Horsehead Chess

It seems a little strange, people congratulating me (I have to think for what, but then I remember I'm retiring next month after almost 24 years in education). This pic was taken three years ago in our gifted classroom in the 300 wing. These guys are seniors now getting ready to graduate. They were sophomores here, pretty fresh to the high school. They probably wouldn't do something like this now, too mature. 

That topic ranks high on the items I'll miss about teaching: the kids keep one young. You can't stay around hundreds of immature minds and bodies daily and not have some of that much desired fountain of youth rub off on you.

I remember the summer following my own graduation at Socorro High School, Class of '72. We drove around that summer playing hide and seek in cars, driving through Shirley's Drive In with the windows down and our music blasting, or plowing through the salt cedar in the Bosque, or maybe actually meeting up with a carload of girls and flirting, trying to blow off a little steam before we joined the workforce, went off to college, or took a suggested south Asian vacation courtesy of the government.

We vowed that summer that we would never get old and stodgy like many of the "adults" we dealt with daily. Remember, this was back in the times of: never trust anyone over 30. Of course, we thought it would be an easy vow to keep: doing silly things from time to time to break up life's monotony, but then we hadn't seen life from "this" perspective yet, most of us nearing leaving the workforce, or at least thinking about it, because I doubt we'd sit down to a game of horse head chess at this point in our lives if we got together. And there's probably a wisp of sadness in that.

Ft. Davis

This is a scenic pic in the Davis Mountains I took (and played around with in Photoshop a little) when down there researching my unpublished (so far) western novel about the Buffalo Soldiers. The Butterfield Stage route went through here on its way to El Paso, TX--once known as Franklin.

When we were down there studying the history of the area, it was the middle of a drought and everything was tinder dry. Must have been over fourteen years ago. This area, and the region north of here, our own Llano Estacado, were two very wild regions with Ft. Davis assigned to protect the area from hostiles. The Buffalo Soldiers were a troop of African American, Union soldiers who fought bravely to protect this region and its peoples.

I hope to release that novel in the near future.

Spring is now officially here

Looking back at the last few days, it appears I've gotten a little gloomy. So, earlier in the day, I decided when I sat down to write tonight's blog entry I would make it positive and cheerful. Pour a hot cup of matcha and as Monty Python said: Look on the Bright Side of Life.  I'm happy to report I can do that.

Small blessings. Barbara and I noticed today for the first time this spring it appears the swallows have returned from their winter vacation and appear to be ready for a summer of work raising their broods. Seems they're a little late, so don't know if they'll get as many raised this summer before the fall chill, but it seems they are preparing for the task ahead.

It's always cheerful to witness the little victories of mother nature amid what seems the overburden of negativity in the air of late. Enough. I promised to keep it upbeat. Last night's shower came with some free fireworks, but it was a shower and even left a couple of puddles to appreciate come this morning. Gave me a hankering to search for Vivaldi's The Four Seasons and "give it a spin" as we used to say back in the day. Or if you prefer, que up The Four Seasons "Let's Hang On" if that's more your cup of tea, and maybe you even prefer that black.

Backyard Chimes

These backyard chimes remind me that our universe plays an eternal symphony, and we are but one instrument (some woodwinds, some brass, some percussion, sometimes only a lowly triangle in an orchestral suite, tuba in a marching troupe, or possibly the most dissonant chord in a punk rock band).

Several incidents have occurred over spring break to remind me and mine of something that we prefer to keep tucked away on an infrequently dusted shelf. Stashed away like an unfamiliar piece of sheet music that touches us in an uncomfortable way: our tenuous mortality.

We arrive here crying---pushed unwilling into the music of the spheres. We serve a brief stint here (Volti subito--the page is turned quickly) forming the notes of our fate's individual path: eighth, quarter, whole ones. We place them on the forward moving F clef and the G clef path---Andante at times, Moderato at others, sometimes Allegretto. 

We build them to a refrain and coda, if lucky. Sometimes though, the music stops as it did for us in high school when our band director wanted to leave us frustrated, snapped shut and silent with a quick downward twist of his baton and a dismissive shrug. One is abandoned to the silence of John Cage's 4'33'' for piano with no comforting coda or outro---

                                               for us writers, no consoling denouement.

Digital pics

Digital pictures contain so much more than just the pic. Also, storing where and when it was taken. This allows me to know I took this one a year and two days ago to capture the blooming of this front yard plant. I also captured the nearby lilacs with the temporary blue-violet blooms. Their window is quite short, filling the yard with their flowers and perfume for only a few appreciated days.

Last year, by this time, I believe our spring break and prom were already over with. At least, it seems the way I remember it. I could probably check a couple more pics and correctly relate THAT timeline also. Kids nowadays do not have the "luxury" that we had of letting some actions and performances of life fade away into comfortable nostalgia: once it's on the internet, it's there forever...somewhere. (Only a couple of us know about your digression, J&^%) Many are placing their thoughts, acts, triumphs and the occasional fopaux  "right out there" daily, forever? etched in the world's electronic memory. Where one mistake counteracts all the "good" deeds one has done up until that point.

 Many young people now may have never been truly "alone". They've always had the looming presence of their friends and enemies right there in our electronic umbilical cords. A friend related a student Twittering? texting? Messaging? that she was bored. Studies show boredom can be a good thing. Many times poems get written, projects get planned, quandaries get solved, crafts are developed, thoughts, sometimes lofty, form...when one is bored.

We older ones, who still remember a time before computers and technology laced through almost every aspect of our lives, might sometimes appear like those "natives" of movie and TV lore who feared having their picture taken would capture their souls. Humor us. Even we have to admit the positive aspects of progress should outweigh the negative---most of the time. But we all must also remember  scientific advancement always surges ahead of  eventual stabilizing, necessary ethics. As the coaches say: no pain, no gain. Which puts us back at this picture of a blooming plant, easily taken and (beneath the surface) catalogued with the data that, moments ago, instigated my four paragraphs of extrapolation which I might have just etched on the earth's electronic memory somewhere...permanently.

Prayer Flags

Tibetans string prayer flags to flap and fly in the wind believing that their prayers will thus be issued into the sky. These prayer flags in my backyard are seen frozen stiff on a cold winter day past, holding their remaining captive prayers until a warm breeze can help them supplicate their hanger's needs to earth's considerations.

Michael

My lifelong friend Michael shown here in the hospital in treatment for his cancer that eventually took him from us over a year and a half now. Here visiting with his doggie friend. I met Mike (that's what I always called him) when we were both about 12 and the friendship spanned almost half a century. Sometimes, it seemed we almost had a "psychic connection" with each other. I could wish nothing more for anyone than that they have or have had a buddy like Mike.

Mike had one of the kindest hearts I've known. Patience. He had oodles more patience than the person writing this post. It made him exceptional at his job fixing computers and computer networks, building about anything, training dogs, and being a good, loving, faithful friend. When we were young and built models, mine always looked sort of like the picture on the box, with a little glue dripping here and there, a few painted brush strokes showing through here and there. His always looked like miniatures of the actual car, plane, etc.

When we were in high school he had a motorcycle accident and was left a paraplegic. That never slowed Mike down and he never complained or felt sorry for himself. Once again unlike the present blogger. He exemplified a successful man's triumph over tremendous odds.

All any of us may ask for when we're gone is for someone to think about us from time to time and the impact we had on their life (hopefully in a good way: we can all work on that while we are still here).  I'm certain that his memory comes up in a lot of minds on numerous nights and days. I read somewhere recently, that contrary to previous scientific speculation, all snowflakes are not individually different. Maybe even a lot of people aren't, but then to every rule there are those special exceptions, and Mike was one of those.

A Leaf in Time

If one looks carefully on the sidewalk near counseling at HHS you'll notice this modern fossil. When workers poured the sidewalk, a solitary leaf fell unnoticed, or maybe it was noted, and the individual laying the concrete left it on purpose. Sort of an inside joke. A subtle signature.

So, there it lays. The tree like a mischievous, adventurous child left its imprint for time. We all leave impressions on life, however subtle or direct they may be: in the forms of our children, maybe a major or minor work of art, a kind or telling act, a few memories set in the minds of those we encounter on this life's journey, a few escapades or interactions remembered fondly or with a shudder by family, friends, and others we interface with daily.  As minor as it may be, or as fleeting, we all change the flow of time during our brief journey.

Perfect People

  Perfect People

The parade of perfect
people has begun. Soon, there
will be few faces, traced
with the leavings of acne
scars from youth. Soon,
all teeth will compare
to the white of pasteurized
milk, straightened
past the charm of a gap, or twist.

The parade of perfect people
is growing. Botox tightened
foreheads, devoid of  reaction.
Scalpel tightened throats
swallowing age.

The parade of perfect
people issues from outside
the third world countries—
where HIV isn’t pilled
away by pharmaceutical
achievements and insurance allotments.

Where accomplishment can mean
discovering wood or dung for an evening meal
without walking five miles
                      to discover fuel for a cooking fire.

Archer City, Tx

This is the Spur Hotel in Archer City, Texas north of Dallas. Larry McMurtry grew up there. The writer of Lonesome Dove fame and The Last Picture Show. I went there as sort of a pilgrimage. McMurtry owns a score of buildings there crammed with books. Barbara and I stayed at this hotel. We were the only ones staying there that night, so we sort of had responsibility for the place. We walked around town and through the various buildings where one could find books of all sizes, shapes and genres. It was a bibliophiles paradise. I believe I was working on my novel manuscript Fort Davis. Archer City is a small Texas town with a café or two and, of course, a Dairy Queen. The movie theater sits around the corner from the hotel but I believe it's only a landmark now.