WATERFALL ROAD

THE DOG AND THE WALKING STICK

2016-01-04T04:58:00.001-05:00

nose to the ground

Early afternoon I went out the door with dog and new walking stick. She saw me pick up the stick and flinched slightly. It told me something about her past and her insecurity. I assured her the stick was not for hitting dogs. We don't do that here. I would use it to hit a dog attacking my dog friend, only then. Dog protects me. I protect dog. She's not yet saved me from a bear attack, but she makes it possible to walk in the woods again without concern for four-legged surprises. Dog would smell and see it before I would, and bark aggressively, alerting whatever it might be to leave primate alone. Primate has a ninja dog blood brother, in this case sister, who will die to protect him. The barking alerts me to look for what it is dog sees, most often a twig shifting in near distance, maybe a squirrel running for a tree after seeing a dog. She bounded with joy walking toward the road. She knew we were not going to the car, but beyond the car into walking stick world, paradise for dog's inquiring nose.

rhododendron walking stick

The wood for the stick came from an old rhododendron in the woods behind the barn, dead for so many years the wood cracked from the drying process. The bark was paper thin, loose and falling off. The bark under the exterior bark was fused to the wood structure. This layer of bark I carved off with the pocket knife. It takes several hours to carve the bark away and round the tips. The end that is the handle needs to be smooth as glass for walking comfort, sometimes in the palm of the hand. Also rounded the tip that touches the ground to inhibit splintering and splitting. The wood has been dead for so many years the rotting process had begun. Rotting starts in rhododendron with black lines like drawn with an extra-fine-line pen running in abstract patterns with the wood's flow lines and some discoloration in abstract absence of pattern. It has the strength of the living wood, as dry as the wood can be before decay sets in. I think of the abstraction of lines and discoloring something like the patterns retained from memory of experience in the soul, called impressions and sanskaras. Mental impressions, mind tattoos, experience carried from lifetime to lifetime. This is my stick for the rest of this lifetime.

dog head and water flow

In my own personal symbolism, the stick represents the journey of the soul. I've never used a walking stick in the years I roamed the mountains following a dog. In this time of advanced age, I'm not as firm on the feet as I one time was. I walked over varieties of ground with the stick to get a feel for handling it over different terrain. It is good for balance, extra good for climbing a steep hill and walking down a steep hill, good for a sideways slant. The stick is a good brace for jumping from one big rock to another, a hand to hold. In the past, a walking stick became a nuisance I carried over my shoulder soon after starting the walk. I'm slower now and not so lithe on the feet. A walking stick makes a good assist. It is good to lean on during a break, standing still watching dog play in the water, run over the ground, up hills, over trails of the night people, following her nose like it's attached to a meandering rail.

lady in red

Early in the walk, I came upon a place to approach with attention to foot placement. Went within to my "center," just below the navel, focused balance there, instead of in my head, and balance came so naturally so quickly it felt something like shifting gears. I took an interest in photographing water flow over small rocks, over sand, over big rocks, channels of flow, looking to catch the lines of flow on the water's surface like the continually changing flames of a fire. Walking in the woods makes dog deliriously happy. It lifts primate's spirit as well. We will take longer walks as time goes by. Winter is a good time for walking in the woods. The serpents sleep in hidden places. I like not being concerned about stepping on a snake. Another thing I like about walking with a dog is they find snakes first. The dog alerts me to the snake and we walk around the snake. Dog's senses are hyper-alert out in the woods. I'm enjoying seeing a dog run free in forest, a dog only familiar with city life on a leash. It's how I felt in the beginnings of living in the Blue Ridge, let off the leash. I'm used to it by now, it's the grain of my life. Dog is refreshing foggy memory of wonderment in the first years of walking over these mountains. I review my own awe in the time of discovering these mountains were the terrain of my spiritual path of liberation from self by way of understanding, attitude toward life, allowing, and mere being.

the same place maybe 3 seconds apart

photos by tj worthington

CHANGING THE CALENDAR

2016-01-02T01:51:00.000-05:00

trees in the rain

An image of John Lennon just now ran across the movie screen inside my head. I recalled seeing a headline a week or so ago of his son by his first wife telling the world John Lennon was not a nice man at home, that the kid never saw any love in him. John wrote songs about love, but didn't live the love he wrote songs about. Therefore, he was a hypocrite. What does that have to do with anything? King David wrote the most beautiful songs about love ever, period. He was a rogue. John Newton, who wrote Amazing Grace, was a slave trader. I read in John Berryman's Dream Songs and see video of an interview with him, I don't see all his poems in him. I see just a man whose mind pieced together with words and rhythms some amazing compositions. I don't see suicide in his poems when I read them. I don't see suicide in Robert Lowell's poems either. How they ended their lives is as irrelevant to their art as the brand of tires on their cars. I felt a degree of sorrow for the kid who tried to be a star with his daddy's name and it didn't take. He sees his half-brother, Yoko's son, bathed in luxury, privilege and wealth as son of John Lennon. Julian was left out, never made it to stardom and evidently turned bitter. What a dreary old man he might be, "I'm the neglected son of John Lennon...he was a sorry-ass hypocrite," in the pub night after night.

The last two evenings being year's end and year's beginning, another turn around the sun, I decided to see my favorite movies. Last night's choice was Hero, a film by Chinese director Yimou Zhang. Hero is at the top of the list of the most beautiful films I've seen. This was the fifth or sixth viewing. It is billed an action movie starring Jet Li. The action is choreographed martial arts ballet in flowing clothes of colors that sound like a Chinese violin. It is an historical drama given a touch of fairy tale. Then today I chose to see another favorite film, King of Masks, a Chinese film by director Wu Tianming. A good Chinese story, a gentle roller coaster ride of the emotions, of an old man and a child he bought in the market to be his heir. He was the last to carry the traditional art of the mask, an entertainment of changing masks seemingly by magic. He needed an heir to pass his art form to and bought a little boy. Turns out he was cheated, the boy was a girl and he did not want a girl, the art could only be passed on to a boy. From there it goes round and round to a tear-jerker happy ending Chinese style. A story of everyday life realism with the sense of a fairy tale. Exquisitely beautiful photography in both films.

Didn't do anything else to acknowledge the change of calendars. Haven't even put up the new calendar. Aimed to walk the dog today. Justin stopped by on his way to his deer stand and brought some hay up from the barn in his big pickup. He advised staying out of the woods today. Jan 1 is the last day of hunting season. Everybody was out. I said we'd stay on the road, in that case, and he advised blaze orange if I want to walk the road. Decided to let it go. Lead won't be flying in the woods from Saturday onward. A week ago, Justin killed the big bear living in this area. He estimated it 425 lbs, said the "cape" was 150 lbs. He wants to make a rug to hang on the wall. For a hunter, it's a good trophy. This was the bear he'd said earlier was going about in daylight. He said it means the bear was getting brave. A good one to cull from the sloth. I saw it on the back of his pickup within twenty minutes of being shot. I have a hard time with killing. I have no judgment of hunting. It's necessary, I know it, just don't care to participate in it. I also know my attitude about not killing is a minority of one. Justin knows I'm not a killer, he also knows I admire his skill with a bow and a gun. He brought the bear down with one shot. He said the bear came into view just as it turned dark, "A black bear is hard to see through a scope in the dark."

I've known Justin since he was a baby. We were friends in his childhood the same as I am friends with his baby, Vada. Vada is a feist, just like her daddy was. It's like the same kid, one a boy, one a girl. Vada is becoming a rowdy little kid. She and her daddy play rough and she loves it. It's in her horoscope. She got in trouble in pre-school; when she fights little kids her size, she hurts them. Her dance class had a recital a few weeks ago I'm sorry I missed. She ruled in it. Vada was the star performer and did it like she was born to the stage. Crystal told me after their trip to Disney World, Vada dressed up as Elsa was to walk behind Cinderella around a big circle of people clapping. Not Vada, Crystal said, Vada doesn't follow anybody. She walked around the circle holding Cinderella's hand. I would so love to see Vada grow up. She'll be out front in whatever she does. She is a balanced blend of her mommy and daddy. And her daddy will go crazy when he sees her drawn to rowdy boys. By the time she's in high school, she will have as many deer kills as the best of the boy hunters. She'll make all A's, be head cheerleader, play baseball and be homecoming queen.

photos by tj worthington

POWER IN THE NAME

2015-12-31T17:15:00.000-05:00

the road ahead

A lifetime of habit patterns around looking back on Dec 31 at the year gone by, I woke this morning thinking about what has come to me in the year and what has gone away. I don't remember a time I did not think New Year's Eve anything but another night before another day. Every day is New Year's day. It's like naming a dog. I feel like dog is best without a name, a name being something imposed on dog from outside by the human mind. Yet I don't know if the animals have names for each other. They're not telling. I've seen a gathering of about twenty raccoons in a picture taken by trail camera. I imagine they all knew each other, an extended family. Crows live in extended families unto tribes. They know each other as people in a small community. Surely they know one another by position in the hierarchy, by relationship, and subtleties humans don't see. I'd guess Mama has a crow equivalent. Brother, sister, seems like these relationships being known, they would have an identifying sound or thought for each one. I find behavior in the animal and bird world similar to ours, as it would be, considering evolution.

I've no problem with the word evolution. First, I'm not selling anything and am not a missionary for any agenda. People who have an issue with the word, evolution, don't read. There's the long and the short of it. Somebody who doesn't like a word I use can either tell me about it or not. I've seen contention over word usage all my life. In childhood, black people were known to white people only by nigger and colored, sometimes darkie. Of course, it's all demeaning, coming from a subconscious belief among white people that we're superior in every way, therefore privileged. In the late Fifties, a cry went up for white people to call black people Negroes, while Negroes went on calling each other nigger unto this day. But it's not ok to say it and be white. A white man is outright forbidden to refer to a woman a bitch or a cunt. It's totally ok for women to call men assholes or dicks in coffee shops, in print, on tv and radio.

Somebody black calls me a white motherfucker and it's ok, but not ok for me to call him a motherfucking nigger. For myself, I approach it with understanding that white man is, historically and present tense, the oppressor of black people, women, etc. White man has traditionally been the privileged demographic. That there are no restrictions on names minorities and women can call white men tells me political correctness is aimed at the white man, to bring white man under control. It's ok because arrogant white man believes himself superior from birth onward, thereby goes along oblivious to names he's called. White man is on a fast downhill run in this time on greased skis and he knows it. White man mind, not all white men, but the mind, has come together in one political party that represents half the population. We have devolved politically, from 1980 unto this year soon completed, 2015, to the clown bus of a dozen white man pretend candidates with a token black man and a token woman spewing white man unreason, strategically appealing to ignorance in the American people with the propaganda of fascism.

The shocking part is how well it works. The most cynical minds of all thought up this strategy and set it in motion. The republican party today is an illustration of the white male belief system, a branch of the patriarchal belief system, crumbling before our eyes, reduced to denying reason, intelligence, knowledge to maintain power. We're learning upfront that democracy has become a threat to white man. We've already learned through Southern history the white man will happily throw off democracy to hang onto power. I have stopped paying attention to anything to do with the clown bus. They've taught me what they're about, which is of no interest. Curiously, Trump has turned out to be the trump card in the political/media bridge game going on. Throughout my life I have attempted to understand people not me, from foreigners to everyone I know. I am my own political correctness cop open to understanding others the best I'm able, receiving every individual in my life as he or she is within themselves. Another way of saying I go in peace. I don't use any of the disrespectful names, except for the humor of irony with close friends who understand where I'm coming from. Like you. And this comes from a basic ethic to regard others with respect if I want respect in turn. Respect boomerangs. Disrespect boomerangs. It's my choice in every moment of every day. Happy New Year.

photos by tj worthington

DOG, CAT AND PRIMATE CELEBRATE GENETIC DIVERSITY

2015-12-30T11:57:00.001-05:00

black dog in waterfalls creek

Dog and primate had a successful day. We went on a spontaneous walk into the woods. I took along the walking stick that will be my own personal stick, not to be given away, the one to accompany future walks. Carried the pocket knife, stopping from time to time when dog found something of interest to hold her attention. I'd open the knife and carve more of the old bark from the stick. The wood is rhododendron, dried out long ago so dry it developed a long crack down its length. The crack does not weaken the wood, rather it adds a nano-bit of spring to the stick. I'm carving a knob at the top of the stick, a smooth half of a sphere about the size of a pingpong ball for the palm of the hand. Carving completed, I'll go over it with sandpaper, smooth it to the touch. It will soak up the tung oil such that the first two coats will vanish overnight. I'll give it probably five coats, maybe six. The wood is light like maple. The tung oil changes the color to honey. The tung oil dried unto cured, then lightly gone over with oooo steel wool, the stick is smooth as silk. The tung oil keeps dampness from seeping into the wood, preserving it.

dog in spin dry shakes the water off

Dog and I had a good time on our walk. We communicated well. She walked in the creek frequently, followed her nose everywhere she went on land. She strolled on deer legs through a paradise of scents for a dog nose excited as Vada at Disneyworld meeting Elsa, Anna and Cinderella. Walking with a dog is entertainment all the way. I'm not one to set a stride and power walk to lose pounds or whatever. I'd rather roam along watching the dog explore and follow scents along the ground, while I stand in one place, carve on the walking stick, watch dog splash in the water. I look forward to walking with black dog in the snow. Snow landscape frames the tree trunks with their colors and textures, lichen, moss growing on the bark, almost invisible through the other seasons. Dog is in perpetual motion in the woods, not easy to photograph. I'll have to find the way to photograph her explorations. I point the camera at her and she comes running toward me, changing focus until all I'm able to get is a picture of her happy eyes looking up at me.

we are gods to the dogs

Farmer's Hardware had a good selection of collars and harnesses for dogs. Found a blue harness. At home, dog was so patient while fitting the harness, dealing with tightening and loosening the straps, it seemed to tickle her to have primate hands binding her. It shows me how domestically she has been trained. None of my dogs in the past even liked me to put a collar around their necks. I used to let my dogs live as much in the world of the wild things as at home. Circumstances are different now with a paved road and a subdivision half a mile to the west and one a half mile to the east, both of them out of sight. Mowed lawns, paved driveways, garages, and in between, "that place where nobody lives," trees grown up, rhododendron, rocks and ferns, messy. And fear them donkeys, smelling like a farm, could lower property values.

dog's nose follows a scent

Cat and dog grow closer by the day. Dog walks up to cat and they touch noses. Cat only runs from dog tempting her to play chase. Indoors, cat's curiosity about dog feels more confidence by the day the big bad wolf does not eat cats. Dog not yet ready to play appears a little more inclined each day to feel less that the cat is a threat. I'm glad for balance the smaller cat has seniority the dog honors. Dogs, being pack animals, have hierarchical minds that defer automatically to seniority. Though, sure as I say this, somebody else has the opposite experience. I grew up in a world of adults talking in sweeping generalizations. Having used my adult life to teach myself not to speak with so little meaning, I cringe when I say something like dogs have hierarchical minds. This includes everything from a Yorkie to a Mongolian mastiff. Dog genetics and behavior have been so altered by the human mind, I doubt any one thing can be said to include all dogs. I say dogs are covered in hair, some dogs are hairless. I say dogs have four legs, and recall amputees with three legs. I still tend to make generalizations according to interpretations of experience, and they continue not to apply. Connecting dots by trial and error.

all dogs have tongues

RAINY DAY DOG

2015-12-28T22:46:00.000-05:00

rain all day

This week of continuous rain has been wearing on my nerves. I'd be fine with it were I not sharing indoor space with a dog that wants to be outside, and I want to go walking with dog. Dog hangs about the house restless, staring at me, wanting all my attention. Can't read for her squealing. She'll squeal wanting to crawl onto me and when I don't let her, she'll go to the bedroom and jump on the bed. A few minutes later she's at the door squealing to be let out. I open the door and she backs up due to the rain. I sit down to read and she squeals. I tell her it's enough squealing for the day. She goes and jumps on the bed and the cycle begins again. She's in the reading chair now twisted into a knot, chewing at her back like she's covered up in fleas when she is not, stares at me between chewing spasms, panting, tongue hanging out from the breathtaking effort. It looks like she is using her teeth to comb her hair. She's grooming. Later, I'll make a town run for carrots, coffee, prescriptions and a dog harness. I don't like choking her when I walk her with a leash. She pulls so hard against her collar she chokes herself, either doesn't get it or doesn't care. Plus, she can slip out of the collar. I need control when she's on a leash.

happy to ride with the primate

A week ago I renewed the car's license tag. Every year the State requires I stick a little rectangle on top of last year's rectangle with month and year it is next to be renewed. The little rectangle, about an inch by an inch and a quarter, in the past has stuck as irremovably as the old duct tape before they changed to the cheaper glue formula they use now. I could not make the little rectangle stick. I dried the old surface with shirt sleeve, cleaned it as clean as it can be without taking Dawn to it. The new rectangle would not stick. I could move it easily with one fingertip. Corners lifted easily. My first thought: Revenue. Low bid contract for the glue this year. I lifted it off easily and brought it to the house. Last time in town I bought some Krazy glue. Now I'm waiting for a day without rain. By revenue, I mean a large number of the stickers will fall off after weeks or months and car owners won't notice. Law Enforcement will notice. In this time of zero tolerance it will cost several hundred dollars in fees per incident. I am not leaving mine to chance. I've learned from four decades of experience the state of North Carolina is not my friend. No new taxes means increasing our value as targets for the highway patrol by running up their quotas.

air bellows gap road going down the hill

Took a break here, made a run to town in the rain. Came home with some necessities from grocery store and found a harness for dog at Farmer's Hardware. I can already see it will be a trial getting the thing on her, fitting it, while she squirms like a worm I'm attempting to skewer with a hook. The trip to town amounted to a dog squealing all the way to town and all the time in town. I was wondering if she needed to pee, but the squealing started before we got in the car. It began the moment she saw I was going to take her. At the stoplight in Sparta I'd had enough of the squealing. I hollered, Stop it! That was it. All the way toward town I was saying things like, You've squealed enough for the day, Enough squealing, The squealing is rubbing my nerve endings the wrong way. I don't know if this is new or simply her nature. Whatever it is, it will be changing soon. It's like having a kid in the house and no television.

yellow light in sparta

She still could not hold the squealing back. Before going into the grocery store, I attached the leash to the headrest post on the back of her seat. Upon return, she was quiet in the seat and stayed still all the way home. I wondered if she'd choked herself to death. I saw the leash had gone all the way around the seatbelt that was vertical inside the door. She'd pulled the leash to the furthest extremity she could pull it, given the tight rein she'd given herself, and stayed there with the leash pulled tight. I thought, we've got some conceptual issues here. I left her like that all the way home with the attitude she knows what she's doing, and if she doesn't, it's hers to figure out. Don't worry~be happy. I remind self that all her habit patterns from her recent past are broken. Everything is different. My nature is different from the primates she knew before. The house is different, the furniture different, the outdoors different, the food different. And a cat rules. It's not easy for her. I would so love for the rain to give it a rest, give dog and me some outdoors time to walk together, explore dog's new territory, work on our communication signals, find our language and learn it. We were strangers thrown together by fate. We will be awhile learning to know one another. It's fun getting to know somebody new. I need to learn dog as much as dog needs to learn primate. We'll get there.

squeal squeal

BARBIE MEDUSA

2015-12-28T00:53:00.000-05:00

gray day

More rain, more overcast sky, more fog, more mud. Dense fog on the mountain today. Low-flying clouds cross the mountains along this stretch, crawling over them south to north like big white snails. The first five miles were opaque in dense fog and I took a detour over a muddy road that was a beautiful drive. Trees in fog are misty like a fairy tale. I drove out of the fog and it was another t-shirt day in late December. Wanted to see Carolina beat Atlanta in football, but that's not what I saw. At the beginning, Justin said Carolina would lose because they've lost their magic. I told him I'd said to friend Carole on the phone earlier that I want them to win too much, afraid I'd jinx them pulling for them. Not many years ago I went to a nascar race in Charlotte with Justin. He'd got a couple of free tickets. First car I pulled for was the M&Ms car because I like M&Ms. He was the first to blow his motor. Next I pulled for Jr Earnhardt. He blew his motor. I quit pulling for anybody. Nobody else blew an engine. When I'm watching a race on tv and feel like pulling for Joey Logano, I back away, not wanting to jinx him. I watch games and races with dispassion to keep from jinxing anybody. I know it is absurd to think I have such power, but too often it looks that way. I pull for Danica Patrick and she wrecks.

exit

I, too, suspected Panthers could lose, for the reason Justin said, they've lost their magic. Last week they came too close to losing. And I knew Atlanta would come back full force after their humiliating loss to Carolina the last game they played. The tension of Panthers going for their fifteenth straight win and Atlanta determined with all their power not to let it happen, made a good game. It was a tight game. Both teams struggled for every inch of ground. Atlanta won the play of the game with a stupendous Hail Mary pass and an equally stupendous catch. The quarterback had been hit hard three times before the play. The moment the ball left his hand he collapsed in agony. It took everything he had to throw it so far, so accurately. The receiver had three guys on top of him. The ball went between the hands of one of his blockers and into his hands. Beautiful throw, beautiful catch. I appreciate a good play, whichever team does it, and exclaimed, Great play! Justin said, Harrumph.

coyote with apple in its mouth

It was more fun seeing Vada than the tv. Upon arrival, as soon as we'd done our greeting hug, she took my hand and told me to go with her to her room. She wanted to show me her new toys. I knew her grandmother had given her a Barbie house and was curious to see what it could be. My first thought, it would have to be big. And it was. Three floors. About four feet high. Pink Beverly Hills post-modern neoclassical kitsch architecture. Something you'd think Paris Hilton might live in. I noticed there were no stairs. Of course, I thought, Barbie is about playing pretend. I asked Vada, Does it have an elevator? She said, Yeah! I'll show you how it works! It is a simple mechanism looking like it will go on working beyond the first two weeks. It has a garage with a mini Mustang in it and a swimming pool. A mermaid lay on her side in the pool having an underwater nap. She has half a dozen Barbies and several decapitated Barbie heads she plays with as much as the whole Barbies.

speeding car

One of the Barbie heads had long black hair. The new puppy dog, an "English cream lab," found it in a puddle of water in one of Vada's toys on the deck, floating face up. Dog picked up the head, brought it toward me, got in trouble and had to drop it. The wet plastic hair looked like the Medusa's head with blacksnakes writhing from her scalp. It was very peculiar to look at. Barbie Medusa with painted-on eyebrows and eyes, ruby lips. For a moment I thought I was watching a Derek Jarman film. Throughout my time there, the puppy curled up at my feet. I realized it had felt my gentle touch when we met and was drawn to it. I said it smelled dog on my shoes and pants, which it surely did. There came a time daddy scolded the dog for not curling up at his feet. The little dog is already afraid of him. He thinks he's training it, but for now he's only keeping it scared of him. It will grow up with his martial teaching and become a martial dog, which is what he wants it to be. We have different ideas of a dog's value. He will make a companion of the dog, Gus, to go places with him in the truck, be obedient and fierce, a protector for Vada to grow up with. It is a charming puppy and will make a great dog. In her room I called her Vada Tomata. She said, Don't call me that. I'm not food.

prays for dogs

SOFIA THE CAT DISCOVERS TREES

2015-12-26T22:41:00.001-05:00

sofia tree cat

Earlier in the day I saw Sofia dart by the window, tail straight up, Corena behind her. Cat ran up a tree where dogs can't go. Sometimes I see her stand on the ground below a tree and look up it, assessing the branches and, I suppose, seeing herself climb it, like a Himalayan climber reading the side of an ice mountain, climbing it in his mind. Dog and cat were interacting outside. I took camera and watched them. I went out mainly because Martha was out there and I wanted to keep an eye on her. Cat was comical. Martha is here every morning waiting for dog to come out. She's enchanted by the new dog, a bit jealous too. Sofia would taunt Corena to play chase. Dog would dart at her, cat ran to nearest tree. She goes up a tree like a squirrel, high enough at first to be out of reach, stops and watches to see if she need go higher.

sofia surveys the playground in the sky

On the ground she's somewhat anxious with two dogs. Her tail was fluffed and sometimes her body hair sticking straight out. She ran up in front of Corena, hunched her back, a ridge down her spine that stood up like a donkey mane, tail bristly like a bottle brush. She'd hop up and down on four feet in front of Corena, saying, Don't chase me...chase me...don't chase me...chase me. Dog looked at her like to say, What's up with you? She did it with Martha too. Cat did every kind of provoking Corena she dared with a dog. Eventually, Corena caught on the cat wanted to play chase. I took it she was apprehensive cat wanted to fight. In their world of international body language, fear and aggression read alike. Dog darted at Sofia and cat ran laughing up a tree. I was glad to see Corena take off after Sofia with a smile on her face as big as Sofia's. It was the first time I'd seen Corena catch hold of the spirit of play. It's subtle enough I might be imagining that I see a closer connection between cat and dog since I left them in the house together yesterday for five hours. The place was not torn up, nothing out of place, nothing broken. The day's learning for dog was waiting several hours in the house with cat while primate socializes among other primates. The two-leggeds are social animals.

I'm scared of you, no I'm not, scared of you, not

Today, they are more relaxed with each other than before. Sofia likes Corena, wants to be close to her, wants to be her friend. When Corena relaxes into her new home, she will already have a best friend in a cat, something she'd never wanted for herself, a gift from out of the Blue, the best kind. Sofia is now acquainted with the outdoors and knows the area around and under the house. I feel like her game with Corena is about racing dog to the nearest tree, learning how fast she needs to run to escape a dog. She goes inside and outside at will now. I feel she's safe, learning as fast as she learns. She's aware this is her territory. She knows the view out the windows, every detail. I saw her first time out there going from one rock to another, tree trunks, recognizing them up close, finding out what the objects were that she sees from the other side of the glass. The windows are her cat televisions she can go in and out of at will. She understands glass well by now. She also understands mirrors. At night when I have the floor lamp on, she can see herself in the window when the glass becomes mirrors. She humps her back. She jumps at it. She stalks it. She knows it is her own image, but plays pretend like a child that it's another cat, reacting as if it is.

our lady of the trees

She likes to see herself in a mirror, will sometimes sit beside the mirror like a parakeet, though not for long. She likes to see herself, but dwelling on herself does not interest the cat. I think of her image her imaginary friend. While I'm pecking at the keyboard, she will walk down from her window seat, step between my arms and stop. I scoop her into my arms, and she stretches front legs all the way out, back legs relaxed. She stays like that awhile, then turns around and looks at herself with the primate in the mirror for a minute or less, turns back around and settles into a relaxing session in the primate's arms, listening to him affirm her beauty, her charming personality, her clever pranks, telling her I appreciate how well she is doing with the dog, how fast she's learning, how happy I am to be able to trust her home alone not to tear up. I wondered how Sofia would change with a dog in the house. She has changed for the more familiar. She's more relaxed at home with the dog. She has somebody to pay attention to besides herself. She likes dog. Dog is slow to want to know her. Everything is new for Corena. I tell her, be kind with Sofia, the day is coming she will be your very best friend.

sofia's deer skull with antlers tattoo

CHRISTMAS AT HOME WITH FAMILY

2015-12-25T13:01:00.000-05:00

black corena

The night before Christmas not much stirred through the house. Dog lay curled up in the reading chair, cat beneath the desk at my feet, and the primate played the keyboard like a percussion piano of clicks. Windchimes went ting-tong-ting outside, and inside my head the katydid chorus of a summer night. Dog's experiential learning for the day concerned rain, learning how to go from one napping place to another. She'd go to the door, I'd open the door, she'd look at the rain awhile and back up. It gets tight in here when we're all three in motion. Frequently our paths cross with dog at my knees and cat at my ankles. Two days of rain has both dog and cat frustrated they can't go outside. Both understand their boundaries outdoors by now. Sofia stays close to the house. Corena explores in sight of the house all the way around. Dog is learning the boundaries of her new territory. The time will come she will do her toilet in places that establish her boundaries to the night critters and dogs passing through. She will keep her markings fresh and quickly be known by all the four-leggeds in this part of the mountain, including the squirrels and chipmunks, them first. The primate's territory now has a guardian, a four-legged security guard.

corena explores her new home

Barking at sounds from the woods across the road in the dark identifies dog to all of them. She says to them, Y'all stay where you belong...enter my territory at your own risk...I am Dog...next thing to Wolf. She's naïve to the ways of the wild, has much learning ahead, learning by her own experience. Martha will be a good teacher for her at first, a dog who has lived here all her life. Martha is not much of a hunter. She likes to play chase, make them run, anything that will run. If it won't run, then she runs. Only problem, I don't want dog rambling with Martha, especially not with her sister, Jolene. I will stop her rambling with them before it starts. I'll call her in the house when Jolene comes around. I don't even want her to know Jolene. Corena will not be a rambling dog. It's too dangerous now for a dog that rambles, and all the more for one that doesn't know her way around on the ground, among the dogs of the area or the wildlife. She has not yet learned about donkeys. One day she may want to play, may taunt one to play chase and learn why dogs stay out of the donkey meadow. Maybe. They may take to dog and want to play chase.

jack and jenny munch hay

This morning Corena went with me to take carrots to the donkeys. She squealed and sniffed at Jenny and Jack from our side of the fence. Even yesterday, giving them grain, dog nearby was no occasion for alarm. They paid the dog no mind. Sophia was watching from nearby. They looked at her, though not with any inclination to dart away. They did not even grunt or snort at Corena. It just now occurred to me she is close to the same size as baby donkey. Both donkeys are out of sorts. In their shared grief, their zeal has gone out of them. At carrot time, since the baby left the body, I hand one a chunk of carrot, either one will take a bite and let the rest of it fall to the ground. They are even slow to take a bite of carrot. The first morning, neither one wanted carrot. I threw them on the ground to let mourning donkeys pick the carrots up later when they felt like it. As of yesterday, Jenny's "foal heat" turned on, the heat donkeys go into a couple weeks after giving birth. Jenny is a hormonal salad in this time. She is so inward she only wants to be alone or beside Jack. Their love is visible in the ways they console one another. At this moment, they are munching hay, side by side, almost touching.

cat wants to play

It is a rainy day, short-sleeve Christmas, comfortable inside and out. I feel for the dog, just as she's become acquainted with her new territory and wants to learn it all now, it rains three days and nights. I dreamed, just before waking up, I was looking through the window at the donkey meadow and saw a new baby donkey standing close to Jenny, smaller than Miss Ed. This falls in line with my dreams of the last years characterized by a familiar scene with something missing that belongs there, or something there that is not there. Most often only one thing. I'd like to see Jack and Jenny adopt Corena as their surrogate baby. She's gentle with them and likes to be close to them. They're not even alarmed by her while they're eating grain, when they don't even want me around, knowing I've never challenged them for it. I'll not anticipate one way or the other, but wait and see what develops between them. The donkeys tolerate Martha in the meadow, but not near them. Corena walked all around them while they were grazing hay, her first time meeting them. Whatever they make of her, I can see they are as receptive to and wide open with her as with me. She put her nose to Jenny's grain, an inch away, the other side of the fence. Jenny will not let me that close to her grain without snorts and stompings, forget the fence. Their relationship with dog and cat bears paying attention to.

sophia in her comfort zone

CORENA CORENA BLACK DOG CORENA

2015-12-23T23:41:00.000-05:00

dog and likeness

Drove to town today for lunch with friend Bob I've seen from time to time over the last thirty-plus years, though seldom to sit and have a conversation with for an hour. I'm glad he likes La Mexicana, my favorite restaurant in town, where the food is not Tex-Mex. It's cooking as done in Latin America, the cook from La Paz, Bolivia. We have another good Latin restaurant run by Cubans who came here from the Canary Islands, Las Palmas. Also a new Tex-Mex restaurant that is nice. And the one that has been here for years, Mis Arados (My Plow), known as the best restaurant in Sparta since it opened. It is family owned. The kids that were toddlers, waddling among the people at tables spreading cheer with their glowing round faces, are grown up now, worked through high school as waiters in the restaurant, and now have husbands, wives and babies. One beautiful young woman I watched grow up in there, I saw at the gas station a few weeks ago, she had a baby in the car. I said, "You have a baby." She said, "I have three." My jaw bounced off the cement between my feet like a golf ball.

curled up waiting

Next stop, the grocery store for donkey carrots, then the drug store where I saw Teena, who gifted me Sofia, and hardware store. From town out to Stratford, a township in the western part of the county, to deliver my friend Carole's Christmas present. We don't do that. However, I saw a book in Chris Davis's shop about Zentangles, which I knew Carole did not have and needed. I'd have bought it on sight for her in August, or any other month. I called it a Christmas present due to time of year. I drove home over the mountain on Spicer Mountain Road that connects hwy 221 with hwy 18 at Whitehead, singing, "good dog Corena," simple words dog can understand from words I speak to her. It is a slow road with curves galore, a third of it mud on a rainy day like today, though not bad, and great scenery, blue mountains in the distance, black cows in the foreground, the meadows still green on a short-sleeve day two days before Christmas. The girl at the grocery store register was one I didn't remember seeing before. I looked at her name tag. Corena. Bells rang all over the inside of my head. Why hadn't I thought of it yet?

dog at home

I'd been feeling that Rena was missing something the name needed, unable to find what it was. It was like the name Rena was too lean, needed some fat on her bones. I was thinking of calling her Black Rena driving into the parking lot, spoke it a few times to hear it and liked it. Thought of the song, Black Betty. Great name for a dog, but she's not a Betty. I think it was the way the girl at the register spelled Corena that caught my eye. She was gorgeous with black wavy hair. Lots of new spellings these days. My favorite is Mysti. I also know a Karina. Co-Rena. Rena modified. It fits and flows with Sofia. In sound, o-e-a, only the C-n and the S-f distinguish them from one another. Yet the names have very different sounds. Sofia is soft as a down cushion. Corena, too, is soft with a sense of self-assertion, like bear fur. All the way to Carole's and all the way home I sang Corrina Corrina, "I love Corrina, tell the world I do." I was out there on the highway in the rain singing to my new dog, "Corena Corena, won't you come on home, aint had no lovin since you been gone."

dog says I wish it would stop raining

so I could go outside and bark

I remembered Aster, and having no dog for eight years, like Corena was Aster come home after being gone so long, riding the mountain roads in her seat again. The feeling is very much like having Aster return after long absence. Wherever this dog's soul came from, she found her way to me. She has the same soulful eyes as Aster. I know it is the breed of dog, lab mix, that determines much of their behavior, personalities and thinking. It's not the same dog, but like the same dog. What more could I ask? A chance to have Aster back as a young dog. Curiously, it's like we already know each other. Today was dog's day to learn by experience another aspect of living here, riding in the car and waiting for sometimes a few hours. I keep windows open enough to let air pass through, but not for her to escape. Twice I left her in the car for an hour and twice for a half hour. I took her out for a chance to pee after the first hour but she did not. Let her out later and she did not need to. I put her outside for bathroom before we left. After we'd been home a few hours, after my nap, I sat with her and thanked her for being a patient riding companion today, thanked her for finding me, hugged her, told her she has legs like a deer and beautiful eyes. Big yawn.

corena corena

MY FRIEND RENA

2015-12-22T19:09:00.001-05:00

waterfalls creek

I went out to dig a hole in the meadow, in the cold, cold ground. Jenny has not let me near the baby. Today it is going in the ground if I have to do it in the dark with flashlights. It wears me out to think about it anymore. The donkeys are both wrecked and I'm wrecked. I've commissioned a couple of helpers to come by if possible before dark and help me get it done. Can't get any help before dark. I dug until I started thinking if I keep on, somebody will be digging my grave. The rectangle established and I've gone about a foot deep. Came to the house to lie down, failed to sleep, but relaxed for half an hour with dog on the bed at my feet. Martha, the jealous dog from next door, was outside when I wanted to go out to dig. Apprehensive, I carried a walking stick. Our friend hesitated with Martha out there. I told her it was ok, I'd take care of Martha. Martha's attitude was entirely different today. At first, she glared at friend. I pointed the walking stick at her. She hunkered down. I said, "It's ok to play today, not to fight." Both dogs followed me, hesitantly curious about each other. Martha's lip curled up and I told her again, ok to play, we're here to play.

big rock beside waterfalls creek

They spent some time assessing each other with distance between them. My friend went and took a dump. Martha had to go pee near the place. Martha then went off someplace else and took a dump. Friend had to go pee there. They didn't put nose under the tail to sniff each other. Rather they passed nonchalantly by each other's rear ends sniffing the air. Martha took off running and friend followed, playing chase. They switched around and Martha did the chasing. They played chase with near abandon. I was satisfied they'll be friends from today onward. All the time digging, I was going over names for the dog. This morning I found myself partial to Friend, as that's what I call her talking to her and about her. Thought about Crow, Crow Dog or Raven, partial to Raven. But when I called her Raven, it did not sound right. Same with Crow. Friend sounded empty, like that was not it either. I looked at her as I worked the shovel, looking for a sound that resonated with her energy as I know it. I want a name particular to our relationship. Somebody else can call her whatever. I wanted a name between us, a name that resonated with her and for me. Nothing I called her sounded right. Everything sounded as far off as Vladimir, though Vladimir is a good name.

sofia

A friend from twenty to twenty-five years ago came to mind, as she often does, Rena Ferneyhough. I loved her name Rena and loved Rena herself. The name was right for her. I called the dog Rena and it felt right. It resonated when I called to her, "Rena." It's easy to say and I like the sound. The name Rena is a pleasant memory. If I think of her every time I speak the name, it will be to the good. I was thinking I wanted a feminine name, she is very much a feminine dog, and wanted a name that means her in particular. The sound flows well with Sofia. I also wanted a name that complemented Sofia somehow. Rena and Sofia sound like sisters. I've not seen Rena for at least twenty years, attempts to find her by way of internet came up with nothing, I knew her from Boone. She was originally from Raleigh, same place dog is from. Images of Rena are flooding my mind. I've seen her looking the very worst she could possibly look, after crying all day, butcher knife at her throat, a voice in her head telling her to kill herself, her own will struggling not to do it. All day long. I knocked at the door around 4 in the afternoon, no idea what she was going through. She appeared, face raw from tracks of tears, butcher knife in hand, holding it more like a weapon than an implement. She was a good cook and kept sharp knives. I embraced her in a major hug and encouraged her bawling, butcher knife in hand.

a shadow ran through it

I thought I had opened myself to extreme vulnerability, entered the zone of zero defense, offered myself to death by someone else's unpredictable whim, because I trusted Rena, felt I understood her and what she was going through, to some degree. I stayed with her for quite awhile, not going home til late. Rena was delicate as a bluet, an artist and she wrote well. She'd done graduate work in Art at Emory. I bought one of her paintings because I loved it, to give her some financial support, to back up my support of her art with action. I've been looking at the dog, thinking Rena, questioning. It always resonates with her. I asked her if she would like me calling her Rena. She seemed friendly to what I said, but she's always friendly to what I say. I'll sleep on it. Dog doesn't seem to me to have a name. She seems better without a name. But I feel that about naming anything alive. I'd get awfully tired of explaining why she doesn't have a name every time somebody asked her name, so tired of it, I'd name her. It would become affected in short time.

sofia in the sun

NEW DOG FIRST DAY

2015-12-21T23:52:00.000-05:00

dog in a new world

First full day with new dog was an event from beginning to end. I can't call her Kutra any more. This is not her name. Zero resonance with this dog. Maybe for a pit bull. For now, I call her Dog for absence of a name and I like it for a name. It means canine, which is high praise for me, like calling mountain people hillbillies. To me, hillbilly is a name of high praise. It means beautiful, wonderful people, which I've learned from experience. For me, even calling somebody a dog is high praise. Calling her Dog, I feel a warmth associated with the word dog. She is a silhouette of dog. Silhouette (sil-a-wet), good name possibility, easy to say. Could spell it Cilawet, avoid the long French spelling with the weird H. Sounds like Lil Bit. They would rhyme in a song. Seems to me in this time of no moral or ethical center in hairless primate society, we'd do well to build the new society following a dog's nature, now that we've learned human behavior is no model to live by. Like you-better-not is absence of morality, control by guilt indicates absence of ethics. Even wolf packs take care of their own. Dogs are known for automatic forgiveness, for loyalty in the absolute, their way of communicating in silence, adding a squeal or a bark for emphasis. A dog will give its life for a human friend without thinking about it first.

cat eyeballs dog

note the batman shadow on the armrest

a projection of sofia's self-image

Dog nature is not all sweet and gentle, similar to ours. They fight and exhibit jealousy without restraint. First night new dog was here, Martha from next door dropped by. Dog saw her out the window and wanted to meet her. I questioned it. Martha is a naturally gentle, good dog, but that's not all. She's dumb as rock, never ever learns. Every time I arrive home in the car and she's here, every time, as soon as I open the car door she starts climbing inside while I want to climb outside. Every time I have to struggle with her, put up my leg to stop her, grab her collar, pull her back, and all the time she's struggling with all her might to get in. It takes yelling at her in the loudest voice I can fathom to get her attention. She only responds to yelling and screaming. At the house, Martha outside the door, I hesitated, but dog inside was excited to meet her. I did not know if Martha would be friendly or attack. It was about fifty-fifty in my mind, while considering jealousy it was more like zero-one hundred. The moment they made eye contact, Martha attacked in her full fierceness, and she's a powerful dog. I had to decide in a nanosecond how to handle this moment.

every experience is new

I kicked a 45-yard field goal with Martha's head. Yelling would not break the state she'd gone into, nor would hitting, threatening, anything. Even cold water could not have stopped her. I needed to distract her attention instantly, no time to think about it, do it now. I realized in the moment it was my role to show my new friend that I am her protector. She will be loyal to me and I will be loyal to her. I've told her she is safe with me and this was my first opportunity to show I mean it. The kick deflected Martha's spell enough to get her attention. She looked at me with eyes that said so clearly I could read the subtitles, "Did you do that on purpose?" I looked at her with eyes that said just as clearly, "Yes I did." I closed the door on Martha and turned off the outside light. This morning I took dog out for bathroom and carried the walking stick for a weapon. Martha came creeping toward us, aggressive eyes on the dog. I pointed the walking stick at Martha like a magic wand the way Vada does it when she's playing Elsa from the movie, Frozen. Martha tucked tail between legs and turned around. I thought, Good, she at least understands magic wands.

portrait of good dog martha

Today's adventure with dog was riding in the car. It felt good to have a dog beside me again, especially the very image of Aster, herself, even the red collar. Aster has been gone for eight years and I miss her the same as if it were eight days. Dog wanted to be on me the whole time on the road. At first, she thought I was taking her home. I put the armrest/divider between us. It helped. She was anxious, nervous. Her balance was good on the car seat. The continuous curves back and forth, changes of speed, took her a few minutes to get used to. Needed car inspection to renew tag and registration. Crystal's dad is the car's mechanic. She and Vada were in Crystal's shop next door and met the dog. Vada was enchanted. Dog squealed nonstop. I read it for needing bathroom activity. I walked her for it but she did not. Later, I walked her again. It turned out she needed to find the exact spot and she didn't know where it was, had to search until she found it. She was desperate to go and couldn't let herself do it in the car or indoors. Thank you, wonderful dog. The squealing ended. She uses the leash to pull me. She chokes herself pulling me, and keeps on pulling. We look like a cartoon.

THE NEW DOG ON THE MOUNTAIN

2015-12-20T20:41:00.001-05:00

kutra meets sofia

I was making phone calls to see who I could watch the Carolina Panthers stomp the New York Giants with. Had a good place to go and good friends. The phone rang from Raleigh telling me friend in Raleigh was on my road bringing my dog, a three and a half hour drive. This is somebody whose life is dedicated to the four-leggeds. He had found the dog a home, but it was not a good home. He called me to ask if I'd take the dog, a lab mix. It only took two hours to decide. I weighed why I don't want a dog against why I want a dog. The latter tipped the scales all the way. After going over why I would like a dog, like eight years without a dog, I could see it had to be. I knew already it was the right dog, dog and Sophia would become friends right away. He drove up with the dog riding on the seat. I knew as soon as she jumped down from the door and looked at me, this was my dog. We took to each other on sight. He told me her name was Lil Bit, but I had another name for her. Kutra, as I've been told, is the Sanskrit word for protector. Whether or not it is actually the Sanskrit word, I don't know. It is in my mind. The only Sanskrit I think I know. The Hindi version of it is kutta, their word for dog, the protector.

black dog cammo

Whatever the case, dog's name is Kutra. Even if it's nonsense syllables, I believe it means protector. If it is not a Sanskrit word and means nothing, I don't care. I like the name. I give her this name wanting her to be Sofia's protector from a cat killing dog that lives nearby. Plus, I like the sound. I took her for about an hour walk through the woods around the property line soon after friend left. I wanted to give her experience exploring her new home. Friend was not enthusiastic about a name change, and I don't like to change a pet's name, but do. Jenny was Daisy before. Changed it because I can't have a donkey named Daisy. I can't call a dog Lil Bit. I called her Kutra hundreds of times on our walk, familiarizing her with the sound. We walked the woods the other side of the road. She responded to Kutra the same as I was told she responds to Lil Bit. She doesn't respond to Lil Bit from my voice. I realized it was not a problem for dog to be called by a new name. She responded to being called Kutra. Perhaps it's reasonable to her that a new primate would call her a new primate sound. I don't know what dogs think, though was given the impression by her that she connected with the sound of Kutra. She looks to me like the word sounds. I carried a leash around my neck, believing she would stay with me, but not sure.

water dog

Several times she ran out of my sight. I trusted that, like my dogs before her, when she was out of sight I was still in her sight. She'd be out of sight for a short time and come running back. Her nose was going in overdrive. Scents of the night animals. She followed a scent a ways, found another, followed it, found another. Throughout the walk she sniffed scents going every which way. I noticed she handled her footing well on the new, uneven ground that had a spongy quality from several years of decaying leaves. She found a place beside Waterfalls Creek where night critters drink, stepped into the water feeling it on her feet. She sniffed around on land awhile and walked back into the water, walked in it almost deep enough to cover her back. I don't know if she'd ever had the experience of a creek. The lab within drew her to the water. The first time she stepped into the creek she squatted down on all fours lowering her belly into the water and relaxed into the sensation of moving water for half a minute, feeling the water stimulate her inner lab.

she came running out of the water

eyes sparkled

smile so radiant it bared her teeth

I saw a few times everything here was new to her. She ran under the lower wire of a patchwork barbed wire fence and let out a yelp. It bit her. Trial and error. Now she knows. Her mind catches onto things instantly. I saw her walk into an area with several briars growing. She went into it rather quickly and slowed down just as quickly. She learned to step gently among briars. Toward the end of our walk I questioned whether to take dog on a short stretch of road or take her through the woods all the way to the house. I chose the road to give her the experience of road, supervised. I walked along the edge of the road and she ran everyplace that was green. The walk turned out to be so much like walks with dogs that have lived here before, I questioned if she might already know the place. She is the perfect image of the last dog that lived here twelve years, Aster. Kutra has a white spot below her throat, as did Aster. It was the spot of white that gave Aster her name, star. I can see that already Kutra is beginning to claim me. She gives Sofia looks when she thinks I'm not looking that tell cat to be very afraid. Sofia backs up. While I hold Sofia, she makes eye contact with dog and gloats. I'll be having some interpersonal dynamics to work with over the next weeks.

ninja cat aint afraid of no dog

KNEE DEEP IN THE BLUES AGAIN

2015-12-19T12:16:00.000-05:00

Went out with carrots this morning to see the donkeys and spread some hay for them an hour early. Jack brayed when I opened the door. Jenny not in sight. I took it she was in their shed. She came out after a few minutes of hearing me talk to Jack. No baby followed her. I waited. No baby. All night long, every time I woke, my mind was occupied with the baby. I was thinking it has not been growing. It has been slow and distant the last few days. I was thinking about seeing if I could get some donkey or horse formula from the vet early this morning, the reason I got up early. I've wondered from the beginning if Jenny had enough milk in her udder to feed a baby. I opened the back door to the shed, and there on the hay I'd put on the floor, lay donkey baby asleep, not breathing. My heart sank all the way to the ground. More sorrow for Jenny and Jack and sorrow for me over them. In a death, I tend to mourn for the sorrow of the living, including my own loss, rather than the one that went on, who is ok.

Jenny is eating her morning hay. She brays from time to time, calling for her baby, goes to check on it, it doesn't move. She returns to the hay while baby sleeps, brays from time to time. Jack is standing around like he doesn't know what to do. I think about the bat symbolizing death and rebirth differently from how I thought of it yesterday. I interpreted the "shaman death" had already happened while it was yet to be. Now, it is a matter of digging a grave and carrying the baby to the grave and covering it over with dirt. I've put so many of my friends in their graves, I already know the worst part is throwing the dirt in, hearing it hit my friend's body and keep on shoveling. I do not want to dig another grave, but will do it. My heart weeps for Jenny and Jack, again. The other hard part is I have to tell y'all about Miss Ed leaving the body while hearing Jenny and Jack bray for their baby to wake up.

In a way, I'm grateful to be so well acquainted with the sorrow of grief. In childhood I was terrified of grief. I'm grateful now because I know I can take it. It hurts so bad that without the experience of much sorrow, it would hurt worse. And I don't ever want to get to the place it doesn't hurt. I've even learned to embrace the pain as my gift to the one who gave me joy for whatever the span of time, eighteen years, twelve years, ten days. Returned to the house with a heart full of sorrow and a head full of thoughts. Can't do anything until at least later in the day. Turned on the laptop, went to facebook, and one minute before, a facebook friend who lives in town had messaged me about a young dog, a lab mix, saying it was a smart dog, which I already knew it would be. My last dog, Aster, was a lab mix. A dog any smarter than Aster would be too smart for me. My mind was sufficiently blown. Already at least one major decision to make, and a few others, and a decision about whether or not a dog thrown into the mind-heart salad of the day.

On the phone with my friend Carole this morning, I went over reasons I cannot have a dog in this time of the life, then reasons I would want a dog, reasons I miss having a dog, and saw the scale tip heavily toward the dog. I must make it a point to self to walk daily. I cannot go for a walk without a dog. I love walking with a dog and despise walking without a dog, unless I'm going someplace in walking distance. Even then, it's better with a dog. My muscles are losing tone really badly, girth filling out really badly, I don't exercise at all. I call walking through the grocery store exercise. Talked to self daily for a long time about taking a walk, and never do. Too boring. I need a dog. Feeling like to go on as I am going becomes more unhealthy every day. I don't want to be a feeble old turd staring at the nursing home ceiling with a roommate watching Fake tv all day and night, because I didn't walk when I easily could have. I miss having a dog in the car sitting beside me, either curled up or watching scenery go by. I miss riding with a dog as much as walking with a dog. A dog will shake me into motion and be a friend, protector for Sophia. Amazing. Death and rebirth simultaneous.

BAT MEDICINE AND PLAY

2015-12-17T13:45:00.000-05:00

neighbor gary chauffeur of trees and sky

Brought more hay for donkeys up from the barn before the rain. I can fit three bales in the trunk of the car with lid up. Park beside the road and roll the bales down the hill to the place I stack haybales. A blue tarp protects them from the rain. Donkeys have a ball when I deliver new hay. Jenny and Jack stand at the corner of the fence ready to watch, like me waiting for the mailman, expecting a new book in the mail. It alarms them slightly, the bales rolling down the hill. Jack jumps and frolics in a small circle. Jenny stands back and watches. Neighbor Gary came down the road in his PT Cruiser and stopped. I stepped up the hill to the road to visit for a few minutes. We talked about baby donkey and I noticed a red bat flying up and down the road, cavorting, playing, up and down, in circles. It looked like the bat was indeed playing, putting on a bat dance in the air for me personally. It flew back and forth, about a hundred feet up the road one way, then about a hundred feet down the road the other way, this way, that way. I couldn't stop watching it. I'd never seen such a demonstration of bat flight in the past and knew I never would in the future. I gave it my full appreciation.

find the bat

Attempted to take some pictures of the bat, but none of the still pictures worked out. The camera focused on the trees in the near distance, putting the bat out of focus, it's in swift motion too, I could not find the bat in the still pictures. Made a brief video in which the bat, a speck, can be seen flying for maybe two seconds. The air above the road along there is a channel for air flow between my trees and the bank across the road. The bat flew from one end of my trees to the other, leading me to believe the open air along that stretch of road is a good place for a bat to find flying bugs. I googled red tree bat, found a description, notes about their habitat and how they live. And red tree bat is what they're called. I had several good looks at it flying by. Can see it clearly closing my eyes. I asked Gary to step outside the car to see it, billing the flight a once in a lifetime moment. A time came I was impressed by the bat's stamina. It flew for so long we stopped looking and went about or ways. Birds need rest after extended flight, but the bat kept on flapping wings, cavorting, diving, circling. It looked like it was putting on a show, though I doubt it was aware of being watched, though an observer does change things.

sofia observes the primate

In the house, I went to Jamie Sams' book, Medicine Cards, to see what bat represents. The book came with cards, each having a picture of a form of wildlife, like bear, dragonfly, hawk, deer, skunk, 52 of them. It is a form of consulting chance, like tarot, I Ching, and others. In the Native American way, medicine means anything that improves one's connection to the Great Mystery and to all life. A few pages in the book tell the spiritual gift of each animal, bird, reptile or bug. Once, a hawk flew above the hood of my 78 Toyota pickup for about a tenth of a mile, looking back over its shoulder at the primate through the windshield. At home I looked up hawk to see what the hawk might be saying. One of the aspects of Hawk medicine is a message that I should circle above my life and examine it from a higher perspective. I take a visitation by one of the animals for the same as drawing one of the cards. It felt so much like the bat was telling me something, I looked it up. In every case, Bat signals rebirth of some part of yourself or the death of old patterns. Bat represents what is called the shaman's death and rebirth. Rebirth is the main theme of the bat.

miss ed says this is different

being a donkey

Two strong cases of rebirth came into my life lately with a kitten in the house and a donkey foal in the meadow. Reading of bat I felt recognition that rebirth, a change of patterns, was in the works. Before kitten came into the house, I was feeling fairly glum. Caterpillar was gone and my heart was mourning her. Jenny kept on expecting. I faced Jenny's expectation with sorrow, hoping, daring not to hope, her baby would live and be in good health. I did not want Jenny to suffer again her grief from losing her first baby to premature birth last year. I still miss Caterpillar who lived here eighteen years, though sorrow turned to joy when Sophia entered the house. Old patterns going away. Caterpillar leaves her old cat body, Sophia new in her cat body. The successful birth of Miss Ed turned sorrow to joy like bringing Sofia home. Feeling a renewed sense of my own life. Sophia has taught me how to play. We have play time every day. Noting the value of play courses through my mind. I play better with four year old Vada from awareness of play's importance, and how to play, not just in child development, but all along the way.

vada

BIG MAMA DONKEY AND THE CURIOUS CAT

2015-12-15T14:50:00.000-05:00

miss ed's seventh day a donkey

Handing carrots to the donkeys was fun this morning like always. I stepped aside while Jenny was chewing to visit Miss Ed face to face the other side of the fence. Jenny was comfortable with me so close to her baby. I told wee furry donkey her name is Miss Ed, told Jenny too. Jenny and I looked at each other eyeball to eyeball and I told her she is a beautiful donkey. She heard it. I could see it in her eye. I'm a believer, because I've seen it bear out in my dogs and cats of the past. I tell a cat she or he is a beautiful cat every day, it's not long before the cat starts seeing itself beautiful and becomes beautiful. The four-leggeds are every bit as vain about their appearance as we humans are. I've seen a couple of articles lately from different sources about a teacher who, each day, tells every kid in the class, individually, how wonderful they are as human beings, tells them what is special about themselves. The kids bloom and become what she told them, following their talents she unveiled from knowing them.

sofia the beautiful

I was heartened to see this being applied to kids. When I started each article, I already knew where it was going, I've been practicing this for years. I did not start telling them they were beautiful to test a theory, but because I thought they were. A cat is one of the most beautiful forms of life there is, especially in motion. A dog is too. Every four-legged I've ever seen I'd call beautiful. And looking at the birds, they're all beauty itself. Not much is more beautiful than a red squirrel sitting on a flat rock next to a fern, sitting up, nibbling a sunflower seed's shell held in both hands, framed by the window. Birds are the essence of beauty. Even buzzards are beautiful. I've seen over twenty buzzards circling a draft that went straight up in clear blue sky, the birds at various levels like a living mobile, slowly circling, some one way, some the other, all the way up to out of sight from clearly visible. I hold Sofia and look at her up close in awe of the beauty. I tell her she has beautiful eyes, beautiful whiskers, beautiful nose, beautiful fur, beautiful tail, beautiful feet, because she does. I see in her now awareness of her beauty. She moves about and sits with a subtle self-confidence that her beauty is appreciated. I also praise her behavior, which is exemplary.

sofia tree climba

Returning to the house from seeing the donkeys, Sofia darted through the door at my feet and went up the screen door. She wants out so desperately, I've decided to let her outside with supervision to watch for dogs and keep her out of the road. I make it into our play time to avoid making outside a taboo. When I'm with her, the birds see me when they may not see her. I let her out the door, propped the screen door open with a rock in case a dog appeared and she made a dive for the door like last time. First thing, she sniffed the footprints of the coons and possums she sees through the window in the night, tail fluffed out like a squirrel's, creeping such that if I were to clap my hands once, she'd go three feet straight up. She ran to a tree and up its trunk, then came back down backwards like they do. She was an outdoor kitten where she came from and has a longing to be outside. I've attracted the birds here for too many years to turn a cat loose on them. She likes having me with her outside. I'll solve the conundrum by making outside our play time.

looking at jenny from a safe place

I followed her with the camera, going up tree trunks and down tree trunks. She went around to things she was familiar with through the window, investigated them up close, curious to find out what they were. Her tail was fluffed out all the time. She saw the donkeys from the big white pine between house and donkey meadow, and crept toward Jenny standing at the fence watching this new cat she'd seen in the window. Sofia knowing the donkeys through the window, she was curious to see Jenny up close, but hesitant to step too close, donkey so big. I picked up Sofia and held her to Jenny's nose, Jenny wanting to sniff the cat. Sofia did not mind. Jenny felt Sofia's fur with her lips, and Jenny touched her nose to Sofia's nose. Sofia was a bit nervous, donkey's head was twice the size of Sofia's whole body, but she was also curious. She felt safe with me holding her. She seemed to me fascinated seeing Jenny up close, impressed by her size when seen through the window she's the size of a cat. I showed Sofia to Miss Ed, but Miss Ed was too new in this world to take an interest in the primate holding a cat. I want Sophia to be comfortable with the donkeys and see she already is. I think they're ready to be acquainted. Both are curious.

note the fluffy tail

miss ed nursing

jenny multi-tasking

A POEM BY ROBINSON JEFFFERS--THE SOUL'S DESERT

2015-12-14T20:12:00.000-05:00

emergence by tj worthington (30"x30")

THE SOUL'S DESERT

(written August 30, 1939)

They are warming up the old horrors; and all that they

        say is echoes of echoes.

Beware of taking sides; only watch.

These are not criminals, nor hucksters and little jour-

        nalists, but the governments

Of the great nations; men favorably

Representative of massed humanity. Observe them.

        Wrath and laughter

Are quite irrelevant. Clearly it is time

To become disillusioned, each person to enter his own

        soul's desert

And look for God---having seen man.

                                 --Robinson Jeffers
                                               American (1887-1962)

photo by tj worthington

BLESSINGS THESE DAYS

2015-12-13T23:12:00.000-05:00

donkey jen's blessing miss ed

Day after day I see on facebook people posting an announcement of being blessed by having some feel-good experience. Most of the time I feel like barfing because it drips with oozing sentiment like fart putty. Sometimes I agree, it was indeed a blessing. Then I question what the word blessing means and why I never say it. It's like the word luck. We make our own luck. In like manner, we make our own blessings. I think about times I've called something a blessing, I find that I feel more blessed having whatever it is that makes it possible to notice a given experience as a blessing. It's there whether or not I receive it a blessing. My friends Crystal and Justin had their baby girl, who I consider a major blessing in my life. I've slowed way down and lost interest in an awful lot, become so disappointed by civilization, I've indrawn to the world of my home, my mountain glen in the beautiful Blue Ridge among my four-legged friends. I only see people I care about who care about me. I've let go of associations with toxic people. It really makes a difference when they're gone. And it makes a difference when a vibrant baby enters.

miss ed's fifth day in a donkey body

Over the last few years I've alienated three people I thought of as friends, because they wore me out. Constantly telling me what to do, what to read, what to, what to, sentences all starting with you needta, you gotta, you oughta, you should. Can't we just sit still and talk about something, like have a conversation about something having to do with something besides measuring how deficient I am as a model of you. They got on my last nerve to the point I had to shake them off, never felt a pixel of guilt. I hear Patti Smith in my head in her Babelogue intro to Rock n Roll Nigger, "I'm an aMERican artist, I feel NO guilt." So Patti Smith. The times I see tv, this is what I see, continuous you-oughta. I amuse my friends talking back to commercials, saying things like, "No, I don't think I will." Nationwide is on your side. "Not." It's a blessing not to have so-called friends in my face missionarizing empiricism to me, what's right.

miss ed one ear up

I used to think it cynical of men my age laughing at me thinking principles important in my youth. It wasn't many years ago I came to I don't give a shit about what's right, it's so subjective. Because it works for me is no reason it would work for somebody else. Our karmic make-up must be at least as complex and specific as our DNA. I'm of a mind that it's ok guys have long hair, girls have blue hair, both have tattoos and dress imaginatively. Somebody says to me, "the kids these days," in a disgusted tone of voice, I make a case for the kids these days by telling a little bit of what I've seen getting in among the kids these days and finding they are incredible people. I like all the kids-these-days I know, like them a lot. I don't bore them too badly because I'd rather listen to them tell me what they have to say than be the one talking. I'm a good listener because I really do want to hear what they have to say. They're good people. They have beautiful things to say. Going by the kids these days I've known, I feel like their generation is closer to the heart than my generation

jenny and her five day old baby

The day after going to a show of Daniel Biggins' band, The Seduction, waking up next morning, taking carrots to donkeys, I feel blessed. The experience of a small place playing rock n roll the way I want to hear it feels to me like a blessing. The blessing part in it, in my subjective case, is that I am able to receive an experience as a blessing. It is, indeed, a blessing that I have three babies in my life that I love with all my heart, and one long-distance. A kitten, a donkey, Vada and Teddy. I feel buoyed up by the new energy right here, one inside the house, the other just out the door. Kids these days. I pay attention to all the kids I know, from babies on up, find them, every one, interesting people. I value their humanity, their lives. It's been known about me for years in a big group of people they can find me among the kids, listening to them and watching them play. I just sit in a chair or on a step and watch. I've watched Weird Al videos with a roomful of kids laughing, all of them kids I'd known since they were born. I feel the same among the animals I've learned to know. Sometimes I stand at the fence and watch the donkeys in their lives together, sometimes go out and sit in the meadow among them, listen to them graze, tell them I'm happy they're in my life.

miss ed watches mama eat her grain

NAMING THE DONKEY MISS ED

2015-12-12T05:45:00.000-05:00

miss ed third day

How fast a baby donkey is walking independently has been catching my attention day after day. Each day the baby donkey is bigger, more stable on its feet, more in line with mama's movements and more in tune to mama's teaching. First couple of days when baby stepped inside mama's forbidden zone while she was having her grain, Jenny popped baby with a hoof. They were not power kicks, not even kicks, but a firm nudge saying go no further. Today, Friday, baby's fourth day, Jenny merely lifts her back hoof off the ground, just a gesture, and baby backs out of range. I've seen that baby stands midway between Jenny and Jack, just out of range of their back legs, while they are grazing. Baby's first learning as a young donkey was that donkeys kick, it's what donkeys do. And donkeys need to learn to take a kick before they are able to kick. Jenny's instruction these first few days I am looking at as "mother's milk," instruction so early in development it shapes us into who we are unconsciously, pre rational thinking.

this was inside jenny

A few months before baby was born, I asked the three year old child of my friend Meredith, who is living in the greater San Francisco area of several cities grown into one, to name Jenny's baby when it arrives. I've known Meredith all her life as the daughter of my friends Lucas and Judy. Teddy, her three year old, was kind of struck dumb being asked out of the blue to name a donkey. I realized then it was a tall order, conceptually, for a three year old. Hadn't considered that. I thought it might have been presumptuous to ask a three year old to stretch his mind that far. He said, "I'll have to think about it." I thought it remarkable for a three year old to say he'll have to think about it. Maybe I did pick the right kid to ask. I wanted to ask the youngest person I know. Teddy. I wanted a name I would never think of on my own, a name separate from my mind. A couple days later, Teddy spoke. He said, "Mr Ed if it's a boy. Miss Ed if it's a girl." I wondered how a three year old in San Francisco knew about Mr Ed the talking horse. Montessori pre-school maybe?

miss ed's natural born camouflage

Of course, my editing mind went to work over-riding original intent, thinking I wanted a girl's name, a variation of Ed. Didn't care for Edna or Edith, but liked Edie. Thought I'd change from Miss Ed to Edie. Edie sounded good in my mind. But out in the meadow with the baby, I could not call it Edie. The name did not fit. Miss Ed fit. I found my mind automatically thought of the baby as Miss Ed. I'd look at her and Miss Ed was how I'd think of her. Then by association, Edie Sedgwick came to mind and would not leave. She was a rich California air-head who went to NY in the time of Andy Warhol's Factory, was given a big spread in Vogue as the latest new thing in New York. She fell in with the Factory bunch, upper middle-class junkie runaways, became a junkie right away and the subject of Bob Dylan's song, Like a Rolling Stone. She fell through the bottom and went back home to California, unable to take care of herself, and lived in an empty swimming pool. She symbolizes for me the ultimate loser. I did not feel right naming my baby donkey after a psycho air-head junkie. It didn't feel right to name Jenny's baby after a child who had been raped by her daddy throughout her childhood. When I thought of the baby donkey as Edie, Edie Sedgwick popped up in my mind's eye. I did not resonate with the association.

miss ed's ears

All the time my mind was chewing on the name Edie, Miss Ed was there as the baby's name all along. The original intent behind asking a three year old to name the baby donkey was to bypass my own mind. While the baby was being born, she was Miss Ed. She was Miss Ed before she was born. Every time I looked at the baby, I automatically thought, Miss Ed. I asked a baby to name a baby in order to bypass my own ego. Naturally, ego had to jump in to assert itself, take over, say Mine, spray paint my initials on it gangsta style. Once I made the decision to go with Edie, Edie Sedgwick grew and grew in my mind's eye. I went to YouTube to see videos of her in the Warhol time. Her image grew in my mind until I wanted mind free of images of a psychological plane crash, someone whose surface was privileged, and below the thin surface the heart of darkness. I can't burden my baby donkey with those associations in my head. By the end of the third day I realized my error of editing original purpose. I sighed relief and inhaled understanding that Miss Ed really is the donkey's name. I only think of her as Miss Ed. By now, after thinking about it all day yesterday, I am repelled by the thought of naming the donkey Edie. Miss Ed she is. She is so much Miss Ed I wonder if Teddy had intuitional access to Jenny's baby.

mama jen

photos by tj worthington

BABY DONKEY'S THIRD DAY

2015-12-11T02:47:00.000-05:00

baby donkey two days old

I'm happy for Jenny that her baby arrived without a problem or any sort of complication. She fell into mother mode the moment her baby was out in the air. She is still my friend Jenny with a new aspect of her personality come forward. Her attention is on her baby at all times. She's the same with me as always. She's a good teacher. She's a rough teacher, but she's a rough donkey with a rough baby. In the first hours, baby wanted to walk in front of mama's legs. Jenny hit it with the side of her head to push it to the side. I used to wonder how mothers taught their babies without language. Of course, babies don't have language, so language is out of the picture. Baby would walk back in front of her feet and Jenny would knock it to the side, teaching it over and over, as many times as it takes, teaching it to walk beside her, not so close in front. Today baby walks to the side of mother's head when not out front leading the way or behind mama.

mother and child

Jenny is comfortable with me near her baby. I don't do anything to push her into discomfort. My approach in Jenny's early days, weeks, months with her baby is to stand back, admire, talk to Jenny, call her Beautiful Jen, let her know I mean no harm to her baby. I think of Jane Goodall sitting among the chimpanzees, being still, body language saying not a threat. I keep arms down and when I use them go slowly like there is no rush. I've discovered recently that when we humans move fast like we do, jerk around like we do, make unpredictable arm movements, the animals become wary of us. The donkeys have taught me the pace of their flow. I move as though there is no hurry about anything, I have all day, may lie down for a nap if I take a notion, and the donkeys pay me no mind. They see me, but feel no alarm. It's when I move fast and unpredictably they watch closely and stand back with a wary edge. Sitting still or moving slowly, both donkeys are available to be touched. Moving fast, they back away from my hand. I've learned this as a form of communication between us. Body language is important to them. I show them I'm in physical tune with their flow.

new in the world

Baby is learning to meditate early in life. Mama grazes on what's left of the green grass and the hay I take to them in the mornings, baby has nothing to do. Baby can't graze, can't be nursing all the time, so baby stands in place, stands still and almost falls asleep standing up. I've watched baby stand motionless for a long time. It's what donkeys do. They stand still all day. Stand in place and graze, move a step or two, stand in place and graze, take another step or two and graze some more. They are in motion all day and are still all day. Baby is learning that donkeys stand around a lot. Nothing much going on but grazing. No marauding dogs, no predators, no bull donkeys moving in on Jack's territory. They have a peaceful home, a meadow with a fence around it to keep everything and everybody out, shelter, a primate to give them carrots and hay in winter when the grass is gone. I don't want to push myself onto the baby donkey. I'd rather she slowly get to know me, see me every day, see Mama Jen is not afraid of me nor is Jack. I am part of her world and she will know me as such. She will learn from Jenny I'm to be trusted. That's when I'll start getting to know baby more personally. Baby and Jenny need each other's undivided attention now.

baby meditates while mom and dad eat their grain

Today, Thursday, I went out into the meadow and sat on the exposed root of a big maple to watch them. Jenny and baby walked out into the meadow, I set the camera on video and followed what they did. Jenny is aware the camera is an eye that sees her, but I think that's as far as she can get with it. She walked up to me, wanted to feel it with her lips and then her teeth, wanted to see what it was made of, maybe good to eat. I know what she's doing, so I don't freak out from fear she'll eat my camera. She just wants to feel it, see what it's made of, understand it. It spooks her a little bit, aware it sees her, and she doesn't know what it is. While watching the baby I was feeling the chosen name in relation to the donkey herself. Edie never rang right with me. Miss Ed sounded and felt just exactly right for the donkey I was looking at. I ran them both over and over in my mind, listening to their sounds and feeling them. Miss Ed feels right. Edie feels like a name tag. Miss Ed feels like the donkey herself. I am feeling like I'm going to let it be Miss Ed, maybe Miss Edie her grownup name. My feeling is it will be Miss Ed. When I see her, I think Miss Ed automatically. I'll ruminate on this some more.

miss ed

photos by tj worthington

A DONKEY NAMED EDIE

2015-12-10T01:08:00.000-05:00

baby edie and mama jen

Today, Wednesday, I took carrots to the donkeys in the morning. All three were out in the meadow. Jack came running. Jenny and baby walked. Every time Jack arrives first for carrot, he's difficult for Jenny, won't let her near the carrots. Jenny stood a ways behind Jack and I tossed the carrots to Jenny over Jack. He gets weird when he's the first one at the fence. He will not let Jenny near the fence. When she's the first one, she's fine with Jack at the fence and Jack is not a problem toward her. Both are unreasonably jealous when they're eating. Sometimes eating his grain in the afternoon, he turns so jealous he snorts and growls at me if I am too close to his grain even the other side of the fence. Jenny, the jealous natured one, won't let Jack near her grain, but is fine with me nearby. It seems odd every time Jack acts up over his food, he has no apparent jealousy in him. Only eating. Jack backed up a little too close to Jenny at grain time, she popped him on the rump with a back hoof, and he popped her in turn. The baby stepped a little too close to Jenny and she popped it on the rump. Baby wobbled and looked around like to say, What was that?

one-eyed jack

I thought when baby was looking bewildered, You'll get used to it, baby. This is your donkey lifetime. The kicking has begun. Baby came to me at the fence. I touched the top of its head, rubbed it's neck, talked to it. It's first touch of the human hand. Like all animals the first time they're touched and rubbed they think nothing of it. We train them to let us pet them. I leaned my head down close to the ground to look up between donkey's legs. Saw nothing but white fur. Lifted the tail and saw nothing. So I figure it's a girl. Her name now is Edie. If it were a boy, the name would be Ed. I did not know what to do for a name and decided to ask the youngest person I know to name the baby. Lucas and Judy Carpenter's girl, Meredith, I've known since she was a baby, has a three year old baby, Teddy. Teddy is a sharp little kid. Judy talks with him on the cell phone regularly. I asked her to ask him if he would like to name the baby donkey. He was taken aback by the suggestion unto stumped. It was like a whole new concept for his child mind to be asked to name a donkey. He said, "I'll have to think about it."

two hours old

Three days later, he gave his answer: Mr Ed if it's a boy and Miss Ed if it's a girl. I can't quite see myself calling a donkey Miss Ed, though it is a fun name. I decided to go with Edie, the same as Miss Ed in one word. I wondered how a three year old child in San Francisco knew about Mr Ed the talking horse. It puzzles me. He's been in Montessori school at least a year. Maybe they show old movies like Ma And Pa Kettle Go To New York, movies I saw in childhood. I doubt he knows about the Little Rascals. I checked out some Little Rascals videos from the library earlier this year. It's a sight how politically incorrect they were, sexist and racist unbelievably from today's perspective. They were so insensitive, even I, repelled by political correctness, was sometimes wide-eyed over what I was seeing, my grandparents' generation. The little black boys pushed the little white boys in wagons. The little white girls were pre-pubescent sex objects. The kids were even a bit unsettling in that regard. Of course, they were directed and scripted by adults.

jack rolls in a dust circle

I was watching a movie a little while ago with Sofia on my lap, thinking how fun it is now with a kitten, a baby donkey and Vada. In my advanced years, suddenly I am lured into play every morning with a wide-open kitten. On Sundays I see Vada. This last Sunday, she took hold of my hand before I could take my coat off, wanting me to go with her to her room and play. She wanted to show me her toys. Later, during football, she brought out her hand-puppet turtle, wanted me to put it on my hand and let her feed it fart putty. The turtle acted like it was chewing the fart putty. Whenever Vada would look away, I'd take the flattened chunk of fart putty out of the turtle's mouth and hide it under my leg. The turtle swallowed and Vada gave it more fart putty. This went on until the fart putty ran out. When she looked away, I stuffed all the fart putty I'd collected into the turtle's mouth and said to Vada, "Turtle's not feeling good. He's gonna puke." Mouth opened, a glob of fart putty fell out. Vada squealed delight and began feeding the turtle again. "Make it puke." At home, I flip a string for a kitten and soon will be playing with a baby donkey. I did not foresee that in my seventies I would learn how to play.

vada

THE BIRTH OF A DONKEY

2015-12-09T01:11:00.000-05:00

jenny and her baby

This morning, Tuesday, after having coffee and talking with my friend Carole on the phone, I picked up a copy of Harold Pinter's play, The Caretaker, and read the first act. I'd seen the film made from it and read it forty-five years ago. Wanted to read it for a refresher. In this time of the life I'm liking to reread books read long ago, to enjoy them again. Went to the desk to see what my facebook friends were posting. I looked out the window at Jenny, satisfied she was not having her baby today, it being a few minutes before noon. First thing every morning I look to see if Jenny has her baby, imagining the birth would happen before I woke in the morning, never considering I'd have a chance to see the birth of a donkey from beginning to end. Jenny was out in the meadow facing my direction. She turned sideways and I saw her tail standing straight out and a leg sticking out from under the tail. I picked up the camera and put on a heavy shirt for an extended stay in the fifty degree air. A day of full sunlight, no wind, blue sky, no clouds. I was grateful for the baby's perfect timing, a warm day in December.

kiss me, babydoll

By the time I was out the door, Jenny was on the ground. I arrived to see the head had emerged with the foreleg that led the way. I made a few photographs and set the camera on video, made video from this point, as seen above, through the whole process of baby's emergence into donkey reality. I have a hard time getting excited about something like birth, which doesn't always turn out to satisfaction, until it's over and all is well. I felt like this was it, finally, Jenny's baby was here. But it wasn't over. The baby's hip got stuck. Baby could not wiggle its way out and Jenny could not walk it out. She stood up and walked in a small circle attempting to shake it out. She flopped down on the ground hard, the baby went thump, and I thought it a good thing babies are made of rubber. Baby could not wiggle free. I was keeping out of it, standing back, giving Jenny all the space she needed not to feel crowded. Jack was with me the whole time, his side touching my side. He appeared as interested in what Jenny was doing as I was. Jenny seemed comforted by our presence.

the kiss

Jack walked over to Jenny and gently extended his nose toward her nose. Jenny raised her upper lip to touch his lip. I actually got a picture of the kiss. I have seen them kiss once before. It was just a touch. They were facing each other, Jenny's head a little lower than Jack's. She raised her head and touched his upper lip with her upper lip. It made Jack's day. He took off running and kicking his back legs in the air. I've looked for a picture I could get of Jenny and Jack that showed the love between them. They have been in love a year an a half. They've been together two years, but it took Jenny six months to grieve her friends she left behind when she was abducted against her will, Jenny has a strong will, and put in a meadow with a jackass rapist. It took her awhile to adjust, get to know her rapist. She took the role of Alpha for self-defense. The day she fell in love with Jack, she passed the Alpha role to him. It happened from one day to the next. This picture above, when you know it is a kiss, shows their love better than any I've been able to get.

mama jen kisses her baby

And here by chance I got a picture of Jenny kissing her baby. Jack watched his woman deliver their child. He was aware of what was happening. He was quiet and gentle, gave Jenny plenty of space, kept his focus on her, sometimes walked up to her in a way that said, "I'm right here, babydoll," sniffing her and their emerging donkey child. I knew they knew more about what was going on than I did, so I left it all to them. Seeing the baby's hip stuck, I decided to give an assist. I put the camera down and took the baby around the waist with my hands and pulled the hip through. Zip, that was it. Baby looked bewildered. I was loving the opportunity to see this baby donkey first discover sight and look around without focus, seeing for the first time. It struggled to get up. Inner guidance kept at it and soon the baby figured out how to stand. Walking came natural. Then a little baby hop. Jenny guided it to her udder several times, gently and repeatedly until baby found it. Right away little donkey was walking around in the meadow with Mama Jen, hair dry and fluffy, Jack close by watching. I saw today Jack has a loving heart. I don't know the gender yet and am not yet settled on the name. I have two in mind. Gender will determine which name.

found it

A LIFETIME OF NEW MUSIC

2015-12-08T02:03:00.001-05:00

the milestone, charlotte nc

I've put on some music. I never have music on when writing. The music takes over my mind completely, whatever it is. If it's Prince or Thelonious Monk, Burning Spear, Muddy Waters, Nina Hagen, Joy Division, the list goes on and on, Philip Glass, the Alban Berg Quartet, Steve Reich, 20th century Russian and Eastern European composers, Thomas Mapfumo the Lion of Zimbabwe, SE Rogie a palm wine singer of Sierra Leone, Baaba Maal of Senegal, Femi Kuti of Nigeria, Ralph Stanley of the Virginia mountains, I am unable to do anything but listen. I put on a band called Tinariwen from Mali, Sahara Desert. Some electric guitar, regional instruments and singing. Complex rhythms, North African desert music, contemporary descendants of the kind of music King David used to play, where they have a one-string violin and other curious instruments that look easy and only a master can play well. I've had this album about ten years. Didn't care for it much first time I heard it. Waited awhile, still didn't care much for it. Put it on last week and have been listening to it since.

dirty south revolutionaries @ the milestone

I feel in tune with it today. It's exactly what I want to be hearing right now. Before, my head was probably going too fast for it. Now, the music is telling me what I want to hear. The music makes me move my shoulders and head with it. It's music you'd make if your daily rhythm was riding a camel. I like singing in a language I don't understand. Pop song lyrics are most often so boring I don't even want to hear them. I saw Taylor Swift is up for Grammy or something and likely to win. I've never heard her and don't want to. I've never heard Justin Bieber and don't want to. Corporate music. In the Sixties I got used to music you could not hear on the radio, had to buy the albums to hear them and listen to albums of friends. By the time the radio started playing Sixties rock, it was popified and I quit listening to it and shifted to punk at the beginning. Only college radio stations played punk for the first twenty-five years.

turd/cutter @ the milestone

Then I heard old-time hillbilly music and later did what I knew I would do, dove into it. Punk had been going on a few years when I went to my first fiddler's convention in Independence, Virginia, and heard the first hillbilly music of my life. I heard acoustic punk. A band of young musicians played, The New River Ramblers, James Burris on fiddle, his brother on banjo, and they rocked the place. It was raw hillbilly music for square dancing. The audience went crazy over them. I remember seeing legend Kyle Creed play his banjo and Albert Hash play fiddle. In old-time music, the whole band plays together, no fiddle breaks, no banjo breaks, the whole band plays all out. Fiddle, banjo, guitar and bass, as they say, jist a gittin it. Nobody in the band stands out. It's the whole band. It was like that in early punk and early rock n roll, everybody playing together and no lead guitar. Old-time had a list of standard songs to play from. The bands write their own songs in punk. One band is acoustic. One band is electric.

dollar signs @ the milestone

Punk was so vibrant and new at the moment, I wanted to follow where rock was going, its evolution, having been with it from the beginning, back to Lonnie Donegan and Eddie Cochran. I never wanted to lose interest in rock. I've taken an interest in punk bands playing in Charlotte and Winston-Salem now, regional bands. It appears a vibrant punk scene is happening all over the country in every city. Charlotte's punk scene is an awful lot like the beginnings of the London punk scene in 1975. Bands travel in vans from city to city. They're making a new kind of punk now. I should hope so. Punk has been going for forty years. I've been waiting to see where it's going next. Punk seems to have so much potential for self-expression, the changes happening are inside punk instead of leaving it and going someplace else. A couple decades ago, some punk musicians discovered old-time music. They'd become so familiar with electric guitars, they wanted to expand their abilities with acoustic and took up old-time. It became a trend that goes on today. The young now play old-time with a rock n roll drive, which is natural to old-time. In the old-time music world, it isn't music if it doesn't have that drive.

the seduction @ the milestone

photos by tj worthington

A DAY IN THE FLOW

2015-12-06T23:56:00.000-05:00

jenny in the sun

I've become convinced the visit by young friend in despair over his life was a spiritual experience. I did not see it at the time, because I did not want to interpret, rather merely to listen, not objectively, but subjectively, as in life, to someone talking straight from the heart. I had to listen with my heart to hear it. I let go of my own thoughts and gave over to his, flowed with his thought process, allowed him to lead his own way. I did indeed feel a flow, that I had aligned myself with the flow, allowed it to carry me as I heard my friend's story in minimalist language that sometimes had me thinking this was a Pinter play. I did not realize it at the time that my own continuous mind play had settled down like a cat on a pillow in sunlight. All my mind was on what he was saying. I never wondered or thought about what I'd say, just followed what he said with what came spontaneously to mind. I did not realize my mind was so focused, never said, "let's pray about it," or even thought prayer within. I was thinking this was about him given a conundrum he had to find a way to settle for himself. I'm happy to assist, but it's his work to do. He was so turned off by religion, I did not want to imply I knew better than he did, because I don't, which helped me stay away from the clichés we use for God and love that misrepresent both.

sofia in the sun

He already knew the innermost self is nameless, it's called the soul, but any word naming it becomes meaningless. I wanted to honor his own insight by not using names of that which cannot be named. As he told me these insights he had figured out for himself, I told him they are the same as my own, because it's true and to affirm his thinking. Your thoughts are not weird. I also did not realize my heart was glowing with love vibration for this child of the most high traversing his own Valley of the Shadow of Death. I was with the flow of his story such that it felt like any social interaction, consciousness to consciousness. I did not realize that I had opened to the spirit within. Next day, yesterday, I carried some hay out into the meadow for the donkeys midday in the sunlight. Thought I'd sit with them and visit. I sat on the ground between them, talked to them, feeling a mild golden glow between us, feeling their inner stillness, not thinking of it as that, not thinking about it at all, just feeling their flow grazing hay in the sunlight after a cold night. Jack came up behind me and put his chin on my left shoulder, sniffed my ear, my face, my breath, extended his whole jaw over my shoulder and pressed the side of his head to the side of my head and held it there.

donkey jen

He raised his chin up over my head and placed it on my right shoulder. He moved his whole head over my shoulder. He pressed the side of his head to the side of my head again and we stayed like that awhile. He moved his head away, pushed my shoulder with his side a little bit, a body nudge. He turned around and backed up to me, very gently pressed his back knees to my back and stood there. I soon wondered what he was up to. I turned around to look. His tail was rising and his bung-hole was puckering toward dropping some donkey biscuits. I thought, What the hell? Jack's energy was very quiet, still and deliberate, and Jenny grazing quietly about two feet to my right. I realized Jack was aiming to gift me his shit. I knew it is not dirty to them like it is to us. I tend not to think it dirty. However, I did not feel like I wanted a steaming donkey biscuit rolling down inside my collar. I hesitated, because I felt this was important to Jack, but really didn't want to participate in whatever ritual Jack was performing.

donkeys in the sun

I rolled onto my feet and said, "I don't want you shitting on me, Jack." He looked disappointed like I'd hurt his feelings. I came to the house and later, wondering what Jack was doing, it came to me that I had been talking to him about us being friends for over two years, and this was his way of claiming me with his scent, a ritual of the bond between us, a blood brothers rite. He wanted my scent to be the same as his and Jenny's. The three of us are bonded as friends and he wanted us to smell alike. Then I was sorry to be so slow minded as to fail to get it in time to let him honor me with his scent. A shower is always an option. Perhaps I would have if I could have thought of it in time. I don't know. I woke that morning feeling in the spirit from the experience the night before. By in-the-spirit, I mean when everything flows with perfect timing. I went into town and felt mild joy with everyone I spoke with. That it put me in the spirit told me the experience night before with friend was, for both of us, a spiritual experience. I learned much from it and I believe he did too. Both of us benefited. I may be interpreting Jack by a projection of my own mind. Looked at as Jack, himself, the donkey I know, he likes to play straight-faced tricks on me. He more than likely wanted to see me jump.

jack contemplates his shadow

SPONTANEOUS INTERVENTION

2015-12-05T23:06:00.000-05:00

Yesterday, Friday, I intended to go to the Jubilee in town to hear two old-time music bands play. Old-time is fiddle and banjo music as it is played in this region of the mountains. My two favorite bands were playing, Whitetop Mountain Band and The Crooked Road Ramblers. All day I was looking forward to the music. I finished the day's writing just before it was time to leave the house, but when it came time to go, I did not want to drive to town, mingle in a crowd of people and drive home. Thought I'd stay home. An hour later someone appeared at the door. It was a guy in his early thirties, son of a friend of mine who died a few years ago. He stops by to see me about once a year, values me because I was his dad's friend. His dad was one of three brothers who showed me the way around in these mountains in my first year, riding the roads on weekends drinking beer, talking and laughing, my dog with us in the car. It was one of the most valuable years of my life, though there was nothing extraordinary about the year except it was my first in these hills, a flatlander without a clue. I've known his boy since he was a baby. When he stops by, we talk for awhile and he leaves, never an agenda, just to say hi. He misses his daddy so he drops in on me and we talk about him some. This time, he was out of sorts.

It seemed like a regular visit until. He said over and over that he wished he had a talent for painting like I have. The next subject he exhausted repeating over and over, he had no use for Jesus, God, religion, all of it. I had a feeling he was leading up to something, but I couldn't find any clues. He told it kind of apologetically, and I said, "Good, you've found your starting place." He said he was born with everything against him and never had a chance. I affirmed him. I said, "You really were born with everything against you and truly never had a chance. It was the same with your daddy, and with his daddy too. You've had a rough life and I know it." He talked about his dog, how much he loves it. Things got lively when he said if he died, nobody would miss him. All my alarms went off. I could see where he was headed. He said his daddy wasn't much of a daddy. I said I knew it, but I also knew his daddy died when he was a little boy around eight, and he didn't have nothing to go by.

He said something about his dad not being a good man. I stopped him and told him his daddy was a good man, had a good heart, meant well, just didn't know how to live in this world, born without a chance. He grew up in a gang of four brothers, he the youngest, the baby, having the lowest status name in the county, so low the word status is meaningless. The four brothers stuck together and backed each other up such that if you have a problem with one, you have a problem with all of them. It's how they survived. He started crying, telling how doing wrong is so easy and doing right is so hard. He stressed we only hurt the ones close to us and he has hurt everybody close to him, was eaten up with guilt. I told him I'm not asking him to confess anything, though if he's feeling the need, everything said here stays here and no judgment. Then came the big one. He had such a hard time saying it he barely whispered it. I had to ask what he said. He said, "I hate myself," eyes red, tears running. I realized I cannot give him answers, but I didn't think he was looking for answers. I went into full loyalty mode. His dad was my friend who had my back. Now I will have his boy's back. I gave myself over to whatever I could do to help him. He needed to talk. I needed to listen.

When he said he hated himself, I said, "Welcome to humanity. You're not the first and there are many going about thinking the same of themselves. You are not alone." I told him there is nothing about him to hate. He said there was. He couldn't pull his life together, he's a loser, has no willpower, stressing nobody will miss him if he died right now. Again I stopped him and said, "I know your mama will care. I know your woman will care. I know your dog will care. I know your cousin will care." I said, "Think of the people you care about. They are the ones that care about you. You have a steady job, you have a good woman, you have a good dog, a car, a place to live, and you have friends. You have everything you need. You don't need anybody in your life but the people that you care about, so maybe take a look at the ones you care about and let the rest go." We talked about his problem with the wrong thing being so easy and hurting the ones he's closest to. I had no answers, but suggested he give it a moment's thought before he starts to do something hurtful. Go ahead and do it if you have to, but give it a moment's thought first. A time came the tears went away, the subject over, we talked a little bit more and he left in a pensive spirit. I realized after he went out the door that he was going under and came to me like the hand of someone drowning coming up the third time. All day today I've been feeling gratitude that I had what it took to know this suffering soul needed to be heard, needed to say what he had to say, and not be thought a fool for speaking his truth. I was grateful for the trust. I was grateful he came to me. My feeling all day today is that something very important happened here last night.

photos by tj worthington

*

HUMANS OF NEW YORK STORIES THE BOOK

2015-12-04T20:41:00.001-05:00

humans of new york stories

My copy of the new book, Humans of New York Stories, arrived in yesterday's mail. I have "liked" the HONY site on facebook and receive the posts. I ordered self a copy of the new book, questioning the purchase like buying an album because I like one song and when I play it, the song I bought it for is the only one I like. I quit buying an album for one song years ago. Faced with the question of whether or not to buy Humans of New York Stories, the book, I hesitated. I'd seen several of the posts and liked what I saw, but questioned a whole book of 400+ pages. I reasoned with self in service of saving money that I see entries on facebook, why pay to see them again? Which turned out not to be reasoning, but justification for talking self out of buying something I want when it is easily affordable. I don't see much reason in that. I want it. Now. Click purchase and be done with it. The book was in the mailbox two days later.

humans of new york stories

I pick it up every time I sit to read and cannot put it down. Every page is so wonderful, it doesn't matter which ones I see first or next, just anything. I open it randomly and skim it randomly. My favorite of ones I've seen is an old white man, mid-seventies, who says, "This is getting too personal." It was all he had to say. Another favorite is a man in some kind of uniform delivering what looks like mail, and not, to an address One Fifty Seven. He said, "Listen, I've got to go. If I tell them I'm late because I was getting interviewed, they're not gonna want to hear that. Not gonna believe that for a second." They struck me funny because so unexpected. Everybody else is ready to tell their story. A favorite of the ones that tell their story is a man with a tie and a moustache saying, "I've been working for forty-five years, and so has my wife. But we have no money. You know why? Because my five kids have two bachelor's degrees, a master's and two doctorate degrees. They are my wealth."

humans of new york stories

To me, he was uplifting. Many of the people's self-definitions have an uplifting quality unintended. And one man was so blunt as to say, "I don't want to live." He looked like he meant it. The book has people who tell of their lives in brief sentences or paragraphs from the whole spectrum of human existence. New York City is the melting pot of the world. Walking on the sidewalk in NY I hear people talking in languages I'm totally unfamiliar with. The people that went down with the WTC towers were from all over the world. The population in NY is like the crew on the ship, Pequod, in Melville's Moby Dick, a melting pot of the world. I especially remember the scenes of the crew around the big pots of whale blubber, people from all over the world, everybody's hands in the pot breaking down the lumps, the melting pot. The humans of New York are people from everywhere on earth, a pie slice of humanity.

humans of new york stories

I find it especially interesting looking through the book that the people often look like what they say of themselves. People of every age. A man of mid to late sixties in what looks like a bookstore says, "I don't believe in anything." "What's the last belief you held?" "That I could believe in something." A woman in her forties, dressed all in white, her hair bleached almost white, big black handbag, arm in the air, saying, "I'm late for a show. You can try to take my photo while I hail a cab." A woman in her sixties said, "I'm trying not to take on everyone else's shit so I can relax for a second." I sit here looking through the book for quotes short enough to show you several to give an idea of how true to home each person is. In the pictures, you see somebody you've never seen before, just like on a New York sidewalk, and you learn something pertinent to the life of each one. The book, itself, gives me the sensation of walking from one place to another in New York City, the whole world in a melting pot. The book gives a perspective for me that they are all, we are all, beautiful people with beautiful lives, whatever they may be, even a heroin addict. I get a sense of what God sees, looking at the whole of humanity, knowing everybody's stories, and understand how God can only see us with love and the forgiveness that goes with it.

photos by brandon stanton