Sunday, January 31, 2010

Are you climbing up or just hanging on?

I read this statement in a book about changing your life to adapt with business or corporate structure while watching a spider climb on a Christmas card basking in the sunlight.

The statement is very true of what individuals have in their being to want to strive for or be swept aside in the constant evolution. Some will set and seek goals of fortune or fame while others plod everyday to another’s demands.

Each might internally validate life’s accomplishments, yet other’s perceptions calculate unknown variations.

Pondering my father’s hopes, dreams, wishes, and reality I also reflect on my path.

No regrets behind me, yet the future, though it may be short, might hold a key.

A similar thought is the ambiance around us. Some hurry in a rush of noise and confusion, electronic devices clutter the air with news, weather, sports, and the constant chatter, while others relax in the quiet of their own being.

Music, I feel, is the glue that holds us together. Titles, language, politics, etc. cannot form a bond like music. Global recognition of rhythm brings smiles and tears and laughter and song to the human spirit.

So, life, like the corporate ladder, is a decision of climbing up or just hanging on. Music can create the soundtrack, but it is each of us to decide how far we climb.

And is there ever a top?

And death may be just letting go.

Snow Day

Today the sun is out, shining the crystal whiteness of the city.

After a day of eating, watching bad westerns, and being surround with the frozen water, I decided it was time to venture out.

There was no reason to lace up the boots and step out into the knee-deep powder. Stocks of food are plentiful, entertainment abundant, but the need for fresh air and sunshine compelled me to explore winter.

After feeding the yard critters, I strapped on my pack and trudged into the deep footsteps.

A few are out digging out their vehicles for the sliding necessary to open offices and stores with few calls or customers. Will we ever accept that this town is shut down until streets are passable for mom and pop to safely resume their daily chores?

The streets that are cleared are thick ice with a light white powder. I decide to take the safe yet slower path of stepping into the deep but firm footing on the edges.

A young woman guiding her little girl welcomes the beauty with me. A man, dressed for church, walks around the corner to the main road, to warm up his vehicle before loading his shivering offspring.

Sunshine convinces all it is warmer, but there are very few spots of melting. Yet the exercise, which would normally be a quick stroll, causes the body to perspire under the layers.

A two-mile hike takes two hours. I’m not in a hurry, actually noting the cold and the ice, took a very slow pace.

As I wander the streets, I wonder what the heck I am doing out here?

What would happen if I were to fall and break my hip?

Then my mind wondered to the thought of how long will I be able to do this? I’m not a young chicken now, but what will I do when it snows like this and I’m 80 years old? Would it would not be feasible or even possible for me stand knee deep in the cold, watch the yard bend to the weight, suck in the clear air, and listen to the wisp as fowl and flora as they struggle, the same as I, to get to Spring?

Before I slept last night under piles of blankets and comforters, warming my toes, cap on my head and my comfort knit around my neck, I thought of years gone by.

How did the pioneers survive in this weather? Sure, they burned wood (and I got plenty of wood) or climbed under piles of blankets (just like I did), and they did not have electric light or television or microwave popcorn or computer social networking while the snow falls, and yet they did survive. Maybe that is why the population grew so much, but even that body heat will subside.

Thinking back further, I imagine a medieval time of cold. Tapestry covered walls, huge fireplaces, long thick layers, and coal heated beds kept the upper tier tolerable to the weather, but what about the ones in the straw beds in drafty humble abodes?

I’ll survive this winter with a little more wisdom, appreciating the now and anticipating the future. Next winter will be just as cold, but I have learned from these experiences.

This is how we grow.

Friday, January 29, 2010

The Night Is Cold

I just came back from a walk through Colonial Place.

There is no white powder yet, but I feel the coming.

The silence is only broken by the whir of a motor vehicle zooming down the payment racing home before the storm.

Clouds mask the stars in grayness of winter.

The breath is clear and clean, yet the season of winter holds it’s internal capture of breathing and the body knows the difference.

Morning will bring a white blanket so it is time to sleep and await the crystal water.

I know the moon is up there shining bright to others.

Good night.

Fighting in Bed & Holes in my Pants

Maybe there are dreams or simple unrest, but I find myself every morning rearranging the stack of blankets that have been turned and strewn around the room. It looks like a battlefield.

I feel I have slept well, but the covers show there was a trauma in the darkness.

Riding a bike every day is a progressive pattern of movement that put pressure of legs churning up and down against the narrow leather seat.

Every mile rubs on the material of the rider’s pants until the wear is apparent.

The continued chaff creates small holes and with daily wear, the seat tears.

Today I realize, this pair of jeans I have been wearing for the past month must go to the trash, but the battle in the bedroom will continue.

Monday, January 25, 2010



Late at night when I wake up, I hear the rumble of trains.
Far away sounds, yet very familiar.
To the south, the crash of empty railway cars rolling west to prepare to fill themselves with the tops of Coal Mountains fill the night air.
To the north, a whistle announces the arrival of consumer goods.
The railways were here long before I arrived. I learned its history was leaned in television programs and folk songs.
I worked at a train station for a while, with access to free travel on the rocking cars.
But until you ride the rails and fill the rhythm, you cannot appreciate the magnitude of the metal ribbon, which connected our country.
And to me is a wonderful method to travel. Enjoy the ride.

Saturday, January 23, 2010

Spring Can’t Be Far Away

Drag myself out of bed with the sound of the birdcall.
Without leggings and loose socks wipe my eyes to see the sunshine knowing full well I would travel today.
The rain has stopped.
The ground squishes as I put out sunflower seed for the critters, then float the flack for the orange bodies who have endured the cold.
A cup of coffee and a cup of fruit, pull up the zippers and the gloves.
Time to mail the $3,000.00 in bills for repairs that have just begun on my humble abode.
At the mall, I decide to continue my journey to my morning run, but in reverse.
The hills are a little more difficult and the traffic congestion adjusts my path, but the first stop for water brings the remembrance of clear breathing.
I cut the voyage short due to thoughts of the hot water maker being left on.
Another cup of coffee reading the mail, there is little motivation to jump into a project.
A quick trip to the grocery store for refreshments and creamer precedes another lapse into television boredom.
Shaking it off, I climb the 13 steps to load another 10 trash bags, delivering boxes and bags rolling down to the kitchen.
Dragging out the piles of mother’s curtains, scraps of flags, shirts, dresses, sweaters from years ago, the piles fill the space for the Monday retrieval by the cities huge trucks.
Tomorrow brings rain, football, and an attempt to play along with a geezer song selection.
Sleep well tonight for tomorrow you must dust off the cases and place fingers on metal wire strumming to a wooden box.

Friday, January 22, 2010



I feel I have worn glasses forever.
They are as much a part of me as grabbing my wallet, pocketknife, keys, and handkerchief.

But looking back at photos I’m surprised how long it took my parents to realize I could not see.
I remember having problems in school because I couldn’t see the blackboard.
Reading was a struggle so homework suffered.
I didn’t play sports because I couldn’t see the ball until it hit me in the face.
From the dates on the photos it looks like I was 12 when I started to wear the plastic frames.
Most of the time I didn’t have much selection or choice for a fashion look, so the brown thick frames divided my face.
Later in life, I had to buy my own vision and went through many changes.

Big frames, metal frames, shaded lenses, bi-focal lenses, and dark glasses I could see through changed my look through the years.
Being an artist, my eyes and my hands have been instruments of my career.

Years of televisions small grainy black and white screens took its toil on my sight, and then the computer came along with a noticeable drop in viewing details.
I’m sure I can blame age on some of this, but I must wear my specs every day. They are the first thing to put on every morning and the last thing to take off at night.

Being a four-eyes is what I am.

or as the Lovin' Spoonful said:
For eyes, what you gonna do now
Fore eyes, and how much do you see now
How many fingers, ha ha ha

When your kids that see through plastic
with a harness of elastic
So the girls all think you´re icky
And the boys all think you´re queer
Then the hinges all get rusty
And the seventh pair gets busted
So you graduate to tortoise
Shell that makes you look severe

When you´re so blind they call you Batman
You can´t even see a fat man
You can´t dig just where he´s at man
Without windows on your eyes
But the frames ain´t your decision
And they´re fitted with precision
And they magnify your eyes like they´re a pair of cherry pies

Here´s a word to all you parents
Give a break to little Clarence
When he says the blackboard´s fadin´
And the world´s a fuzzy place
Mister up in middle classes
And please recall that after all he
wears them on his face

Thursday, January 21, 2010

Old Maids

Been eating a lot of popcorn this winter.

Had to replace the burnt out air popper, then thought about what was left in the bottom of the bowl.

Those kernels not yet fully puffed to perfection, but almost there.

Not the virgin kernels bounced around but never responded.

Old maids are the ones who are half way cracked open like a nugget in a shell.

They never met their full potential.

The heat started to open them, but they never puffed into a light fluffy pop.

Crunchy and gritty on your teeth.

These are my favorites.

Five Police Cars and a Near Death Experience


For several weeks now, I have broken my morning routine and not taken my 10k bike ride. Snow, cold, ice, wind, donation pickups were all excuses.

Meanwhile the bikes, like ponies in a corral, have sat idle waiting for a ride.

So this morning I swore to myself this morning was time to take my ride.

The weather had been warm, but I was still awaiting Jesus, who came yesterday afternoon.

Today there were no excuses. Even waking up late did not prevent me from saddling up and walking up the gravel to the grey sky. As I adjusted myself to the temperature and clearing my throat, the rain clouds that would be with me for several days began to appear on the horizon.

Marion glided down the hill and over the remands of sand and salt, then a turn to starboard. Catching my breath, I began to get into a rhythm long forgotten. After a turn back, noticing a Cowboys banner on front of a house and thinking, “You can take that down. That ain’t gonna happen this year.”

Up the hill I see Christmas lights still up and wonder if the residents know this is the 21st of January and it is a no-no in this old town to leave the past season decorations after the 20th? It was like the guy I saw in the white suit last weekend. Are there no rules?

Turning to opposite side of the medium to avoid a large moving truck, I first thought another family was leaving, but was pleasant surprised when on the side of the truck was written “Showroom Furniture”.

The pace was slower for the first third of the venture, but I appreciated being on two wheels going around a truck loading a portable storage unit, passing the mobile machines parked and waiting.

I noticed a lot of police cars on my travels. This trip passed five of Richmond’s finest parked throughout. Was there a crime wave-taking place in my neighborhood or had house prices dropped so public servants with free rides could buy in?

At the top of the hill, I paused and listened for traffic. The street was lined with huge vans and trucks for every house seemed to under some sort of construction (I can relate) or the usual SUVs the size of small elephants. I looked left, since that is the first lane to cross and noticed no movement. A quick look to the right and I was off.

Then a black mobile machine appeared from behind a block of mobile metal. My mind quickly woke and decisions were made. I pressed the pedal with determination and struggled to quicken the pace over the hill. Luckily the driver also saw me and slowed to let me pass.

Drifting down the other side of the hill I thought wouldn’t it be ironic to be run over on my first outing in over a month. I was out of practice.

Paying more attention to traffic patterns I reached the end of my first third unscathed.

Waiting for the light to change and the drivers to clear I noticed a hint of sunshine, but it was fleeting. My fingers were still numb from the cold as I pushed on.

Up another hill, avoiding metal monsters and construction workers, I passed a jogger who waved and said “Hey! Morning!!” with a smile. I wondered why a young girl (40’s?) was doing out this time of day.

Perhaps she was taking a break from working at home or a single mom getting some exercise was my only answers. It didn’t matter in a blink of an eye she was gone.

On the back of a mud covered jeeps spare wheel cover was a black and white skull and crossed swords. “Argggh!” Oh, to be a pirate again.

Stopping at Malvern to drink the very cold water and survey the territory. A gray mobile carrier pulled up behind me waiting as if I was taking up too much space to turn, so I continued.

Traffic was light from there on so my pace quickened to my usual speed. I took deep breaths as I approached the Wythe hill, but first I had to slide to a stop to wait for a driver to make a decision on which direction to take.

The hill wasn’t as bad as I thought, but I considered the pain I would feel tomorrow with a grin. An up-shift down the hill, I was looking forward to the roller-coaster.

At the church, I watered again then could feel my right leg press hard against the resistance, but made the pass of the street of monuments and into my last third passage.

The hills were familiar and the breathing on track. Marion was glad to be out and frisky on the cleared roadways.

Before I knew it, I was done.

The sky had grown grey with the impending weather and the air grew colder, but I was warm and energized.

Placing the Gray Ghost back on the porch with Bianchi and Big Blue, I paused for a cup of coffee and watch the fish swim in clear water.

Warm weather is not far off, I thought, so I can get back into a regular pattern. Four more book cases and boxes of scraps of old shirts, silky items, and memories to go through until I attack the jewelry and silver.

There will always be reconstruction, but it felt good to get some needed internal travel and mental exercise beyond weird dreams.

Monday, January 18, 2010


I saw this cartoon the other day and thought it so true.

Then I put other names at the top of the "Test", and they ALL seemed to fit.

"Government", "Religion", "Love"....

We pay our dues, follow the rules, give our lifetime

and the rewards are?

It's all about faith.

Sunday, January 17, 2010


Morning brought bright sunlight while the wind and waves shook off the night of peril.

Two lone figures stood in the wet sand. Beside them were the remains of their trusty vessel. Before them spread a vast ocean churning with furry and anger. Electric kites of clouds flew over the white caps like a natural strobe light.

“There!” Ike cried out and pointed to a tiny dark shadow.

The couple stared at a small dingy bobbing in the rough water. Looking like a float on a fisherman’s line seemingly unaffected by the storm that had washed them ashore, this could be their salvation.

Without a thought the pair dove into the water and swam to the small craft.

Once aboard they took stock of the boat and found it sound. With some struggle, the pair lifted the anchor that had held it and began another journey.

The little wooden hull about the size of a bed turned and began to break the waves.

Ike grab the rudder and began to change the course.

“Wait!” Ginger exclaimed. “It knows the path.”

Ike paused looking puzzled, and then slowly released the rudder.

The bow jerked back and forth in the currents like a slide on an Ouija board. The two sat quietly watching the wooden platform held together with luck and spit find its way. Steadily it became calmer and straightens out its course.

For hours, perhaps days, the little cradle wandered through the blue water following an invisible trail, its crew numbed by the sun and constant rolling of the waves slept.



“Where are…?”

The sun burnt couple opened their eyes to a shady umbrella of green. The scrapping sound of wood against wood was their alarm clock.

An old dilapidated dock jutted out from an overgrown island.

Ike wrapped the anchor line around a pillar and helped Ginger onto the decaying wood planks.

“Careful. Don’t want to come this far to….” he advised.

“So what is this place?” she asked walking gingerly across the crumbling wood until they both reached firm ground.

“I don’t know but it feels familiar.”

Ike looked down the bamboo lined narrow beach but there were no signs of an entry point.

“Come on,” Ginger firmly demanded, “I know the way.”

She divided the thick stacks of green and stepped into the darkness, Ike quickly on her heels. Pressing into the unknown the explorers weaved through the vines and stalks that tore their cloths and scrapped their skin.

A spot of sunshine found a clearing for the couple to stop and catch their breath.

Ike, leaning over his hands on his knees, puffed and moaned, “I’m hungry.”

Ginger crossed legged sat in a pile of leaves, wiping her brow onto her red arms and replied, “Yeah, Big captain. You didn’t think about bringing any food, did you?”

Feeling dejected by their new situation, Ike stood straight and scanned the area. Examining the pine carpet as if documenting a crime scene he circled the jungle cavern, when he suddenly froze and stared at the ground. His eyes were fixated, not a word was said.

“Did you find a Big Mac?” Ginger broke the silence stretching her gams walking slowly to the spot.

They both recognized their future and began to follow a narrow crushed shell path.

Coming to an opening they found the familiar brownstone building still draped in constant capture of the jungle.

As they entered the cavernous sculpture Ike smiled at the dust spot on the dirty marble floor. Ginger slapped his arm, then turned seeking out a destination they were not aware of.

She stopped at a massive wooden door. Ike reached for the iron latch ring that hung down on an art deco plate. He tugged on the ring with no success. Always up for a challenge, he explored blocked passage.

Ginger, being Ginger, stood back and watched with fascination. She broke her enjoyment and spied a bronze statue sitting on a pedestal next to the door. Rubbing her hands over the dusty Buddha squatted in a lotus position; she felt an indentation on the forehead. Something was missing from this guardian.

She paused.

Then she knew.

Ike stopped his investigation and turned to Ginger as she reached into her tattered gray sweater. The silence was deafening.

Ginger extracted the red diamond she had been so protective for all this time and held it to the sunbeams streaming through holes in the roof. The stone glowed in the warmth and seemed to vibrate as if to be coming home.

With the hands of an angle, Ginger slowly pressed the diamond into the impression, twisting to the left and then right until…..

The red diamond found its place in the Buddha and seated itself. Ginger pulled back her hand and the pair stared at the statue.

Ike turned back to the door and pulled on the latch.

A bright glow grew under the door onto the shiny floor then spread up the edges increasing in intensity as the wooden portal opened.

Awash in light, the stunned travelers stood affixed at the wonder that behold them.

A figure approached the doorway with a welcoming smile. He stepped forward, dressed to the nines, curly hair, horn-rimmed glasses, and somehow very comfortable and familiar. Behind him was a yellow glow space filled with men and women, all seemingly very happy, in gowns and dresses swirling dances to soft live orchestra music. There was no other sound.

Ike’s eyes caught in the corner a young man with a wavy hair, sharp black tux, blue pocket napkin and an unforgettable smile; two ladies on his arm, one in a satin red gown, the other leaning her head against his shoulder looking very content. The trio faced Ike with an ageless recognition.

“Blackie?” Ike stuttered.

A time passed as the pair took in the wonders before them, then the silence was broken.

The figure who had approached them spoke.

“ My name is Maynard. Come join us.”

The Dogs of Summer

Last night I kept hearing dogs.

Not barking, but the word “dog” stood out in the lyrics.

In the crowd of hot bodies clapping to guys living out their childhood fantasy, I visualize dogs.

Dogs running down the grassy knolls chasing butterflies on a summer breeze.

The freedom we all enjoy watching and wish for.

I’ve got to do something with this word - dog.

Thursday, January 14, 2010



Well, I m going' be a chicken farmer down in Haiti
Yes, I m going' be a chicken farmer down in Haiti
I'm going' have a chicken farm
Ain’t gonna cause no harm
I'm going' be a chicken farmer down in Haiti

I feed all the people real good down in Haiti
Yes, I feed all the people real good down in Haiti
In 'da city Port-au-Prince
Chicken-in-a-box for 40¢
I feed all 'da people real. good down in Haiti

I could raise a crop of weed down in Jamaica
Sell my crop, make big money, and forsake ya'
But, I'm going' start a chicken farm
Ain't gonna cause no harm
5 million people eat my chicken down in Haiti

Well de' hurricane blow me away down in Haiti
de' hurricane blow me away down in Haiti
Well de' hurricane done blow me away
But, I come back someday
I'm going' be a chicken farmer down in Haiti

I come back to the U,S,A, in da' winter'
I come back to the U.S,A, in da' winter'
But you know I have my pride
Come, stand by my side
We going' be chicken farmers down in Haiti

for those of us who where there know, and others can only wonder.

22- Ike and Ginger “The Hurricane”


Another morning sunrises to set sail for these weary travelers. Silent now knowing their mission, they look at the horizon with blank stares. Passing cups of warm liquids, pieces of baked goods, then switching to bottles of wine stored in the hole, the couple prepare for the unknown.

Keeping close to the coastline, they recognize certain sites as they pass. Down the Pamilico Sound, then around Cape Lookout to the Onslow Bay. Ike pointed out Atlantic Beach off of Morehead City where he had gone to summer camp. Passing Cape Fear into the Grand Strand, Ginger talked about her weekends in Myrtle Beach with the surfer boys. The Carolinas grew together then shifted to Georgia and more tales about Charleston and Hilton Head.

“Should we pull in?” Ike asked as they approached Savannah.

“No, “ Ginger replied facing the future, “ let’s push on. We have enough to get there.”

“There?” Ike pondered.

The coast began to jut out into the waves, adjusting the wind and bow route. Also the waves were getting rougher and the sky was darkening. Passed Jacksonville, the little vessel started to bob in the waves. By the time they had reached Cape Canaveral the sea was tossing the little “Dusty Rose” about straining all the lines and the strength of the tiny crew.

The supply stocks had been forgotten as the two rushed back and forth to tackle each emergency.

Ike looked forward at a wall of black clouds reaching from the heavens to the water and as far as the eye could see. “This is not good.”

Sails were lowered and the hatches battened, but the little wooden boat that had traveled so far was out of control in the waves and wind. The two hung on to each other and taunt lines as they rocked and slid through the blackness pummeled with driving rain.

Ike coughed water from his lungs as his hand reached deep in the wet sand. The rain pounded on his back like a whip, but he raised his head and wiped his eyes to view an empty beach awash with massive waves. Bracing himself up he frantically swiveled his head for some sign of Ginger.

Dragging his soaked body to a shadow, he turned over a body to see her limp and lifeless. Immediately he pressed his face against her lips.

“Hey! Bud!!” she turned her head stammering, “What are you (cough) some kind of (cough) pervert (cough, cough)?”

Surprised, then grinning from ear to ear, Ike sat up and hugged her.

“OK big boy”, Ginger replied, breaking the rapture of the moment, and then with a clinical refrain, “Where (cough) are we?”

“Over there” Ike pointed to a tall building. “ It will shelter us against this wind.”

The two staggered to their feet and started plodding toward the grey refuge, and then froze.

There on the sand, lay the remains of the “Dusty Rose”. Like a beached whale, it lay on its side with holes in the bow and stern. She had been such a faithful companion but could not withstand the final challenge.

Turning away from their transport, the two focused on surviving.

After breaking a window, a quiet spot was found in a hallway behind two doors. Swaying, the building gave shelter, but the two wondered how sturdy their new home was.

Fumbling in the dark, Ike found a flashlight, but the batteries were dead. Ginger reached into dark hole and found some. By feel they refilled the flashlight and a weak beam lit the room.

Overturned chairs, scattered magazines, and no sign of life were all that presented itself to the couple.
“Let’s see if we can find the kitchen.” Ike began wandering into the darkness.

“I’m tired and wet and cold…” Ginger began to wine.

“Me too. Look there it is!”

The pair walked past tables with white linen table clothes and silver services laid out for guest. Into swinging doors, a pristine chrome kitchen presented itself, but offered no relief for their hunger. The refrigerators were locked and the cupboards bear.

“Ike,” Ginger moaned, “I’m tired.”

“OK, lets find a place to crash.”

Just then the sound of a window crumbling against the wind filled the air.

They walked softly over the broken glass and up some stairs until they found a door to a vacant room.

“I’m exhausted!” Ginger flopped on the bedspread and grasped the pillow like a teddy bear.

“Me too.” Ike responded to the already asleep beauty, peeling off his wet cloths. He covered the spread over her, then cuddled up next to her given her warmth and him comfort.

“Tomorrow will be another day.” He faded out.

Tuesday, January 12, 2010


There must be an organizational layout of the U.S. Intelligence community
with over 100,000 associates
spending $49.8 BILLON dollars.

1. Central Intelligence Agency that is responsible for providing national security intelligence to senior U.S. policymakers.

2. Defense Intelligence Agency manages foreign military intelligence to support military planning, operations, and acquiring weapon systems.

3. Department of Energy provides technical analysis on nuclear weapons and worldwide energy issues.

4. Department of Homeland Security analysis multiple sources to identify threats to the United States.

5. Department of State analysis of global developments and other issues.

6. Department of Treasure manages information related to money.

7. Drug Enforcement Administration manages information obtained by drug enforcement.

8. Federal Bureau of Investigation defends the U.S. against terrorist while upholding the criminal laws of the U.S.

9. National Geospatial-Intelligence Agency collects and creates information about navigation, national security, military operations, and humanitarian-aid efforts.

10. National Reconnaissance Office designs, builds and operates the nation’s reconnaissance satellites.

11. National Security Agency / Central Security Service protects information systems and produces foreign intelligence.

12. Marine Corps maintains reconnaissance and surveillance, military/naval intelligence, human-source intelligence, counterintelligence, imagery intelligence, signals intelligence, and tactical exploitation of national capabilities.

13. Army responsible for policy formulation and oversight for intelligence for the Department of the Army.

14. Coast Guard guards U.S. economic and security interest in maritime region.

15. Air Force provides aerial reconnaissance and surveillance developing intelligence gathered from space platforms.

16. Navy supports missions including U.S. military acquisition and development, counter terrorism, counter proliferation, counter narcotics, and customs enforcement.

There seems to be some overlap, but only these 16 departments with all of their resources are gathering and sharing information keeping our nation safe from a bunch of bad bullies.

Don’t pull the covers over your head.

Monday, January 11, 2010

Outer Sync


The cold and the sun have battled for spring flowers.
The water is cold and the nights are dark and quiet.
And the city gave me a “Notice of Violation” for the “container is too heavy”?
If I can drag it out this far, you can take the rest.
OK, I’ve been a little harsh on the guys who every Monday morning come by and relieve myself of piles of memories.
I’ll be better. This stuff is heavy.
I have not been riding the regular morning route due to the COLD and it has thrown my whole rhythm off.
Getting up every morning at the crack of dawn?
It’s cold outside…and inside!!
Coffee, morning weather, coffee, fruit, newspaper, and then it are noon news.
There is light upstairs, but it is not moving fast.

I had to threaten myself to move glass boxes.
But the cold makes the climb slower.
Sunshine is a different matter.

It flows through the southern windows covered in plastic still bringing the warmth.
The cold blinds the brain when there are the two-wheel ventures onto frozen water.
So the dream is for warm water and sunshine lives on.