*

*
homage to wood, landacre and t.s.eliot

Monday, July 25, 2016

Kittens


Leslie brought home a pair of beautiful young kittens the other day. A brother and sister, with strong wild cat markings. Very nice cats, they made themselves right at home on my couch. We haven't been outside yet but soon. Doesn't feel quite complete without a cat in our home so thinks are now moving back to the natural order.

Dos gardenias para ti

Desert Solitaire

Musselman Arch, Canyonlands © Robert Sommers 2016
"I fixed myself another drink, returned to the table in the backyard and sat down to await the rising of the moon.

My  thoughts were on the road and the crowds that would pour upon it as inevitably as water under pressure follows every channel which is opened to it.

Man is a gregarious animal, we are told, a social being. Does that mean that he is also a herd animal? I don't believe it, despite the character of modern life. The herd is for ungulates, not for men and women and their children. 

Are men no better than sheep or cattle, that they must live always in view of one another in order to feel a sense of safety? I can't believe it.

We are preoccupied with time. If we could learn to love space as deeply as we are now obsessed with time, we might discover a new meaning in the phrase to live like men.

At what distance should good neighbors build their houses? Let it be determined by the communities mode of travel: if by foot, four miles; if by horseback, eight miles; if by motorcar, twenty-four miles; if by airplane, ninety six miles.


Recall the Proverb: "Set not thy foot too often in thy neighbor's house, lest he grow weary of thee and hate thee.""


Desert Solitaire, a season in the wilderness pg. 58
Edward Abbey

Saturday, July 23, 2016

Foggy Notion

One way ticket, man

Road from the shore, 1936 - Benton Spruance

I was having coffee with the fellas when I saw the blinking colored lights in front of my shop this morning. One, two, three, four, five cop cars showed up, all parked akimbo on the street like random pickup sticks. Interested in the commotion, I walked over and asked a cop what was up?, after a quick glance confirming the still inviolate state of our shops.

The sheriff said that a guy was trying to break into a car. Said the voices told him to. Neighbor watched it going down and called 911. The distinct impression I got was meth.

I told the other shopkeepers the story when they came to work and it turns out it is not the first time for this guy. Someone caught him in a friend's car. The story was the same; he was directed to, by some outside presence, an entity whose identity is not really clearly defined.

This kind of story gives me the willies. Call me old fashioned but I would rather we had a guy steal because he was hungry than from a guy with a cauterized neural network that is receiving cryptic messages from mission control. Because how will we know when our Manchurian candidate finally gets the long awaited kill command?

Meth and opiate users are a sad, forsaken bunch, Marooned on a very cold and inhospitable planet, in a dark tunnel of pure self interest, not sure if any of them ever truly make it back.

*
In other news I hear that strange black helicopters are flying over Santa Margarita.

Burned

Leslie wanted to know if I wanted to go see Phish tonight in Chula Vista. I said sure and then asked about the price of tickets. Ninety five bucks a ticket she tells me. I quickly did a cost benefit analysis calculation and in the end decided not to.

Good band but I'm not sure I would have two hundred bucks worth of fun. Couldn't handle the guilt if I didn't.

I saw my first rock concert in Texas in 1966, believe it was the 13th Floor Elevators. Canned Heat in New York soon to follow. Probably cost two bucks a ticket. Went to plenty of great shows in the 1970's for well under ten bucks, including my all time favorite, Jethro Tull's Thick as a brick.

You could see the freaking Doors for two bucks.

So I am going to spend two hundred bucks a seat to sit on uncomfortable chairs at Humphrey's and listen to Steely Dan?

I think not. Great band but no way.

I believe that the price of a ticket for one of my all time fave shows, Rolling Stones - Mick's Birthday, MSG, 1972 was $5.50. Stevie Wonder sat in admirably on drums.

*
Not sure what drove ticket prices up so high but things are really out of hand. I did pay four hundred smackers to see Bowie once but it was at a period in my life when I had more money than sense.

I think that the culprit is the continuing digitalization of the world. Musicians can no longer sell records because it is easier for people to steal music so artists are forced to charge exorbitant prices for concerts.

*
Same process if of course affecting my business, the art business. If I had a dime for every time someone has told me that they won't buy original art, since it is so easy to score a perfect reproduction and who would know the difference?

Got burned recently myself at an estate sale in La Jolla run by a lady named MacDonald. Bought a perfect Munakata fake. Signature looked great under a loop. I wasn't the only one. Steve bought several, was nailed for a lot of money and I think Don got burned too.

MacDonald wouldn't make it right, said we all should have known. Stopped returning phone calls. I think she had a duty to tell us she was selling fakes. I won't make that mistake again.

Yucca farm, Gavilan Mountain


Friday, July 22, 2016

Grateful Dead - Workingman's Blues 12-1-73



The Dead only played this Merle Haggard song publicly one time, at the Boston Music Hall. I was there, believe it was a three day run, with Paul Shore, Hank Meer, and Richie Patrick, but alas, never got to hear it. They played the tasty jam during the afternoon sound check and never again.

Frisbee action at the shows was fierce in 73. I dropped a disk off my fingertips from the upper balcony at this one, to a collective groan from the audience. My first big failure on the grand stage...

Michael


Mail Call

*


Heading West


Last night I thought I would take my new neutral density filter to the Oceanside Pier to get some sunset shots. Things didn't quite work out, there was no parking anywhere on account of a street fair on Tremont. Since I was on the coast, I called a buddy Gary, one of my greatest allies and friends, and offered to buy him a steak dinner. He was ready to get a taco somewhere else but readily assented and drove over to meet me.

Gary and I have made each other some good money over the years. Very hard to function in my business without relying on people that you can trust. I can trust him.

So we headed over to West Steakhouse in Carlsbad, not the Bistro, the fancy one. The place is pricey, but top notch. Staff is excellent, food is excellent, wouldn't want to spend a lot of time picking the meal apart.

We both ordered absolute greyhounds, his of the salted dog variety. I ordered a cowboy bone in rib chop medium rare with two sauces, bernaise and a peppercorn reduction I think. You pay extra for the sauces at West. Perfectly cooked brussel sprouts and truffle potatoes.

Gary asked them if they had any of that fine Kobe Wagyu beef that he remembered from a previous visit? The kind that gets regular massages and spa treatments before it makes the ultimate sacrifice? The server said that they in fact did but that the culinary extravagance was not listed on the regular menu.

It was at that point that I interjected. "You know I told my friend that I was buying and that he could order anything he wanted so mind you this question is purely academic, but just how much is that overcoddled cut of beef?"

"Ninety five dollars."

If I winced I think it was only a passing moment of pain. I don't think I did. I didn't have a second thought in any case, as I said Gary has been very good to me. Now my own steak was certainly not cheap but I have never paid close to a c note for a steak, even at the foofy places in Vegas.

He loved it. Turns out that the cow in question was not only regularly massaged, the massages usually had a happy ending and it was then finally dispatched while at the height of full coital rapture. The richly marbled steak was literally coursing with happy dopamines.

My friend was happy, I was happy, the cow was apparently happy, a very happy meal.

Thursday, July 21, 2016

down the mountain

The "Oh Shit" factor

A robot may not injure a human being or, through inaction, allow a human being to come to harm. A robot must obey orders given it by human beings except where such orders would conflict with the First Law. A robot must protect its own existence as long as such protection does not conflict with the First or Second Law.
Asimov's three laws of robotics

This morning I was ruminating about the guy who was killed watching the Harry Potter movie in his Tesla while operating the car in full autonomous mode.

I myself don't even like cruise control, I like to be in full control and maintain as much awareness as I can at all times in my vehicle. Full auto pilot would certainly be a leap of faith for me.

I used to think that the toughest thing to teach a robot or artificial intelligence would be humor, an essentially human element which is said to spring from pain on some level.

Not sure how many jokesters there are in the animal kingdom, probably even less among the machine set.

And while that may be so, I think it would be equally difficult to plug in the human emotion of fear.

According to Tesla’s account of the crash, the car’s sensor system, against a bright spring sky, failed to distinguish a large white 18-wheel truck and trailer crossing the highway.

Tesla said the self-driving car attempted to drive full speed under the trailer “with the bottom of the trailer impacting the windshield of the Model S." Probably didn't slow down a smidge.

I am sure that the self driving vehicle went merrily to its doom, the self preservation gene not yet wired into its resistor or component package. Tremendous motivator, fear.

My favorite writer, the late Roger Zelazny, saw this phenomenon coming years ago. He wrote two short stories that I can think of off the top of my head that dealt with the issue, Last of the Wild Ones and My lady of the diodes. You can find them both in the compendium Unicorn Variations.

In the first Zelazny deals with a renegade car, a female with a strong taste for revenge. She morphs into a computer in the latter story. Shared another human attribute that is apparently also a favorite of our robot brethren, betrayal. When the AI starts developing a bitchy mean streak, all bets are off.

Wednesday, July 20, 2016

99 Years And One Dark Day



Decker and Skinner and the Blue Ridge Cut Ups perform the old Jesse Fuller prison song.

Tuesday, July 19, 2016

When I First Came To This Land

That big sinking feeling.

The New York Times has a rather emphatic editorial today, The most extreme Republican platform in memory. It bears reading.
...It is as though, rather than trying to reconcile Mr. Trump’s heretical views with conservative orthodoxy, the writers of the platform simply opted to go with the most extreme version of every position. Tailored to Mr. Trump’s impulsive bluster, this document lays bare just how much the G.O.P. is driven by a regressive, extremist inner core.
Mr. Trump’s anti-Muslim phobia and fantasy wall across the Mexican border are front and center, along with his protectionist views, which deny long-held positions of the party. No less alarming is a raft of planks that ideologues pushed through to banish any notion of moderation and present-day reality from the party’s credo.
This majority has triumphed in securing retrograde positions that include making no exceptions for rape or women’s health in cases of abortion; requiring the Bible to be taught in public high schools; selling coal as a “clean” energy source; demanding a return of federal lands to the states; insisting that legislators use religion as a guide in lawmaking; appointing “family values” judges; barring female soldiers from combat; and rejecting the need for stronger gun controls — despite the mass shootings afflicting the nation every week.
The platform also makes homophobia and the denial of basic civil rights to gays, lesbians and transgender people a centerpiece. It repudiates same-sex marriage, despite strong support for this constitutional right in the nation at large. The party invokes “natural marriage” and states’ rights for determining which bathrooms transgender people may use, and it defends merchants who would deny service to gay customers.
I would rather not wade into the fetid swamp of personality politics, I prefer to talk about the issues that concern me. The GOP platform is anathema to my core beliefs in almost every instance.

*
© Robert Sommers 2016
Things are evidently so bad that even George Will is sounding objective and clear about the foolhardiness of the GOP position and his fear of a Trump at the helm. This editorial started running nationally on Sunday, GOP minds are at sea — but not the right one.
This week, the Republican Party will formalize its judgment that the Navy, the nuclear launch codes and other important things should be placed in the hands of someone not known for nuance, patience or interest in allies and collective security.
Americans, dismayed by two consecutive commanders in chief — the recklessness of one and the inconstancy of his successor — must now decide whether, and if so how and by whom, they want U.S. power to be projected.
In the South China Sea, says Secretary Carter, America must steel itself for "a long campaign of firmness, and gentle but strong pushback." This will require freedom of navigation assertions, involving naval and air operations that challenge, among other things, China's expansive claims to sovereignty over islands and waters far from its mainland.
If the next president does not conduct such operations with steady, measured skill, the result could be the collapse of America's position in the world's most populous, dynamic and perhaps dangerous region, or war. Is any of this on anyone's mind in Cleveland?
If you are the Republican standard bearer and your positions are so whacked out that George Will feels the need to call you out publicly, and Alex Jones becomes one of your convention spokesmen, when your only hope of victory is stoking the fires of the race war and engaging poorly educated and somewhat angry white people, I would say that your party is in serious trouble.

*
The Lou Holtz endorsement is priceless. Vote for Trump because the man runs an awfully nice golf course and will do his best to keep the dreaded game of soccer away from America.
Become us” and learn English, Holtz reportedly urged recent arrivals to the U.S.
I don’t want to become you,” he said, as quoted by the Daily Beast. “I don’t want to speak your language, I don’t want to celebrate your holidays, I sure as hell don’t want to cheer for your soccer team!”
Holtz endorsed Trump ahead of the Indiana primary in May, but made no mention of the GOP candidate’s comments on immigrants when doing so. Instead, he applauded the “first class” quality of Trump’s properties.
“There are nothing but winners in Indiana,” he said in a Twitter video announcing his support. “The main reason I’m endorsing him: I played on his golf course, I stayed in his hotel. He does nothing but go first class in everything. He wants this country to be first class as well.”
I may not exactly be a history whiz but if my memory doesn't fail, the first language spoken in the Americas that was not a native american dialect was not English but in fact Spanish.

1973 Sekine SHC - 276

My friend Wild Bill has just completed a wonderful restoration of a vintage Japanese road bike.

It was fairly thrashed when he got it, note the upright handlebars in the pics below, like my old red Schwinn english racer.

The manufacturer was named Sekine and they were once quite popular in Canada.





Originally a five speed, the 276 featured no front derailleur. Bill converted this one into a one speed and lost the fancy name plate on the rear wheel.


Sekine was an outfit that got its start in Japan, but in an effort to avoid high tariffs, partnered with Canadian and First Family companies, relocated to Canada in 1973. They were known for using quality components and with the exception of rims, parts were made out of alloys.

Bill is an artist and he did a fantastic job, which he does pretty much on everything he touches. Powder coated it, spiffed it from top to bottom.


Bill is an avid rider and I think he will be putting some miles on this one.

Little Bob and the Lollipops

Reflections

Lily, Descanso Gardens

Most deluded fools who consider themselves artists, a class I occasionally inhabit, fall victim to the same failing, which is principally an inability to self edit.

Red fox in sunlight, Yellowstone

You see, we fall victim to a siren's call which tickles our narcissistic funny bone and cries out to us the deluded message that everything we do is, well, good. Which it simply, isn't.

Soul surfer, Swamis

I had an art teacher in college who could sense this sort of excessive self love for our pet artistic creations a mile away. Jim Hulbert would say "Fine, it's okay, draw me 200 alternative thumbnails by tomorrow morning." This was a major pain in the ass and also a lifelong lesson which taught me not to fall too deeply in love with my own output.

Snake River Overlook

Having said that, with well over 100k images currently on my hard drive, you miss stuff sometimes that was decent on your first or second cull. The truth is that I have not ever looked at a significant percentage of my photographs.

fungus, San Juan Island

My brother had a cardiac incident of some kind after his kidney transplant last night. I think he is okay but I don't have a lot of information. I will be worthless today.

Sandhill Cranes, Bosque

So I decided to look back at some of the wonderful photographic opportunities of the last twelve months and look around for something I may have missed.

The question is, it it safe to trust your first instinct? Is anything of the second or third gleaning up to the level of the first? Maybe, sometimes it is better, sometimes worse. Depends if the editor was conscious in the first place, I suppose.

In any case, think good thoughts for Buzz and hopefully enjoy some of the photographs of the last year. None of these have been ever processed before, although you may have seen their siblings.

Oncoming, Seligman

The waterfall was taken at Jemez Falls on a road trip with Steve Saylor last year.

Never looked at it until this morning.

Never noticed the woman of the pool before.

I am thankful for having the opportunity to take and share pictures from so many wonderful places this year.

Tree, La Jolla




Monday, July 18, 2016

THE HOLLIES I Can't Let Go

Thinking good thoughts

My brother Buzz just called to tell me that he is getting a new kidney today. I am so happy for him, he has waited so long! Buzz lives in Toronto. He has suffered from a pernicious kidney disease called FSGS for many years and has been on the transplant list for a very long time. I am so grateful that he is getting a new organ. Please wish him well!

Light sculptor

Leslie and I had the pleasure of dinner at the mountain top Fallbrook home of Michael and D.N. Evans on Saturday.

Michael is a visionary artist, his wife D.N., a world class couturier, whose establishment in Laguna Beach was known far and wide.

She has dressed a major celebrity clientele in her time.

Michael is a brilliant sculptor and painter and once designed geodesic space toys for the Smithsonian. A veteran and Chicago native, you can check out his amazing work at michealrevans dot com.


The setting and table was right out of Sunset Magazine. He is not only a talented artist he is also a very fine chef. Michael's light sculptures adorned the patio and we had a beautiful view of acres of avocado trees and succulents, with the Pacific Ocean shining to our west.



However the real fun starts after dark, when Michael fires up the smoke and lasers and starts sending beams of light through the crystal sculptures.

Positively lysergic.


Saturday, July 16, 2016

Walls of Fire

This is a tiff file, I accidentally shot 8 bit tiff for a day. Still an awfully big file. But it doesn't look great on the computer screen after export. The walls to your right are simply on fire with color and light when seen natively. Stupid Tiff.

The original happens to look incredible and will make an amazing print I think at full resolution. Keeping my fingers crossed. Haven't been printing lately but I think I have a few cool candidates.

Got confirmation on Italy the day before yesterday. Yippee!

Koko Taylor - I Got What It Takes

Logan


Friday, July 15, 2016

Livestock waterer, Green River


I kind of like this, was trying over and over to fiddle with it but it just wanted to be left alone. This shot is untouched, straight out of the can. Kind of reminds me of that stuff we used to shoot called film, this is what you got, grainy, weird exposure, lack of color. Before we could break it down to the minute pixel and recreate everything in post production and all that.

You saw it and you clicked and you got stuff that sort of looked like this. Shapes and value.

You don't impose on Billy the Kid.

Interesting article in the New York Times yesterday about Billy the Kid. You will have to google it, it is titled An outlaw by any name: Billy the Kid.

Billy was the son of Irish immigrants fleeing the potato famine, born in Manhattan in 1859. His mother moved Billy and his brother to the New Mexico territory to deal with her tuberculosis. Billy's stepfather was evidently a real prick.

Billy's birth name was William Henry McCarty Jr. but he also was known as William H. Bonney and Henry Antrim in his short life.

Billy said that he killed twenty one people, history corroborates at least six, his obit says nineteen. Moot after a certain point, I guess, he was one bad hombre. Died at twenty one.

He started off his life as a hotel waiter in Silver City, then apprenticed to a cruel blacksmith and finally got hooked up in the middle of a range war between cattlemen.

The article linked to his original obit in the times from July 31, 1881. Interesting line in the obit: The blacksmith, who was inclined to drunkenness, and a bully by nature, undertook to impose upon Billy. The kid shot him through the heart.

I looked up the phrase "impose upon" wondering if it was a reference to a sexual impropriety but could not find a supporting definition. Not sure. But that may have been the archaic meaning of the term.

I read once that 75% of the violent criminals in California jails had been sexually molested in their youth. Messes with a kid's head.

Was that what precipitated Billy the Kid's killing rampage? A gross imposition?

I first visited the Billy the Kid Bar in Mesilla over fifty years ago. Now it's a gift shop. One of my favorite towns in New Mexico, Mesilla. Pretty much the same as it ever was.


Tuesday, July 12, 2016

seven12

Did you ever hear tales of the splendid Córdoban palace of Abd-ar-Rahman III al-Nasir? Rahman was the fabulous Umayyad Caliph of Córdoba and constructed his palace, the Medina Azahara, between the years 912 and 961, in our common era.

I'm not surprised you haven't, I only encountered word of it on a trip to Andalusia and the story of the grand palace has been mostly forgotten.

Rahman was the son of Prince Muhammad and a Frankish slave. He had blue eyes and blonde hair which he dyed black so as not to be taken for a Goth. He succeeded his grandfather Abd Allah as emir in 912. He quickly built his empire, sacking Pamplona in 926 and the Moroccan town of Melilla in 927 as a bulwark to hold off the rival Fatamids.

The Medina Azahara was known as the "Shining City" and its splendor was spoken of far and wide. It knew no peer, in Iberia, the desert kingdoms, the Levant, the entire world. In far off Germany, the Saxon nun Hroswitha referred to the city as the ornament of the world. Córdoba was the capital of Islamic Spain and the only close rival of its day was Constantinople.

At the time the land we now know as España was thought of as the northernmost country of Africa. Córdoba was known far and wide as a high place of medicine and learning, it served as a home for all three religions, its slopes were defined by the lazy river called the Guadalquivir. In ancient Roman days it had been home to both Senecas, the Younger and Elder. Later the great scholar Maimonides ( موسى بن ميمون) walked its narrow streets.

Sadly, we can now only visit its broken ruins and imagine its past power, glory and might. Alas, the shining city of yore lays prostrate in the dirt, largely forgotten, sacked in the bitter year of 1010. The Vizier al-Mansur burned all the books in 976 and its sad fate was perhaps cast as payment for his evil deed.

Accounts remain that speak with incredulity and wonder at the magnificence of its ancient walls and parapets, its grand mosque whose arches mimicked the sweep of the date palm, its gardens that were surpassed by no other in the entire known world, the vast knowledge of its enlightened inhabitants, who took pride in their cities fame as a place of cultural advancement.

I read once, in an old book, unfortunately now long discarded, that the temples of the Christian were oriented to the concept of a hereafter, to look towards another day that would come to be in the afterlife.

The palaces of the Mohammedan however, were designed for another purpose, to celebrate the now, the immediate moment, and to do so with all possible intensity.  They worshipped the eternal present and the magic and laughter and beauty in those brief years have never seen their equal.

I read that the Azahara had its windows constructed of crystal so that rainbows would fall strategically though out the hall, chromatic lights glancing off the lustrous surface of the large pools of quicksilver.

The sunken Islamic garden was a jewel in itself, divided into four quadrants, peacocks proudly strolled at will and the residents were continually serenaded by the sweetest of songbird. Falcons stood on golden perches, tethered with stiff leather, awaiting their master's glove and sharp command. Tendrils of snake like sandalwood smoke wafted up from the braziers and gave the room a lovely scent and golden glow.


The Caliph was said to have named the Palace after his most prized concubine, her visage cast in stone over the keystone of the entrance to watch over the three terraces for eternity. Azahara. The place must have been one mad affair.

Jugglers vied with magicians, sword swallowers and contortionists plied their talents, black giants from Sheba performed unbelievable feats of strength, soft girls of the harem lingered seductively in the sheltered doorways. Mathematicians could be found arguing about questions of sums and geometry in the courtyard while the astronomers ruminated on the celestial heavens.

The sultan's library surpassed all save perhaps the one in Alexandria. A blind poet recited poems of forbidden love and desert winds, a misshapen minstrel played along seamlessly on his oud. Seers of all stripes cast runes and drew cards and divined the cracks of the desert tortoise.

Traders from Shem played games of chance with the Sultan's select and hand picked bodyguard from far off Ur. The larder was filled with the finest rations, pomegranates from Jaffa, oranges from Crete, dates from Fez and Riyadh, saffron from Tangiers, bacalao from Catalan, beef from Pamplona.

The Emir spared no expense on his palace. Cedar was delivered from Tyre and Sidon, steel from Damascus, cloth from far away on the Silk Road. The finest craftsmen from Toledo wrought the silver tazzas and tableware with heraldic figures, a task that took decades to complete. Life was at its highest possible apex.

Its richness was a thing of legend. From the New York Times:
Teeming with treasures that dazzled the most jaded traveler or world—weary aristocrat...Pools of mercury could be shaken to spray beams of reflected sunlight across marble walls and ceilings of gold... Doors carved of ivory and ebony led to sprawling gardens full of exotic animals and sculptures made of amber and pearls..."
It was said to be the most fantastic city in the world. Europe had nothing that could rival it. And then, in an instant, it was gone. A tale as old as life itself, a successor who could not hold the winnings of his father. A quick knife thrust, a coup, and a short civil war, the end came quickly. An architectural marvel like the world has never seen was no more.

Now it lies crumbled sadly into dust. Has there ever been a more wondrous and psychedelic place ever conceived and constructed, have we ever seen its match on this earth? And of course, to experience its joys today, one would need to time travel.

*

I had a strange dream when I came home from Utah. An early morning dream, one that I remembered vividly when I awoke and have thought about often the last few days.

I was in just such a place as I describe above, with old wooden coffers woven in the most magical intricate moroccan patterns on ceilings that rose a hundred feet in the air. The finest paintings, the most sumptuous silks.

Large bronze statues of the buddha and balinese dancers with knees and elbows akimbo mixed with wooden santos of Sts. Francis and George. Beautiful paintings of the missions adorned the walls.

Madras and velvet and ivory and oak. Gold and silver and frankincense and cedar. Mercury's twin snakes twined above a feathered heart on the mantle, the amber crystal heart made out of precious rutilated quartz.

Flowers adorned every table, lilies, delphinium and dahlias,  and the cavernous space was filled with the rich scent of tuberose, a smell that mixed nicely with the ever present bloom of orange blossoms.

There were new rooms of unmatched beauty and exquisite appointments to discover down each hall and passage and I swear they may have morphed into new shapes and colors in real time right before my very eyes.

And my tribe were all there, Lena and Lynn and Ricardo and Leslie and so many more of you. You know who you are.

All of the people that resonated on that one particular wave, that threw their lot together as friends and comrades so very long ago and never once broke their oaths of friendship. Who signed on to that particular ship through time and space that has curiously guided our movements like a veiled conductor on a passing train. Across the very centuries of time itself.

And the odd thing was that "our palace" in fact did exist outside of normal time, in an infinite now that would never age and always bloom in the advent of summer. Continually waxing, ripening, never ever going to seed.

And it was hard for me in this dream because I had one foot in this strange, mercurial place and one foot in the day to day world that we normally inhabit and well, it was like riding a gyroscope or trying not to fall off the mechanical bull, took a little bit of effort to keep it all straight. I could see that I would have to make a decision, a choice.

I believe that I was in fact undergoing some sort of initiation. I wish I could explain the process but it is now hidden in time, these things necessarily obscured by wise spell and gesture. But it was clear that there would be something gained but also something lost and it would be wise for me to spend a moment to consider the consequences of the trade and choice. A small price must always be paid when involved in these sorts of matters.

I woke up in somewhat pain at being forced to leave the wonderful place but I am planning on going back soon, in fact as soon as I can. I hope that you will consider joining me on this voyage. Leave a message at the usual place.

Geronimo's Cadillac

Pancho rides again...



Solar Tower, Mojave - Color version


Twin Stearman's off Torrey Pines


Lenticular homage to Charles Capps