Mesquite to Caliente

Not far from Mesquite (Nevada, that is), there's a beautiful road

ABUNDANT Flora

that goes north to Caliente. It's only suitable for the intrepid as there are one, maybe two dry-wash crossings that have larger gravel and one or either are capable of intimidation.

From the viewpoint of the car, 

this barrel coquettishly peeked over the top of the bush.

But the abundance of cacti, the flowers in March (the month, not lockstep), the SOLITUDE, make it an Overlander's "must do."

There's a canyon with, if you're lucky, a train on one side, and even if you're NOT lucky, a beautiful river next to the road. At the same time, it's hard-core desert, stark, rocky...appealing only to "that kind."

The Heat...

Was Intense (107 - 114 Fahernheit)

I hesitate to mention it because so few know of it. Other vehicles are usually the folks who live along the road and the occasional tourist, like myself.

Write if you're interested and I'll give you the Exit number (off I-15) and a few more particulars.

Camo Cactus

Camo Brecchia

Sam of Sam & Serena

For the past two months, Michelle has been the primary caretaker of Sam & Serena. Serena is a plump, no-nonsense Tabby who prefers to lie on her chaise until dinner is served, then return there to watch Sam at his entertainments.

Michelle introduced Sam to "Stick under the towel" a self-explanatory game. It's brought out Sam's inner tiger and is now a beloved obsession. He can hardly WAIT! Teeth & Claws! HAH!!!

So it was a complete shock when Michelle lay down on the floor to begin the game. Provoked by grief over several recent losses and one major impending (yerz trooly), she'd gone on a sugar-binge the day before. The resultant anger with herself, the culture (she's always been "too fat") and the depression had brought her to despondence.

Sam ignored the stick and towel and, stepping onto her stomach, he climbed onto her back and began rubbing his head against the back of hers. He then lay down on her shoulder.

And the look of tenderness in his eye...

It didn't relieve her mood, but it helped.

And then they played!!

Edward Burtynsky

He was mentioned in Diane Ackerman's  One Hundred Names for Love: A Memoir. I didn't note the context but these photos show why America has been left behind; it hain't pretty.

Burtynsky is better known for his landscapes. (Wiki article.)

China Photos...

https://www.edwardburtynsky.com/projects/photographs/china  (click on the photos to largen them)

It's interesting to consider that even the Bud-swilling TV-watcher whose only concerns are the size of her/his/it's tires or guns has left the Puritan ethic behind and refuses to take on the mind-numbing jobs at compensation beneath a "living" wage.

What will become of the billions of Chinese as their mind-numbing Zen, or whatever, is left behind and they covet MORE STUFF?

Only time will tell, but Burtynsky's photos show some of the impacts on the "environment." ("Oh, fuck, another tree-hugger! Honey, would you get me another beer?)

May you live in interesting times.

Ah.....and if you think at all, allow me to encourage you to get a vasectomy. YOU may be able to endure the thrill of fast cars and the joys of monogamy, but god help your children. It's likely they'll need respirators to go outside and there won't be much "outside" to go to. Hot Damn! Let's Go! Way to hustle!!

The World Owes Them Ecstasy

By Lisa Buscani

The best lovers in the world                           
                                                                           
                    shifted from foot to nervous foot                      
                                                                           
                    in anticipation of gym class                           
                                                                           
                    smacked with the hot of dodge ball                     
                    red                                                    
                                                                           
                    as the ancient mark of victim                          
                    passes                                                 
                                                                           
                    to this year’s wuss or pussy.                          
                                                                           
                    they looked over their shoulders                       
                                                                           
                    as bitchy giggles sealed behind                        
                    smoother lips.                                         
                                                                           
                    today they are being                                  
                    punished,

                    teased into eating                            
                    disorders                                              
                                                                           
                    no one says what for.                                  
                                                                           
                    
                    The best lovers in the world                           
                                                                           
                    combed their wet hair into                             
                                                                           
                    some semblance of respectability,                      
                                                                           
                    breathed against the heaviness                         
                                                                           
                    of a temporarily unused lung,                          
                                                                           
                    and hoped that toilet was clean.                       
                                                                                                                                                                     

                                                      
                    They bit the skin from their lips,                     
                                                                           
                    cut where no one could see,                            
                                                                           
                    peeled the soles of their feet,                        
                                                                           
                    to snake from that shell of                            
                    derision                                               
                                                                           
                    to the body and face and spirit                        
                                                                           
                    which could withstand that unwanted                    
                    light.                                                 
                                                                           
                   
                    The best lovers in the world                           
                                                                           
                    remember who they had to be                            
                                                                           
                    on those wincing, bright-chilled                       
                    mornings,                                              
                                                                           
                    those bone-angled afternoons,                          
                                                                           
                    and they try to forget it in your                      
                    skin;                                                  
                                                                           
                    they take the numb moments full                        
                                                                           
                    of all the falling we can know                         
                                                                           
                    and kiss them away,                                    
                                                                           
                    remembering with eyes and hands                        
                                                                           
                    that selective amnesia is passion’s                    
                    best reward.                                           
                                                                           
                    once-frayed nails trace                                
                                                                           
                    the down of necks and backs,                           
                                                                           
                    the split of ass,                                      
                                                                           
                    the vee-hollow thigh.                                  
                                                                           
                    once bruised lips drag from spine                      
                    knot to knot                                           
                                                                           
                    fed on a combination of intuition                      
                    and need.                                              
                                                                           
                    your breath’s slow rhythm                              
                                                                                                                       

                    the earth’s only time piece,                           
                                                                           
                    your final fold                                        
                                                                           
                    no final arrival,                                      
                                                                           
                    your moan the signpost                                 
                                                                           
                    of unimagined winnings.      

                          
                                                                           
                    The best lovers know                                   
                                                                           
                    The world owes them ecstasy.                           
                                                                           
                    And they will collect.

That Explains It

....the tradition of the bride carrying the groom over the threshold. Oh, no,..wait; that's only for couples with interchangeable pronouns. Oh well...Once Upon a Time....

I was surfing (the web) and found Dr. Seuss's website:   https://www.drseussart.com/secretandarchive

where the painting below is featured.

Below is the full link...with the explanation.


https://www.drseussart.com/secretandarchive/abduction-of-the-sabine-womanhttps://www.drseussart.com/secretandarchelow is ive/abduction-of-the-sabine-woman


I mean...just LOOK at that woman's bottom!!! How could you RESIST?!!!

Directions by Billy Collins

Remind me if you saw this here. Or perhaps it was on Poem Bouquet. But I like it enough to repeat it. To give credit where credit is due....here's where I got it.

Directions

You know the brick path in back of the house,
the one you see from the kitchen window,
the one that bends around the far end of the garden
where all the yellow primroses are?
And you know how if you leave the path
and walk up into the woods you come
to a heap of rocks, probably pushed
down during the horrors of the Ice Age,
and a grove of tall hemlocks, dark green now
against the light-brown fallen leaves?
And farther on, you know
the small footbridge with the broken railing
and if you go beyond that you arrive
at the bottom of that sheep’s head hill?
Well, if you start climbing, and you
might have to grab hold of a sapling
when the going gets steep,
you will eventually come to a long stone
ridge with a border of pine trees
which is as high as you can go
and a good enough place to stop.

The best time is late afternoon
when the sun strobes through
the columns of trees as you are hiking up,
and when you find an agreeable rock
to sit on, you will be able to see
the light pouring down into the woods
and breaking into the shapes and tones
of things and you will hear nothing
but a sprig of birdsong or the leafy
falling of a cone or nut through the trees,
and if this is your day you might even
spot a hare or feel the wing-beats of geese
driving overhead toward some destination.

But it is hard to speak of these things
how the voices of light enter the body
and begin to recite their stories
how the earth holds us painfully against
its breast made of humus and brambles
how we who will soon be gone regard
the entities that continue to return
greener than ever, spring water flowing
through a meadow and the shadows of clouds
passing over the hills and the ground
where we stand in the tremble of thought
taking the vast outside into ourselves.

Still, let me know before you set out.
Come knock on my door
and I will walk with you as far as the garden
with one hand on your shoulder.
I will even watch after you and not turn back
to the house until you disappear
into the crowd of maple and ash,
heading up toward the hill,
piercing the ground with your stick

– Billy Collins (link to his Wiki page)

Two Worth Considering

For Brainpickings, DONATING = LOVING.

Send her some love.

https://www.brainpickings.org/2020/07/17/viktor-frankl-yes-to-life-love-music/


For Bizarro, donating equals having your name chanted around the fire. Get chanted!

Watch for the sentence: "Creativity is an innate human ability, so it will not disappear entirely but it must be nurtured."

https://www.bizarro.com/blog/2020/6/28/fake-news