Sun Scrib'n

Writing Prompt - First Memory

LION HUNTING
North Dakota, Bismark.
Early spring.
Tall snow, waiting.
Then, short green grasses.
Lots of little puddles in between.

Croaking, chirping, little green jumpers.
Not really lions, but that's what we said.
Brothers on tricyles.
Maybe two years old.

The lions could not survive the three wheeled chariots.
Little green spots turn red.
Cool.

Big brother picked some up and pocketed a few.
Not me.
Too yucky.
Wiggly, screaming, crying.

Later, big brother made mom scream, too.
Laundry room all stinky with lion guts.
Cool.

Tomorrow, more lions.
Sleep now.
Dream of lions.

Cedar Waxwings Social Group

We've been visited by a group of 20-30 of these birds. Lovely colors. They sing only when they fly away with a high pitched whistle that sounds like "schpee-oo."

I've used online and paper versions to find more about these guys.

They really like to lite on the blooms of the "Red Hot Fire Pokers" or "Gods' Paint Brush." I thought they were just doing the hummingbird thing- just drinking the sweet nectar. But now, I would say that they are eating the blooms or fruit.

They rest in the big oak tree in the back yard and then visit the front yard 3 times before lunch.

I wonder if they will stick around?

SunScrib

Me- First Love

What is that feeling? There is a welling up and a buzzing with excited flashes.
The sensation is: at once child-like, mindless, and somehow, strangly cerebral.

A glance was shared in sixth grade.
A hand was held in seventh grade.
A cheeck was kissed in eighth grade.
A mouth was kissed in ninth.

Each time, the brain went for a whoop!
Each time, a feeling that I knew I could not define.

The chemistry of LOVE; both ionic and electric.
The heat, the friction, the glow. The cool down.

There was a time when the sensation was an identity of its own.
I must have fallen for me. Sick huh? In love with love?

How depraved and so very sad.

We love ourselves. Self-centric.
Invest in, care for, protect, kling to, clothe, puff and primp just for the preservation of self.

What a beautiful wreck.

Sunday Scribbling

Three Wishes
Light. Unity. Strength.

I pray for light, that I may not hide in the darkness.

I pray for unity that His gloriuos light might shine on us all.

I pray for strength because the night is long and the days grow cold.

Sunday Scrib

What Makes Mom Cry?

Yes, I am a momma's-boy. Yes, I know it's Mother's Day.

Few events in my life have escaped their impact without tears. That is to say, the really big stuff- are teary. Yes, I cry. I learned this from my mom.

I can first remember moms' tears as she was listening (while ironning) to her brand new concert albums - collections of symphonic masterpieces. It must have been Mozart. The tears were not joy or sadness. The tears were just a welling up of emotive energy. I cry when I hear a song at just the right time, too.

Later, I recall a certain event on the black and white TV (13 inch screen). Everyone was dressed in black and a little boy was holding an folded up American flag. "Mom, why does that little boy get a flag?" No answer, just tears (from behind the ironning board).

Also, Robert and Martin. Funerals and tears. I learned to cry.

Now, I'm married to a crier. She cries when she is happy and when sad. She watches movies and cries. She wants to watch movies just so she can cry. She avoids other movies because "I know it will make me cry." Mystery.

What I do know, I need her tears. My stupid emotional disconnectness - needs to see her tears. As she cries, I see the path of her heart and hear the voice of the almighty.

There is peace when she cries. It is like a holy momment, sacred and beautiful. I wish she would let me closer to her tears. She likes to hide in the darkness of the theater or behind tissues when she cries.

Maybe a book about her tears is too personal. A more clinical approach (with excerpts from some chick named Judith), now that may work. What about a DIY approach - yes, Do It Yourself -the home crying manual for idiots - a book for men to get in touch with the tears of the women they love. Or , maybe a book that seeks the history of tears in literature.

It will never happen - or maybe it's already written... Either way, I'll never write it. I'll just keep it all to myself. Mums the word.

Sunday Scriblings - One Shoe

One Shoe

He never thought to check for the size. The color and shape was the same. The pair he grabbed felt right. Leaving the mosque of Salaam Al Turk in a hurry, as he did every Wednesday, he picked up the worn, brown loafers. Slipping them on quickly and tripping out the door into intense sunlight, he strode on home, arriving just after sunset.

It wasn’t until after dinner that night and a losing round of backgammon that the knock on the door came. It was a knock, like any other. Polite taps. He opened the door and his brothers from the mosque stood, appearing nervous and looking down. The imam moved forward and forced his way inside, frowning at the dusty marble squares. There, in the vestibule, five pairs of shoes, neatly organized (by size), toes pointing to the wall, waited. The imam picked up his shoes and studied them carefully. One of the shoes, the left one, was obviously longer than the other. He spoke plainly. “You have my shoe, sir. I can tell because the pair I have on right now is a mismatched pair.”

Jarfur was humiliated. How could he have been so stupid to mismatch – and with the imam? He bowed severely and apologized deeply. “My teacher, you have been wronged. I do not deserve to wear your shoes. This was an unfortunate mistake,” Jarfur pleaded. The imam raised the one larger shoe above his head and with one sharp blow set Jarfur to the floor. The heel had cut his brow and the floor had collided with his chin in a loud whomp. The gathered men picked him up and threw him into the alley. No one in the houses nearby could hear a thing, as each home was set back from the alley by a deep entryway- well away from the rest of the living space. Jarfur’s family was not aware of the events and continued their nightly routines. The holy men from the mosque departed quickly and Jarfur awoke. The pain on his chin was wincing but fortunately the slice on his brow was already coagulating. He stood quickly and thanked Allah for his mercy.

Walking back to the open front door, he paused, looked down the alley both ways. No one saw him. Quietly closing the door he also looked down. There, at his feet, only one brown shoe.

SELF PORTRAIT TUESDAY

Kodak P880
RAW file, 8.0 MP
After capture zoom and crop.
Digital Enhancement with Kodak Easy Share "Coloringbook" setting and MSPaint.
Background is my house - T-111 siding.

I erased my three other chins, and larger bags under eyes. I added highlight features and some lines to replace lost lips.

I think I like my nostrils - good thing I keep my nose hair trimmed.

Would I ever do this again? Hmmm... Well, maybe if I lost a bunch of weight and wanted to touch up before and after pictures - vanity- all is vanity...

Got a haircut the next day...

Life is so much better in color.

Sunday Scibblings

Letting the Days Go By

Surrounding me: hi-tech, suburbs, farms, forest corridors, families of many nations and blends, snow capped mountains and lush valleys, just and hour away from the ocean.

Who could ask for more? So, how did I get here? (Yes, I know this is a David Byrne lyric of the Talking Heads – “Letting the Days Go By.”) So, before any more water goes underground…

Here’s the facts…

I am the son (6 generations later) of an 18^th century French immigrant. I can’t go back much further than 1710 AD- because the written records from the church of Boisvert in Alsatian France, don’t go back further than that.

In 1759, Colice Boisvert, of the region of Boisvert (meaning Glen or Green Woods), packed for an adventure across the Atlantic for French Canada. Upon arrival, the vast green forests lured him deep into Mohican lands. The unfamiliar forests of this lone traveler (from a family of carpenters and jacks) brought a sense of familiarity. Moving northward and pressing west into Algonquin lands he encountered a skirmish from white settlers upsetting the balance of trade between the French loyalists and natives. He was unwittingly captured by the Algonquin and made a slave. His name was a mouthful for natives- so, his new name became- Colixte (co – LEESH – tea).

As an Indian slave (with rights - much different than we think of “slave”), he married an Algonquin girl and was allowed to emigrate. His travels, with his new family lead him to the east coast and then later, by 1773, to the interior of the united states- or territories that we would refer to today as Kansas. With his intimate experience with the dark skinned peoples, he was able to establish a minor homestead in what is now Greenwood County, Kansas.

Gaps in the record at this point are profound and leave much to the imagination. So, skipping forward to 1833, we find ourselves with two adult brothers- sons of Colice. Hmmm..

This is getting a bit too laborious – or rather – boring…

How about the Lyrics…

LETTING THE DAYS GO BY

And you may find yourself living in a shotgun shack
And you may find yourself in another part of the world
And you may find yourself behind the wheel of a large automobile
And you may find yourself in a beautiful house, with a beautiful wife
And you may ask yourself-well...how did I get here?

Letting the days go by/let the water hold me down
Letting the days go by/water flowing underground
Into the blue again/after the money’s gone
Once in a lifetime/water flowing underground.

And you may ask yourself
How do I work this?
And you may ask yourself
Where is that large automobile?
And you may tell yourself
This is not my beautiful house!
And you may tell yourself
This is not my beautiful wife!

Letting the days go by/let the water hold me down
Letting the days go by/water flowing underground
Into the blue again/after the money’s gone
Once in a lifetime/water flowing underground.

Same as it ever was...same as it ever was...same as it ever was...
Same as it ever was...same as it ever was...same as it ever was...
Same as it ever was...same as it ever was...

Water dissolving...and water removing
There is water at the bottom of the ocean
Carry the water at the bottom of the ocean
Remove the water at the bottom of the ocean!

Letting the days go by/let the water hold me down
Letting the days go by/water flowing underground
Into the blue again/in the silent water
Under the rocks and stones/there is water underground.

Letting the days go by/let the water hold me down
Letting the days go by/water flowing underground
Into the blue again/after the money’s gone
Once in a lifetime/water flowing underground.

And you may ask yourself
What is that beautiful house?
And you may ask yourself
Where does that highway go?
And you may ask yourself
Am I right? ...am I wrong?
And you may tell yourself
My god!...what have I done?

Letting the days go by/let the water hold me down
Letting the days go by/water flowing underground
Into the blue again/in the silent water
Under the rocks and stones/there is water underground.

Letting the days go by/let the water hold me down
Letting the days go by/water flowing underground
Into the blue again/after the money’s gone
Once in a lifetime/water flowing underground.

Same as it ever was...same as it ever was...same as it ever was...
Same as it ever was...same as it ever was...same as it ever was...
Same as it ever was...same as it ever was...

Sunday Scriblings

Xocolatl

…And when after the monkey had ciphered for the twins, the father presented the sacred pod. The twins had survived the bloody ordeal and their oldest sister remained in captivity no more. By the Olmec ways, she had been set free when she obtained the maize and rendered the sweet cane of its juice. The monkey took the juice and heated it with sacred water at the comal pot as the twins tore into the pod and peeled the seed sacks into the fire below.

The toasted pods, nearly charred black, were pulled from the flames and placed on the grinding stone with the corn kernels. Xocolatl, the spirit bird of the pod tree, presented his boiling mixture to the monkey and the twins opened their mouths to take the odor of the sacrificial elixir past their bloodied tongues and into their noses. The spirit bird was free to join his mate and nest in the Xoco tree.

Obedient to the codes of the monkey and in line with the Star Cave of Sacred Water, the twins knelt beside the comal pot and waited for sister to combine the brown meal with the elixir. She proceeded (with the nod of her father), as monkey busied himself with the task of final rite. Father added his own touch with the little red and green chiles. The heat from the fire was no match for the chiles. Bitter and heat now combined - the father and daughter left the twins behind in the cave mouth with monkey.

Not a sound from voice or strained muscle could be heard over the chanting and drums. She danced in a soft swaying rhythm behind her father, un-noticed. When monkey returned, alone, father and daughter entered the cave depths, noting the empty vessel. The Xocolatl had been consumed. Now it was her turn. She led her father by the hand into the darkness. Up ahead, little flames, paired with the twins, danced and flared in the caves’ wind. She recognized the silhouettes and drew between the twins, head bowed in silence.

Father removed the sacred obsidian from his waist pouch and handed it to the twin known as Pa’ Xal- first born. His movement was swift with direct intent- as though he had familiarity with the tool. Her last look was not in horror. Her brow drew tight and then relaxed in submission to the gravity of death. In crimson reflections, the twins embraced and sighed in relief that their ordeal had ended. The limp body of their sister would be carried off by the cave lice.

Father lingered behind a while but the boys ascended into the jungles’ light. The first words, spoken, were not intended to disrespect. Tok’ Xal simply remarked that he hoped that, someday, his daughter would not have to die in the annual Xocolatl rite. Brother added, “The bitterness of the elixir will always remind me of this day.” Father exited the cave and led the twins back to the canals by the Xoco tree. The birds danced for them as they walked by, un-noticed.

http://www.cocoapro.com/index.jsp

e Plurbis Unum

Many colors
Many races
Many faces
Many ethnicities
Many nations
Many cultures
Many tribes
Many languages
Many...

One God.
God is not a man that HE should respect the boundaries, borders and abilities of man.
One God.
Behold, O' Isreal! The LORD your God is ONE!
One God. One vision.
See?
Not with your eyes. Do you see with the eyes of God?
One God.

By many, ONE.
We is.
Show me your we.

Spring

I call this "Spring Training." Taken in early March on a rare Oregon day.

Chaos and String theorists... feast your eyes on the complexity of the creator.

And still, we claim, as the ancients did (Thales of Miletus and Aristoltle), every thing in nature can be explained by mathemetical expressions. I say, no.

Embrace the mystery. Fall in love with the designer of your heart. Beauty is not for you to possess. Beauty is seeing what the heart of God sees. Take time to find the joy that can be in each moment. Stop trying to explain everything. Breathe.

The Beholder of the Eye

Inspiration.
Mystery.
Fascination.
Passion.

Do you have it? Really have it? Not by a little muse demanding your soul and providing only a cute little lymmerick....

Do you have The Beholder of The Eye? Do you see the world through the heart of GOD?

Don't just look though your camera or the view-screen. The heart of GOD is not some megapixelation or digital manipulation.

Capture the heart of GOD.

Show me what your God sees. I dare you. Is it in you?

Who can show the heart of God?

Post your reply with a photo; a picture of Gods' heart...

Spring Training

Easter, 2006. Along the Kingfisher Trail at Jackson Bottom Wetlands and the Tualatin River.

Sunday Scribbling on Monday

When We were Wee

Ten year old Tom had to run up to his baseball practice at the local elementary.
His chubby lil' brother (me), followed behind. "Tag-a-long!"
After minutes of warmups and jumpng jacks the stragglers had all arrived.
I sat and watched.
On occasion I fetched a stray ball or foul tip.
Later, as the the afternoon sun turned the field side-ways, I wandered into a farmers' lot.
The ground was hard with funny smelling salty spots where nothing would grow.

Big bro' yelled me down and I hid in the tan and flaxen grasses.
Slowly the team left the green grass and wandered over to the tall white-washed fence.
They were whispering and buzzing and making noises that left my ears confused.
I lookeed up to see all of them, but Tom, standing on the top rail, covering their mouths.

Tom chased me down and tackled me.
I didn't see him coming.

He grabbed my obtuse head with crew-cut spikes behind my ears and slowly spoke with certainty.
"B i g B u l l. F o l l o w m e. D o n ' t m a k e a n o i s e."
Looking at his face in terror I noticed behind him a small dead tree laden with small birds.
Were these the vultures that wait in broods for carrion, like me?

Crawling on bellies, scraping elbows on the hard pan of the bull-pen, fear.
After sneaking out the bottom fence rail, unnoticed by the monstrous horned beast
I noticed that my brother had pee'd his pants.
Then, I felt something warm and wet on me.

We had Wee-Wee'd.

My First Entry

WE IS.


That's why I want your digital photos.

Behind the veil of a buning bush, Moses asked "and by what name shall I call you?"

His eyes saw the bush; burning but not consumed.

His ears heard the words- I AM. "I am" is decent english grammar. But in the context of a post-exodus Hebraic/Egyptian tongue - it can be best translated, "We is (that we were and will be)."

Yes, GOD announces Himself, WE IS. Even though it breaks the conventions of proper linguistics, GOD replies by describing HIS true state of being.

God, in the plural. Plurality in Unity (caps are mine- out of respect for the Creator not for the gods of grammar).

What do we do with this? Do we turn away in confusion and wonder? Do we shrug off the cute little story about Moses- as nothing more than legend/myth? Do we seek to fully embrace the mystery of the Trinity and walk in faith?

I choose the latter. I choose the mystery. I walk by faith and now seek to find how the the ME is able to embrace the WE. Yes, I include myself in the WE because, as the Israelites still say, "God is Holy, therefore, be Holy."

I attempt to do this by: making myself a servant, living like a slave to the love of GOD, practicing the search for the mystery of WE IS.

I look for the WE IS by simply seeing the world the way it is and the way GOD sees it. By the way I really think God needs Bucky and Ace kicked off American Idol. Elliot rocks!

I have also recently purchased a new monster-camera. I'm enjoying expressing my faith as a kind of visual Haiku. Faith and a novice approach to digital photography is what leads me here. I BLOG, therefore, WE IS.

Please. If you post a reply- INCLUDE A PHOTO- ONE THAT SPEAKS OF THE CREATOR.