Have courage for the great sorrows of life and patience for the small ones; and when you have laboriously accomplished your daily task, go to sleep in peace.   -Victor Hugo

 I do not have much patience with a thing of beauty that must be explained to be understood. If it does need additional interpretation by someone other than the creator, then I question whether it has fulfilled its purpose.  -Charlie Chaplin

…If you're anxious for to shine in the high aesthetic line
as a man of culture rare,
You must get up all the germs of the transcendental terms,
and plant them ev'rywhere.
You must lie upon the daisies and discourse in novel phrases
of your complicated state of mind,
The meaning doesn't matter if it's only idle chatter
of a transcendental kind...   –Bunthorne in Patience /Gilbert & Sullivan

In temple today, sitting zazen, no one notices (good) that I smuggled a small book for notes of the thoughts that fly by to be wrangled momentarily, and then knocked aside so that I can attempt to see the clear void.
Sometimes Buddha, some times the other guys.


It is truly amazing what the mind jumps to, what it remembers, what it can not let go of. With compassion and grace we accept some souls we know only a fleeting time, and, that others are here to stay. It is interesting that the fleeting stay with us in memory longer than anyone else. It is hard to let go of the physical form and even harder to let go of the memory that remains.



My task is to fit together model plastic brains.
 There are numerous sets, but each missing different parts. I am not aloud to mix pieces around from different sets to make a few perfect, and so, each is missing some part of its own brains. The saving grace is that all the skulls are complete, so once they are placed over the deficient brains no one will know they are lacking.


Below a high window harsh daylight tumbles down shaft-like mixing with dust rising, she pauses to enter the slipstream  before diving into the daimonion. Her silhouette sets off a harsh, abrupt shadow. She secures a promise by commencing to dance.
In this transparent essence, she madly spins with the intensity and reverence of a Dervish. Her head is thrown back to belie ecstasy and invite delusion. With one hand to the small of the back, the other to her chin she sends the brief chiffon flailing, flying into a luminous smoke blur and sends black   fluid shapes onto the rammed floor following her every course. She glances in and out of the spotlight unknowing if her shadow follows or leads her. Perhaps it does both. The jealous shadow pulls her repeatedly into the focusing light as if needing to be seen.
     Her feet scrape the dirt and then seem to hover. She hides her face and then bares teeth. Bucking and writhing with the allure of a feral cat.
    The dance becomes her.
    She’ll continue till they forget what she wants or she is ready to receive what she has asked for.

As natural light dims and gloom begins to take over, the tiny flames that have burned continuously now draw attention as they slowly grow in proxy, their intensity becoming the brightest glow in the room.
    The moon peeks into the clerestory window, nods its head with apology, and, sinks again below the grease smeared marble ledge.
    She divides the room.  Her facing aspect lit up by a nervous flickering wall of candles. Her dark side lost in the cast of skipping, shrill, wild apparitions skimming the stone wall. The chamber is enhanced with the illusion that she is many, and, lends a potency of impending bizarre.
   Shape shifting, yet ever constant.
   On and on lost in the dance as dawn awakens.

Her shadow fades, pulling at her like the tug of sleep. Her expression satiated, the apostrophe of the night wanes.
   She no longer knows or cares if it's she who’s in trouble, or those around her.
Attendees notice the conversation piece. A hand wrought pewter serving platter with a chiseled pattern of chaos within its symmetrical border. As mesmerizing as a mandala, and awaiting the prize.



He stirred his oatmeal, stubbed his toe, and had a nagging feeling of missing an appointment... years ago.
You can watch and wait for water to boil, it will only take time. You will need 3.10 minutes. Below is a recipe for ‘no time for breakfast.’
0 eggs
0 olive oil
1. Do not turn on an oiled pan to medium heat.
2. Do not scramble egg till frothy and pour into pan.
3. Do not flip over sink in case of error.
4. Do not fold in half.
5. Finished.
To turn a situation into a happy ending you may have to look at it a long time. Walk all the way around it. A big problem could mean a very long walk. Try it on without expecting it to fit. Throw it out and see how it lands. If it will only be just what it is, stubborn and unchangeable, then let it go. Sometimes there is not a happy ending.

from Parallel Line Tend to Neglect


In the dead of night Maine winter air is held completely crisp and still. Until unexpectedly, a startling subatomic rumble would echo through the dark, ending by clutching the inside of your throat.
    A rabbit cries for its life and loses. When all is quiet again the silence is ten times as deep and opaque. In forest blackness there lurks a claustrophobic dread.
   The field stones that were sled over years ago became the low walls that are boundaries, trails and points. With the right aerial view some gigantic cryptic message would show itself. Wouldn’t it be keen if through some higher power a mystery could be solved by backing away and beholding an epiphany in the simple stone lines created by the walls.
     Unafraid, I’d go on full moon treks for half the night. The bright light echoed through the bare trees and the snow turned silver under the spherical spotlight. One could easily make out the white flowers and birch. Some stuff was plunged into the inky blackness. I could easily imagine each soul down to the tiniest critter opening one eye as my shoe popped and crunched passed. Then, feeling no threat, closing again slowly.
     I became mindful of the night sky while living in Damariscotta. The northern lights are big theater. The planets and stars shifted into their familiar winter pattern. Knowing where they’d be early evening was a relief to someone without much stability.  Sitting still long enough and you were certain to be rewarded with a shooting star. Space trash was never so beautiful.
And what a prize at the end of the day when one can feel complete by just lying down, looking up, and get lost in the vertigo.
     When your choices are limited completeness is simple.



He had cats.
This sounds as though he had a disease, an inability to reason.
He simply preferred felines as pets.
Believing the novel idea that you begin to look like the pet you live with, 
she hadn’t decided on what type she wanted to epitomize. 
But, had narrowed it down to mammals.

From Parallel Chances Tend to Neglect


 An open mouth bleeds
Trick/ling down from branch to branch
Drumming out all time
The pale blue cloth turns deep plum
Blank shape, sanguine edged
Outline where a hand removed
From a white stomach
Still clutches a maché boat
Just as very well
Bleached fabric smells as though
It will explode any moment
One cannot bleed forever



Perhaps notes on moving. And momentum.
I’m wondering, for someone who so very rarely sits down,  how have I managed to collect so many chairs.
Books; examine (once again) how many books you want to move the rest of your life.
Getting a/head of ones self. I have altered moments when I’m driving and do not know what coast I’m on. Or, the license plate in front of me belies a foreign county.
 Travel is good for the perspective, yes?
 I love the act of packing up AND LEAVING.

I saw Salvador Dali  coming out of the laundromat. He walked past (a very pale) Bud Cort who was  sitting on the curb.
Ct. Kangaroo was in the car next to me as Fidel Castro drove a Dolly Madison truck through the red light. He was eating a package of donuts that had ‘accidentally’ broke open. 
Dave Van Ronk was walking his dog. Actually I see Dave a lot, so he’s not even worth the surprise of mentioning, but it's always nice.

Tune in, turn off, drop out, drop in, switch off, 
switch on and explode.  
–Mr. Kite / Across the Universe


More from the ongoing WIP/graphic work collab with Lonnie.
I will post a picture-page or so now and again.
Just not this now. (I forgot to ask permission.)

Houndstooth Check; A twill weave construction in which a broken check is produced by a variation in the pattern of interlacing yarns, utilizing at least two different colored threads. This is the weave that hides stains real well.

mistake; Also called Spontaneous Expressions, and, they add uniqueness and expense to the work.

now; As in The Now. The very now gets very old very fast and starting from scratch can be old news to begin with. So begin with something that is already on the designated design path that will get you there sooner than now so you can say you’ve been there later. 

hypomnemata; A material memory. A copybook, a notebook. A written permanent relationship between self and self. Memorandum, quotations, fragments of works, examples, actions witnessed or read, reflections and reasoning heard or have come to mind. An accumulated treasure for rereading and later meditation. Also, raw material for writing more formal work.

Toshiro Mifune

A  line  left blank in his honor.
p.s. - In the early movies they had to wear their own clothing.