The thunderclap of Eos

I have always worshipped the dawn, particularly during the warmer months when you can leave the windows open and let the birds sound a tribute to Eos on her flying chariot, growing ever nearer, soon to break through the darkness. I hear cymbals and then light bursts through the kaleidoscope of dreams and they break into ice crystals and float into space past all those constellations named after Greek gods.

But I’m generally too lazy to get out of bed.

Sometimes I will try to return to my dreams but as the room grows lighter, they become merely memories sorted into the wrong bins.  It’s a shame because often I have my clearest thoughts during that time. At least, I think they’re my clearest thoughts but then I’m not even 100% sure that I’m even awake.  It’s a blissful feeling but not every writer has felt the same.

Philip Larkin, Aubade (lovers separating at dawn)

I work all day and get half-drunk at night,
In time I see what’s really always there,
Unresting death, a whole day nearer

Hey Death, can you take a rest already?  This persistence of your’s is a pain in the butt.  Let a guy get drunk at night and wake up without seeing your ugly puss.

Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet

It was the lark, the herald of the morn,
No nightingale; look, love, what envious streaks
Do lace the severing clouds in yonder east;
Night’s candles are burnt out and
day stands tiptoe on the misty mountain tops.

Translation: Dawn, you’ve come to ruin my love life once again.  Eventually cruel circumstance will force me back into the arms of fair Rosalind.  Or perhaps I will opt for death instead.

Luckily musicians seem to have a different reaction to the thunderclap of Dawn. How about you – sunrise or sunset?

Ode to an old gas guzzler

I love the sight of thee,
symbol of liberty.

Oh thee I sing.
How many trips you’ve known
far far far from home.
From sunny Malibu to far off Nome
I love you so.

Rattling like a top,
engine about to pop,
Did you just see a cop?

Swallow the pot!

Thou art a joy to me,
Though thy owner
art crotchety God bless him for he still
….  loveth the trees.

This bit of silliness was inspired by a 1960s era VW van which I spotted in the parking lot of (where else) Trading Joe’s.  The driver caused quite a headache for the politically correct Priuses and Leafs anxious to get in and out before the July 4th crush for party supplies commenced. It wasn’t hard to guess what all the smirking drivers were thinking. Gas guzzling and noisy, driven by some old coot determined to back into a slot intended for “compacts only.”  What a nuisance!  But when I see one I think of independence in its truer sense.  Being faithful to who you are and to your ideals.

Because there’s a door somewhere here, I entering this in Norm’s Thursday Door extravaganza. I’m sure if you head on over you will be treated to some very good photography and interesting perspective on doors.  

Now I’m off to our small town parade which is always a gas.  Here are some blasts from past parades:  4th of July Rehash and The Girl with the Flag in her Hair

Be safe!


tin hats

Working out alone, in the prison of my own making, sit ups, pushups, lost time, the bird on my windowsill who comes from afar.  Its colors are not from around here and it’s only visiting me for a few seconds and then I’ll never see it again.

People are like that if you can only wait them out.  They might plop themselves on your couch and grow roots or repaint the bedroom, but eventually they leave and if you say the right things, they get the idea you don’t like them very much and they stop coming around all together.

I call those kinds of episodes, victories and if I find I really like someone, I usually fall totally in love with them, but not for the way their molecules sidle up to each other, but rather the emotions I can steal from them.  Love does not necessarily mean commitment. …

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Doors at the Crossroads

It’s been too long since I’ve been Doorscaping.  And so today I stopped on my daily walk to take a picture of a few historic though rather plain doors.  

This is the door to my town’s oldest restaurant, Casa Orinda.  It’s been in the same location for 84 years, predating the freeway through town, the tunnel that leads to the town and the town itself.  It’s founder, John Snow, was a cowboy from Montana and thus it’s interior boasts of a mahogany bar, hand-carved reliefs and an antique gun collection.  Although the ambiance has been described as “spaghetti western,” their signature dish is Southern Fried Chicken.

Even the storage unit at the back of the restaurant sports an antique lantern.

Across the street from Casa Orinda sits the De Laveaga Train Station which is only a landmark today.  However from this spot, the short lived California and Nevada railroad hauled produce from the valley over the hills and to the docks.

It’s a very tiny structure but then the railway only catered to passengers in its final years.  Today it remains locked.

However, someone put a welcome sign in front.

I’m sure you’ll all be welcome over at Norms’ Place for his weekly #ThursdayDoors challenge. 


Mom Saying Goodbye

I was going to blog about the best cars to buy to survive the coming Zombie Apocalypse but then a friend of mine sent me this beautiful poem which seems much more appropriate for this Memorial Day weekend.  Those of us with elderly parents can easily relate.

Mom Saying Goodbye
by Carol Teltschick 

I call my mother everyday
California to Texas
We talk and laugh

Around and in between the spaces
of a disease in her brain
We talk and laugh

Of things she knows but can’t remember
We know she loves
We talk

I remind her she combed lice
From my hair for

My hair was thick her hands grew tired
Always home for the daughter
who traveled to wild places

Still so much easier than
hanging up a phone

How do I turn this thing off, honey? What do I do with it now?
Ok, that’s the end of it.  Do I push anything down? Does it go there?

It’s always something going. I don’t know why.
We’ve got to get this thing going down.

Honey, can you help me? Gosh, she sounds so sweet.  I have to get it…

She’s gone? She’s gone.
Ok, it’s bye…

California to Texas: expect delays and alternate routes
We talk and laugh
With love

Morro Bay, March 2019

Oh God, where are the tears?

I’m in a strange way today.  My stepmother passed away, almost the same time as Doris Day whom she resembled when they were both a lot younger.  You’ll have to believe me as I have no photos of her.  She hated having her picture taken as she aged and grew plump and would threaten anyone who pointed a camera in her direction.
I’m not weepy.  In a way, it’s a relief.  For the last few years, she’s lived in diapers, bedridden and often incoherent … too heavy and brittle of bone  to be transported for family dinners or holidays.  With the exception of my brother, anyone who cared about her either died or moved too far away for regular visits. So there are no tears but I am not okay.
I was living in Europe when, without warning, I got the news that my father had remarried. The announcement was hidden in a rambling letter filled with weather and ski conditions and other of life’s mundanities, a somewhat innocuous little sentence between “your brother bought a motorcycle” and “the dog has fleas” and there it was:   “By the way, Mrs. Hindley and I got married the other day.”  I broke down with a resounding NO that probably wasn’t heard on the other side of the world but blew my uncle off his perch at the bar and into the arms of his boss’s buxom, boozy secretary.
At that time, I didn’t knew my stepmother well, but I knew her children.   Her poor broken children. The eldest, a girl, spent  her teen years in and out of the psyche ward until she dropped out of school and ran off with her boyfriend.  The two boys also dropped out, married and ended up in the Navy.  Did I mention that my stepmother was a kindergarten teacher?
I suppose I should say kind words as the woman did me no real harm.  She was in general, generous.  I have many trinkets from her numerous trips.  Until recently she remembered everyone’s birthday and she adored my father.  Okay, she pulled him farther to the right politically than was sane, judged people by their pedigrees and thought African Americans were out to get her because her ancestors owned slaves.  But she adored my father; almost worshipped him.  Even when he accidentally shot Beauregard  (her beloved basset hound) to death while on a hunting trip.  She forgave him.
I don’t know what’s going to happen now. My stepmother died in Reno, Nevada.  One of my step brothers lives in Denver, the other in Houston and the only granddaughter who cares lives in Alaska.  Reportedly they all need money which she supposedly had.
Oh God, where are the tears?

Homicidal thoughts on a lovely Spring day

Ah spring.  Warm temperatures, gardens in bloom, nests filled with robin’s eggs . . .

Every day the chance to glory in the return of foliage to bare trees, seedlings popping through the moist soil, apple blossoms in the orchards and …

… poison ivy

Woe to those who do not see
your evil coven in the tree

Such a wicked curse
made by itching even worse.
cured not by the ablest nurse
Or any amount of purse
woe to who’er conjured thee
from my wrath you shall not flee.

My salvation, hopefully …

I wish I could say my homicidal instincts ended with poison ivy extermination but

Who invited these dudes to my yard?  And who gave them permission to pig out on my cyclamen?  I have asked them nicely to party elsewhere.  I have threatened to fatten them up and sell them to the French restaurant but no.  And so regretfully, slimy dudes, eat shit and die! 

But this spring, winter has arrived. Bloodsuckers have breached the walls of Castle Kitty and forced King Kitty into the crypt. He thinks he can escape the final, prolonged agony of itching but Bloodsuckers, well they can smell warm blood.  Duh. (apologies to Game of Thrones – which has become a soap opera don’t you think?)

Can you see him?  We couldn’t as the doors to the cabinet were almost shut.


Those of you who are pet owners have probably guessed who is after the cat.

Mister Flea who bears a stunning resemblance to Beetlejuice in both character and elusiveness.

And so this year, Die Mr. Flea!

It’s really not fair because the cat never goes outside and probably picked up the infestation during his last stay at the Kitty Motel.  It will be his last stay there.