Not a primrose to be found,
at Hockanum Mills.
The daisies, all were dead.
The north wind blew, so fierce, and hard,
with feelings, I could not express..
Not a Primrose
Category: Uncategorized
Never Cry Wolf
For if you do, no one will ever believe you.
Thursday
Jupiter’s day in December. Midmorning – quiet. The subtle sound of an airplane was heard overhead and the simmering of the oatmeal on the stove sounded. A blue brightness surrounded. At 27 degrees it was cold, but as the afternoon wore on it never felt too cold to walk around outside. In fact it felt great to breathe the air into my lungs on my walk. A slight breeze rustled all day through the deep green hemlock promising a star would shine in the sky. The sun rose at 7:02 and set at 4:18 tagging on a couple more minutes of light. There was a new moon. A new moon, and another day were set in motion.
Thomson – Scottish poet (1700-174?)
A Beautiful Day!
Sky is Blue, breeze in the air, not too hot. Weather patterns fluctuate, reminds us of another season. Summer with Autumn is in the air!
Jesus Christ Superstar, last night. Brought me back to 1973. Revolutionary for young people. Religious education, a Catholic one. Jesus as a real man, with hopes, desires and dreams. Judas scorned Mary Magdalene, Christ defended her and said, “So what if she is different?”
Jesus was mobbed by the blind, the cripples, and the beggars, asking for a cure. Frustrated he screamed at the top of his lungs, “Heal yourselves!”
Scenes sculpted like baroque art, capture the height of emotion. Characters feel what we feel and show it in lyrics, tempo and intensity of the music. Action through dance. Transformation evolves.
Thoughts, reactions, remembering, on this halcyon day of summer, when Autumn stopped by and said, “Hello” The sad story of Jesus reminded me of the good, the bad and the ugly of every day. Christ died for our sins, a metaphor for life and death, our imperfect selves. Christ wanted better, from his fold, to have faith, hope, and be giving. Sinful existence of human beings, the dark side, of who we are.
Bear Lake
A few childhood memories of Lake Wapogasset-Bear Lake – I always had a burning desire to go there. Little cottages, built by my grandfather, dotted the scenic shore. One was left to my grandma. We sometimes went there, but there were so many of us. My mother had to keep an eye that we didn’t misbehave, especially the little ones. A vivid memory, only of an instant, comes to mind, like deja vu. I was sitting inside the cottage, and lamenting I could not make myself at home. We would leave, soon.
My Grandpa sold the lots, on Bear Lake. My Dad thought about buying one, but it didn’t happen. Years later, home with my own kids, my mom and and I went to the lake to see Uncle John and Jeanne. They acquired Grandma’s cottage when she died. John had his garage filled with his films, and movies, and assorted projects. He was an entertainer, of sorts. Francisco was along. John proudly took us for a ride in his boat, across the lake. There are photos, somewhere, tucked away in a box.
Segesta
Segesta is a magical archaeological site, located in the high hills of Northwestern Sicily. A visit in the late afternoon, when other tourists were heading out, allowed a mystical impression of a very special place.
Apparent facts escape me at this moment. Only that Segesta was occupied by various peoples, over thousands of years. The Greeks, of these parts, built the unfinished Doric Temple. The city, eventually conquered by other Greeks from Syracuse, was given another name, but was later won back, and returned to its old name of Segesta. In time, the Romans conquered Segesta, and because it was associated with Troy, they lifted the tributes most cities needed to pay, and gave it vast expansive lands. Segesta turned into the most powerful city state, in all the Mediterranean basin. In later centuries it was occupied by the Normans. There are even traces that Muslims resided this land.
Mainly, I was left with the exhilarating sensation, from climbing the high mountain to the Amphi-theater. The sun, lowering on the horizon cast a soft light on the many shades of lavender, white, red, and yellow flowers that swayed in the breeze, and lined the pathway. The arduous walk up the mountain afforded beautiful views of the surrounding valleys, and looking back, the splendid Temple, rose up to the sky.
A final walk down the hill and back up to the Temple, completed the experience. I stood in front of the golden structure, of thirty-six pillars, and walked around all four sides, with less than six other straggling tourists. The sun was even lower, and soft shadows rested against the golden colored stones. An un-explicable feeling of lost time, lingered in the air. It was then time to venture back, and leave the park.
Arrivederci Roma!
Testaccio
Friday afternoon on a plaza of a working class neighborhood in Rome. The recorded history of Testaccio goes back to 2BC. On the south side of Rome, early on it was a place to store discarded remnants from imports. In the nineteenth century it was industrial and lacked adequate sanitation, electricity, and water. Living conditions were abhorrent.
During the 20 century fascist regime of Mussolini, it became the home of middle class office workers.
Today it is becoming gentrified. Attracting a few tourists it is still untouched by crowds of people, and retains a pure Italian culture, and lifestyle.
In this neighborhood are the non catholic Cemetery, and the Faculty of Architecture of Roma Tre.
Along the Aurelian Wall
While the streets of Rome were packed with tourists, buzzing here and there, taking selfies at the Spanish Steps, or the Fontana di Trevi, my thoughts were set in motion by the many people over the centuries that have made a pilgrimage to this unbelievable landscape. A visit to see The Keats Shelley house is a case in point, of all the many reasons people come to Rome. Keats came because he knew he was going to die of TB and he didn’t want that to happen in his cold damp land, of England, so he said goodbye to his sister named Fanny and another love of his life also named Fanny, a woman he was never able to marry, because he could never provide for her.
At the end of the day, back in my safe place, I decided to set out on an early evening walk. With my camera I walked along the Aurelian wall and took this picture of these flowers bathed in sunlight. They seemed a perfect ending to celebrate the life of a great poet, named John Keats.
On Tiffany Creek 