find a copy of the book they want on the shelves; this happened today. Martin Cruz Smith's Gorky Park (1981).

Good Morning

The day always starts well with several pages of ramblings beginning with the realisation that today is designated the Glorious Twelfth by those who take joy in blasting birds out of the sky. And that thought lead to this sentence in Luis Alberto Urrea's The Hummingbird's Daughter; "Gusts of butterflies flew out of the bean fields as if the wind had been painted and had shattered into white chips".

What is the opposite of 'sublimation'? Is it possible to freeze gas suddenly, directly to its solid state?

At school we were taught that descriptive writing exercises the imagination and were duly sent out to find an object to bring back to the classroom and then write about it. I brought back the umbriferous flower of a common weed.

Cleave. A word that is its own antonym.[edit monday 17 August 2009: I learn from listening to Steven Fry's BBC Radio 4 programme Fry's English Delight that this would be called a contranym.]

The only party for me happened when I reached my seventh birthday.

This bad writing is akin to poor music: random notes, no rhythm, no melody, no beat . . .

What do I hear, see, taste, smell . . . what do I feel? try this exercise: descibe colours to a blind man; music to a deaf man; taste to a man who has lost his sense of smell

An amateur musician practices a piece of music until he makes no mistakes . . . then stops. A professional musician plays until he cannot make mistakes . . . then keeps playing.

To defend myself from those who may think I'm misogynist recast the preceding sentences completely or use the ugly he/she construction.

These are the gleanings from nearly five pages of my morning writing and now back to the quotidian round of living. I shall be in the bookstore today. Come by and ask me about a book or author I don't yet know. Choir practice this evening . . .

Goodnight

A day without music? Quite the contrary. Listened to Round the House CDs this morning and have rounded out the day playing my own music on the hammered dulcimer this evening. I'll read more of Urrea's The Hummingbird's Daughter before going to bed. I seem to spend a lot of time reading others' blogs; my own diminishes and I promise myself to come here each day. I won't always have a picture; and I may not have anything to say or I think I don't. An exercise I have not yet done is reviewing my memory cards. I make notes of odd memories that come to me in unguarded moments. Does a life have to make sense? I miss Zoë's physical presence and remember the times she would jump into my arms and lick my face. What will I dream tonight? Shall I remember any dreams? How shall I remember today? The music.

The Quotidian Round

Why am I fond of Latinate locutions? I haven't written long enough, or simply enough. As long as I write something, somewhere, about anything at any time of day . . .
So what is this quotidian round, this day-to-day living which tends to wear me out? What are the essentials I have to take care of? Sleeping well, eating healthily, keeping clean, wearing clothes appropriate for the weather and wearing a good pair of comfortable shoes for the journey . . . sharp pencils, ink filled pens and clean paper, and reading which may spark ideas in my mind's eye . . . to be still.

I'm still here

"Procrastination . . . the thief of Time . . . " I'm not at home at the moment and of course as soon as I try write here all the ideas for themes, topics and trivia that I have not made note of are gone from my mind.

I have been browsing, and marking to follow, many blogs and I feel such an utter inchoate novice, if that isn't a tautology, with my little effort here which has no focus; and which I have left far too long. We are each the centre of the universe. I imagine myself as a signpost in a vast desert; the many arms of the signpost point to the horizon, to the sky, to my feet. Some of these blogs I follow publicly giving you the chance to explore them through the links in my profile . . .

Much time has been used playing country dance tunes on the dulcimer. Some time was rescued taking pictures of wildflowers; a project much mulled over for several years.

Any idiot can face a crisis.

It's this day-to-day living that wears you out. (Anton Chekov) Which is why I haven't been here lately to focus on what I am seeking. I have been dreaming. I have been bemoaning the heat. I have been watching gathering clouds each afternoon; wishing for more than a sprinkle; hoping we won't be deluged. I sleep, eat; stare at a computer screen wondering where the Muses hide . . . I talk to my sister on the 'phone; I raise my voice above the hum of fans, air-conditioner and humidifier to talk to Kathy across the room. I watch a little TV and finish reading A Plague of Doves; I continue dipping into Sailing Home; re-reading Blue Highways. I play a little music on the dulcimer and recorders; I listen to selected programmes on BBC Radio4 . . . I write very brief journal notes in the morning. I browse others' blogs. I receive a letter from a dear friend . . . he plans to visit this fall. I think of the things I am not going to mention here . . . I wait in hope of customers at the bookstore . . .

I read the Declaration of Independence once again and think of Thomas Paine sitting on my bookshelves . . . spent the Fourth in the mountains near Silver City, New Mexico . . .