The gentle changes of the season, the apple tree, the garden and the sky.
The flamingos emerge beneath the bird feeder.
And so many flowers still here.
Crossing the river.
But not on the west side; we are getting a new bridge.Own the means of production.
Get him out. Repair the damage. Restore our democracy. Do more than just vote.
To “go viking” is to strike out on an epic adventure, unsure of what you’ll find.
On the press this week a little card with an important message to all the travelers on board.
and on the alleyway bulletin board at toMake™
“So what do we do with this? The sanest response that I can find is that our work remains to make beauty blossom anew out of desecration. We don’t get to choose either the context or the impact of that work. Healing needs to happen, and we all have our own part to play in that. If you are lucky enough not to need to urgently engage in this on your own account, then you have the opportunity to focus on the externalized manifestations of our culture’s sickness. But if the healing you are responsible for right now is only your own, that is still part of the work. So this is how I have attempted to square this utterly devastating curve ball of my body’s sickness and everything that came before it, and perhaps this is also a way to approach the great converging crises of our times: to keep moving in the direction we know to be truthful and just and holy as best we can, to keep deepening into veneration and reverence and wonder, and to work to peel away the compacted, muddled layers of hubris and trauma and distraction and wrong-thinking that seek always to blinker and misguide us. Our time here is short and precious and beautiful, despite everything. I don’t want to say anything about hope or about optimism; I’m not sure how relevant they are here. I will say this: Take courage – don’t lose heart.”
from Sick an essay by Cate Chapman on Dark Mountain
Felipe Jesus Consalvos The American System
Do Something About It
Meanwhile in the garden . . . . awaiting frost.
A good day for a walk-about. Clark Fork River westward downstream from Higgins Street bridge.
Vote ‘Em Out !
[Top 20 Banned Books in the US Public Libraries the Last Decade]
The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian by Sherman Alexie
Captain Underpants (series) by Dav Pilkey
Thirteen Reasons Why by Jay Asher
Looking for Alaska by John Green
George by Alex Gino
And Tango Makes Three by Justin Richardson and Peter Parnell
Drama by Raina Telgemeier
Fifty Shades of Grey by EL James
Internet Girls (series) by Lauren Myracle
The Bluest Eye by Toni Morrison
The Kite Runner by Khaled Hosseini
Hunger Games by Suzanne Collins
I Am Jazz by Jazz Jennings and Jessica Herthel
The Perks of Being a Wallflower by Stephen Chbosky
To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee
Bone (series) by Jeff Smith
The Glass Castle by Jeannette Walls
Two Boys Kissing by David Levithan
A Day in the Life of Marlon Bundo by Jill Twiss
Sex Is a Funny Word by Cory Silverberg
A month away and a childhood of memories and stuff behind me I drove back home this week.
I had a good visit with brother Bruce and in spending time with the estate we shared our memories, loss, struggles to become, and that challenging rise into our own self that is not that our our parents. A struggle that goes on and on.
Bruce and my Dad were great with picnics. We had a nice one at Lake of the Isles then walked around the lake.
During WWII my Dad was stationed in the Philippines and in charge of a Japanese POW camp. In this capacity he befriended a prisoner of his same rank, playing cribbage together and who sketched these for him.
We returned their rings to the earth with their ashes.
My Mother liked her pearls. This one from the 1950’s when we lived in the Philippines … I think I’ll wear it on my pinky as it fits nicely.
I loaded up the truck and pulled a trailer back to Montana.
The islands move upstream in the Yellowstone. Every time passing by this place along the free-flowing Yellowstone River we stop’d to watch, to see, to experience the corridors of movement; water, air, birds, clouds, wind, railroads, cars and trucks, information, DNA, animals, seeds, dust …. all in constant interwoven movement and change.
… and back home to the great tomato crop of 2020.
Today would have been my Dad’s 99th birthday celebration. Instead his obituary appeared in the Sunday paper. We visited Lakewood where his and his wife’s ashes are. This letting go of the stories and the place that formed my early years (1950-1970) has been a gift; a doorway opens into a new freedom and adventure. Lines by the Mexican poet Octovio Paz.
Close your eyes and open them
There is nobody not even yourself
Whatever is not stone is light
Obituary for Robert “Bob” Holloway
Brother Bruce beside the local library where I spent many summer days. A delightful walk I made many times with my late sister.
At Lakewood Cemetery today.
My Dad planned ahead ….
September :: the month the world began.
Colville River, Chewelah Washington, above the Columbia River.Jones Beach on the lower Kettle River, Washington, before it reaches the Columbia River.Lake Merritt estuary, Oakland, California.
Tomales Point, Point Reyes Seashore, the Pacific Ocean.
River Bend on the Clark Fork of the Columbia
Do I live my life or that of my fathers, or mothers, or society ? Finding my voice, that is the work before me.
Extended exposure 120 format pinhole images beside Lake Pend Oreille
“It is good to have an end to journey toward; but it is the journey that matters, in the end.”
― Ursula K. Le Guin, The Left Hand of Darkness
Travel images of a Holloway along his most favorite of hollow-ways. My first journeys without end or beginning happened here, explorations without time, along the abandoned tracks of an old trolley, starting in the late-1950s.