DAYDREAM ~

Right now is as good time as any to set sail with the great composer, arranger and pianist Billy Strayhorn, now already gone from us almost a half century and having left behind a legacy of standards like Take the A Train and Lush Life...just to mention two giants...here's Daydream.

photo: jazztimes.com
billy strayhorn (1915-1965)

EARTH ~

Fire at the Oil Refinery in Ichinara City, Chiba prefecture, Japan. Caused by the Earthquake in March 2011

read more

JAPAN ~

http://www.nytimes.com/2011/03/16/world/asia/16contain.html?ref=global-home













VERMONT ~


http://www.democracynow.org/2011/3/15/vermont_gov_fights_to_close_vermont














photo : usatoday / Fire at the Oil Refinery in Ichinara City, Chiba prefecture, Japan. Caused by the Earthquake in March 2011
photo: smh.com.au

EARTH BUILDERS ~

Clarence Schmidt, Woodstock, NY.
the legendary House of Mirrors, vastly spread by hundreds of window frames and tinsel-covered trees, was wickedly destroyed by arsons in 1968






Niki de Saint Phalle, Tuscany hills, Italy
colossal architectural sculptures inspired by Dubuffet, Gaudi, a wild mind, and the 22 Major Arcana of the Tarot; the Tarot Garden in Tuscany was started in 1979






Rolling Mountain Thunder, Imlay, Nevada
sacred site and memorial to Native Americans — the large 'handle' rising above the frame of the house is there so the Great Spirit can carry it away







Chomo (Roger Chomeaux), France
retiring to a reclusive life in the sixties, on a plot of land howling and happy with thousands of sculptures and assemblages, buildings filled with paintings, everything reclaimed







Danielle Jacqui, Pont-de-l'Etoile, France
mirror & ceramic fragments, tiles, paintings all attached to a village house near Marseille







Robert Vasseur, Louviers, France
former milkman had a deal with the local dump to set aside broken crockery for him, and with the help of his wife, they set to work, inside & out, doghouse included







Vollis Simpson, whirlijigs, Lucama, N.C.
handyman deluxe Vollis Simpson started on his first of 30 whirlijig sculptures in 1986







Simon Rodia's working hands







Simon Rodia, Watts Towers, Los Angeles, CA.
started in 1921, 33 years in construction, no plans drawn, no bolts or welds used, and when done, Rodia ceded the towers to a neighbor and walked away







Karl Junker, Lemgo, Germany
cabinet-maker and woodcarver has hand-made this many storied home piece furniture — the interior is as marvelous as the exterior






Richard Greaves, Beauce, Canada
out in the countryside, constructed around a central woodstove, Richard Greaves and associates create their assemblage sculptures, homes






Tyree Guyton, Detroit, MI.
since 1986 Tyree Guyton has been decorating abandoned buildings with you name it







Antoni Gaudi, Spain
maybe the best way to see the great Gaudi's imagination is as a bird

thank you to all photographers far & wide

EARTH ~

WALK TO THE BARN


All of life, even the mountains
Around him are changing.

Yet he walks twice each day
To the barn up the wide gravel drive,

No more cattle inside.
His slow and steady pace

Pays respect to the surrounding pasture,
The ring of woodland and evening birds.

What once made him prosperous
Is now gone, except for what he loves —
His wife, old dog, farm buildings and land.
He leans open the heavy sliding barn door,

Steps out of view.

HUNTER

Late in the afternoon
This farmer drove his tractor
Across the river, broke open the thin ice,
Put out salt in the bare ground mowing
And if you looked, you could find his
Red jacket working behind the trees.

That night edges of the river froze again.
Big bright stars burned cold over the hills.
I was carrying in cookstove wood
For the next morning
When the gunshot shook down valley,
Then back up.

Two days later a farm dog
Held the deer’s head
Where he lay down
Chained to the barn.

SENIOR CITIZEN


Probably 1,000 carpenters
Live in the southern part
Of this state, a lot of them
Hip and young with a brand new
Leather apron, heavy duty
Trucks, wives or companions
That are weavers or potters
Or dancers, and of course they
All have a story to tell.
Though yesterday I was in
An old woman’s house high off
From the back road, and she
Lived alone and missed all
Her grandchildren and braided
Rugs in the back of the house
With hand needle and years
And years of wool, and the
Story she had to tell was
Already written in her choice
Of words, the rope of her hands,
And the scar above her left eye
Made thirty-five years ago
By the shuttle of a textile loom.

BACK ROAD CALLER


I came to have my chain saw fixed
And he did that, but
A half hour job
Stretched to three hours
Because he had to show me
All his new tools,
Plus his 75lb. bow
And the antlers from the buck
He shot last fall —
“Arrow went clean through”
Never mind the drawer
Of chewing tobacco
He offered me, and then
To his father, and we both
Politely declined a dip,
And as if that wasn’t enough —
He pulled out the flat
Enveloped reeds he used
For turkey hunting —
Tucked one up on the roof
Of his mouth and cupping
His hands chucked out a
Perfect few syllables
Which would have turned any
Bird’s head, and depending
On how he rolled his body
With a call he could make
It sound horny, but he
Only saved that one for
The summertime, when the
Weekend neighbor’s daughter
Came to visit all alone.




MARSH HAWK


Only 10 yards
Away, and I
Didn’t see her

Fly there, and
I won’t see
Her fly off —

Feathers matching
Down into the
Gray rain
Cedar post

Eyes looking
Straight ahead
Staring me down




GHOSTS


March comes and water moves,
The river, ponds, brooks open.
On snowshoes this is the last week
You’ll hike down these banks of
Rotten snow, the last week bridges
Of ice will be there to criss-cross
Down stream, the last week a
Deer carcass will be pinned between
Rocks and white water spray through
The white of her skull — the runoff
Will let her go, or break her to pieces —
You’re aware of this where you step.
Pools of water swirl five feet deep,
Maybe her bones will lay down in the
Sand and white pebbles here, it is
The last week to think of any of this.
Beneath your feet of oblong ashwood
And softened leather you sense the newness
Of life — hide has slipped all winter off
The body, it is time to go places.

NO TOOL OR ROPE OR PAIL


It hardly mattered what time of year
We passed by their farmhouse,
They never waved,
This old farm couple
Usually bent over in the vegetable garden
Or walking the muddy dooryard
Between house and red-weathered barn.
They would look up, see who was passing,
Then look back down, ignorant to the event.
We would always wave nonetheless,
Before you dropped me off at work
Further up on the hill,
Toolbox rattling in the backseat,
And then again on the way home
Later in the day, the pale sunlight
High up in their pasture,
Our arms out the window
Cooling ourselves.
And it was that one midsummer evening
We drove past and caught them sitting
Together on the front porch
At ease, chores done,
The tangle of cats and kittens
Cleaning themselves of fresh spilled milk
On the barn door ramp;
We drove by and they looked up —
The first time I’ve ever seen their
Hands free of any work,
No tool or rope or pail —
And they waved.






© Bob Arnold
from Where Rivers Meet
(Mad River Press)



photos © bob arnold

EARTH ~ BUILDER

Said & Done

EARTH ~

Cue in ~ it's important

EARTH ~ JAPAN

We have many friends in Japan ~ so do you ~

our prayers to everyone








The wind vociferous

buds

on a single camellia tree



IPPEKIRO

EARTH ~

Long long ago I snapped this photograph in northern Maine, along the coast.

I knew then and there it was a poem by Mark Mendel.

Side of a gas station, plow frame and lights still on the truck.

Ezra Pound would have been happy to be there.






photo © bob arnold

EARTH ~

FRIEND


This sparrow must

Love the sun —

All day it has perched

On the stone well

Beside the empty

Trough of seed




All day its feathers

Lifted in the breeze

Its head turning

The oddest angles




If I could have him

He would fit in

The palm of my hand







© Bob Arnold
from Where Rivers Meet
(Mad River Press)



photo © bob arnold

WINTER LIGHT ~

photo © bob arnold

GOREY ~

This little wonder has just the right amount of Theroux and just the right amount of Gorey, and the Gorey of the Gorey also passes through all the Theroux ~ it usually isn't him unless it is first Gorey, so a fine blend of characterization. No surprise in the hands of Alexander Theroux, author as well of the satirical gem Three Wogs.

Plus classic photographs, mainly all located on Cape Cod where both authors bunked in nearby towns. To get from here to there on the Cape, off-season, is a stone's throw.

The publisher knows the subject and treats the design of the book impeccably, starting with the appropriate front cover. Have another look.

The price is under $20, which means its cost is 15 minutes these days with any mechanic, and I believe the book will last forever, unlike the time with the mechanic. And I like most mechanics.

Cormac McCarthy gives the only jacket blurb.

There's a friendship and confidence within, quite at ease. My favorite passage in the book is this one, authored by Theroux, ruminating perhaps about the ways of life and passage:

"I have noticed all my life that those the press, the people, the planet ignores tend to be its most profound inhabitants, and that, sadly, those taken up, pampered, and praised are mainly hustlers, churls, opportunists."

Sweet Dreams.



MORE ~

EDWARD GOREY WAS KNOWN TO WATCH A THOUSAND MOVIES IN ANY GIVEN YEAR ~ HE ONCE WROTE FILM REVIEWS FOR
SOHO WEEKLY W/ ONE OF HIS BETTER PSEUDONYM'S
"WARDORE EDGY".

WHEN NOT ROCHELLE HUDSON, ONE OF HIS FAVORITE ACTRESSES WAS TUESDAY WELD. (MINE TOO).

SOME OF THE FILMS GOREY FAVORED ~ THE LADY VANISHES; BARRABAS; THE ADVENTURES OF PRISCILLA, QUEEN OF THE DESERT; AND OF COURSE, THE BAT WHISPERS.

HE ABHORRED ALL AL PACINO FILMS.



ANOTHER ~

and a bonus. . .
another favorite Gorey film

EARTH ~

photo © bob arnold

FILM ~


One more remarkable film which you may have missed ~

The Yellow Handkerchief

Directed by	Udayan Prasad
Produced by	Arthur Cohn
Written by	Erin Dignam
Starring	William Hurt Maria Bello Kristen Stewart Eddie Redmayne
Music by	Eef Barzelay Jack Livesey
Editing by	Christopher Tellefsen
Studio	Samuel Goldwyn Films
Release date(s)	January 18, 2008 (2008-01-18) (Sundance) February 26, 2010 (2010-02-26) (United States)
Running time	102 minutes
Country	United States
Language	English
Budget	$15.5 million
Gross revenue	$163,039

info : wikipedia

EARTH ~

SUGARING TIME




ONE SHOT
=============for Russell Denison


The one shot
I don’t think
He wanted to shoot
Put this deer down,
Found on the river ice
After the dogs
Had been chased off.

He left the body alive
Longer than I would
For someone to call
The game warden, or
Hoping 3 or 4 in the pack
Would circle back,
Put a slug in each one’s head.

But nothing returned —
This deer waits
Head flat
Muscles clawed from her legs,
She won’t ever rise again.
Bloody dog tracks
Pinwheeled from the body.

It is late winter
An open sunny day for a change,
The air is starting to melt
With new bird songs —
Her eyes are wide
She can’t move
Watches us as we move.




SUGARING TIME


All at once

Off in the distance

Where an old hut

Sinks into the ground

Two small windows lit

And steam bellows

Up into the farmland sky —

You thought it was a fire

Until you tasted the air




JACK BELDEN


Uncle Jack is what the young kids
Around here call him, even though he
Isn’t really their uncle but rather
Their own parents’ uncle and usually
They just called him Jack. His name
Doesn’t come up too much when I’m
Working with my neighbors.
There are three houses of the same family
Up the dirt road running alongside
French Brook. The brook eventually
Climbs higher into the next town of
Cheshire and Jack drinks from this brook.
The dirt road winds around Church Mountain
And swings back into the village
Passing through the covered bridge
And over the waterfall,
Forks then into two roads like a wishbone
That provides travel for a dozen families.
They hardly ever come down our road
Which follows the river, and I don’t
Think anyone knows Jack Belden up there.

The three houses on Jack’s back road
Are the homes for two of his nephews
And his sister; Jack’s small trailer
Is hidden in a hollow from them all.
He never married, doesn’t own a car,
Hikes to Brattleboro 12 miles away or
Picks up a ride with the rural mailtruck.
One day walking home from work
I was 500 feet behind Jack who had just
Left the mailtruck in the covered bridge
And was stalking down the muddy river road.
Middle of the season. A warm day.
The buckets on the roadside maples
Brimming with sap.
A mile down the road
And still a distance between us
I watched him abruptly stop,
Look both ways (but not behind him),
Let down his burlap sack of groceries
From his shoulder, then walk to
One of the trees and remove a bucket,
Drink for a good half-minute
Wipe his mouth with his sleeve
Hang the bucket back
Then continue the remaining mile to home.
I thought all about that yesterday —
It was eight years ago. He was 75 years old.

Today I’m tapping the same trees
On the farmer’s land Jack drank from.
The mud is deep and the day is warm,
Not much has changed.
But I heard and couldn’t believe
That Jack has been in the hospital
Since January, the month we broke
All records for freezing temperatures.
I recall one night sitting with neighbors
Already reminiscing about
The headaches of busted water pipes
Depleting cordwood and icy roads,
But no talk about Jack —
The whiskered old man who walks.
Everett, his nephew, told me
As we filled our aprons with tap spouts
That Jack’s gas ran out in the trailer
During one of those real cold nights.
30 below. His feet froze.
They amputated the gangrene from all his toes.
Shut out all the lights to any more walking.

I wonder what this all means —
We worry about water pipes bursting,
But a quarter-mile away
Jack loses his toes.
It wasn’t brought up at town meeting this year.
Jack’s photograph doesn’t grace
The inside town report bulletin
As one of the patriarchs of Guilford.
Yet, he knows his territory —
Takes a leak outside his trailer door
Like any liberated yankee.
Quietly living so that you
Don’t know that he lives.
Showed me once how to
Crush an early shad bud
Between my fingers
For the first scent of spring.

QUILLS


He didn’t move —

With pliers I

Pulled 16 of them

From mouth, lips,

Nose and head —

Like last year

It is early spring





HEMLOCK


When the big hemlock
Washed down river
During one of the early
Spring runoffs, I went
Down with bowsaw and
Sawed off one large
Limb for the cabin
Steps handrail, and then
Went back and brought
Home a dozen smaller branches
Thinking they could be
Used for something —
Although they have only
Stood up behind the woodshed,
Bleaching in the sun,
Warping away from
Straighter timber
They once knew.





BLOSSOMS


Beneath rain clouds

She wheelbarrows

Loose black soil

Of daylilies

From the brook

To plant around

A ledge of stone

And in a month

She will smell like

The yellow blossoms

PRIZE


Away from the road,
Off into the high edge
Of a field, unless I
Looked carefully you
Would never have been seen
Picking wildflowers
Growing in folds of sunlight
Among the tall grass.

Each snipped by hand
At the same height, then
Gathered inside a pail
Of shallow water.

The world seems weightless
Watching you work,
If this is work —
You call it a prize
Saved for the last
Hour of the afternoon,
Taking away what this
Plot of land has to give —
Flowers for the kitchen table,
Brightened windowsills.




DAY AND NIGHT


How often have we
Stepped together into water —
You left your clothes on the rocks
And shivered your way to me,
Said it was freezing as I thought
Of the mountain stream filling this
Clear basin of evening light, and how
Swallows showed us the angles of the sky
Far above barbed wire and pasture heat
Which we came down from after work
Smelling lilac in the breeze —
And it was the long blonde hair you shook
Out of a blue bandanna and later braided
That had me remember the day and night.








© Bob Arnold
from Where Rivers Meet
(Mad River Press)


photos © bob arnold

WITH ME ~

It doesn't get much better than this — James Brown ratcheting it up through a Little Willie John tune, complete with lazy horns which sometimes pop like flashbulbs or downtown traffic horns, the maestro's voice deep in the groove. The ultimate song to discover as you start to settle into a music store's bins and this beauty comes on. It could change your life's direction. As Emily Dickinson was said to have said when she heard this song in a leafy Amherst, Massachusetts used music store: "It took off the top of my head."

I first heard this song years ago on a King LP I covet (own) titled Thinking About Little Willie John and A Few Nice Things — to die-for covers by JB.

The hardest working man in show business was born in South Carolina in 1933. An African American with Apache descent and Asian ancestry. Brown had a rough childhood: very poor, his mother hightailed it off with another man by the time he was ten, that left him with his father who taught him how to play harmonica and an aunt running a house of prostitution. In that house came Tampa Red who gave JB his first guitar lessons. Otherwise, he was hustling friends, survival on the streets, and answering life's messages — locked-up at age sixteen for armed robbery being one. While in lock-up he met another servant of gospel and rhythm & blues: Bobby Byrd, and really the rest is music history. Both men would pass away at age 73.

James Brown & Bobby Byrd in the groove

photo JB : emiliogrossi.com

EARTH ~

ANCESTOR OF THE HUNTING HEART



There is a distance in the heart
and I know it well—
a somberness of winter branches,
dry stubble scarred with frost,
late of the sunburnt field.

Neither field, nor furrow,
nor woodlot patched with fences,
but something wilder: a distance
never cropped or plowed,
only by fire and the blade of the wind.

The distance is closer than
the broomswept hearth—
that time of year when leaves
cling to the bootsole,
are tracked indoors,
lie yellow on the kitchen floor.

Snow is a part of the distance,
cold ponds, and ice
that rings the cattle-trough.

Trees that are black at morning
are in the evening gray.
The distance lies between them,
a seed-strewn whiteness
through which the hunter comes.

Before him in the ashen snow-litter
of the village street
an old man makes his way,
bowed with sack and stick.

A child is pulling a sled.

The rest are camped indoors,
their damped fires smoking
in the early dusk.

JOHN HAINES

(1924 – March 2, 2011)





Photo © Dorothy Alexander