72 hours is my limit. Beyond that and reality gets twisted; things turn ugly. Tomorrow we'll have been here, in ABQ, a week. I recently read about a book: When Breathe Becomes Air in which the author cites a line from Samuel Beckett's The Unnamable; it's the title of this post. I first read Waiting for Godot at age 16...on acid. As it did then, it inspires guffaws, even when things seem too much. When Joe Pesce and Tricklock Theater performed it back in '82 (?) I laughed so hard I fell off my chair. I tho't it odd that the rest of the audience wasn't laughing. I have several copies of Waiting For Godot, the library has the book about breathing. I have yet to read The Unnamable.There're 47 holds on 29 copies on the breath book and as of a few minutes ago there are 4,508 reviews on Amazon. I was impressed by how well-written the one-star reviews, comprising 1%, are. And after reading a few I decided not to enter the "hold" queue. The trips, the driving ones, have themes. The last one was titled Existential Dilemma. It characterized the year. My (calling) card and the blog featured a picture of me, shirtless, tits nearly dragging the ground (teats give milk; tits don't.), struggling to open a beer at 9:00 in the morning. I don't usually "drink" that early, but this was a special occasion and I was attempting to rise to it.
Death has been in the forefront for many of us these recent years. Sometimes I wonder how you...anyone, can go on. Serendipitously, I ran across this... A Hopi Prophecy (This could be a good time!)
...and went back and found this: http://squishytulips.blogspot.com/2015/12/meditative-joyful-magnanimous.html Both convey that joie de vivre. I include 'em here for future reference. Unlike some folks who write for their readers, this is my way of keeping track of where I was when and what happened. But perhaps the above links'll resonate with you too. Thanks to RPM Automotive, Phoebe, my '96 Geo Tracker, now runs like a Swiss watch. And thanks to Koenig's Metalmorphosis she'll soon have a new chapeau (roof rack). Estimated date of departure is 10/13. In the meantime Smith is plotting tricks.
I have, for many years, made attempts at the accordion. Here's one from the oughts...you know -- ought one, ought two, ought seven.
The video was crafted by none other than Ms. Michelle D. Cook, cat-wrangler extraordinaire. I'm playing an expensive -- $40.00 -- toy that died an untimely death when it was put in storage. Heat melted the bees wax that held the reeds in place. It was in Port Orford, Oregon the other day that I was inspired --- you know who you are -- to once again search for an instrument. Smith and I drove to Jemez Springs to look at one seen on Craigslist. The Fall colors are just getting going and the afternoon light gave truth to the phrase Land of Enchantment. If you're touring on highway 4 you might enjoy the side trip on 485 to The Tunnels. The accordion was too big.
In the olde days it was a dangerous place. Passersby would throw bottles and share their local humor. An example: Wanta lift? Stick a jack up yer ass! (H'yuk, h'yuk, h'yuk.) Times have changed. Now they welcome people from all over the world. Well, they welcome their money, anyway. The Indian Market at the exit beyond the east end of town had a new paint job so I stopped to check it out. After the five minute tour of the China-made tommy-hawks I strolled out into the sun to be met with a pleasant, "Nice day isn't it?" Raymond Clark, Sr., an artist, offered to show me another gallery. I followed to the Love's Truck stop/Denny's where the quality was better but boring. I think he must have been testing me 'cuz the next one was it! Some of the most original work I've seen. Over 40 artists. Arizona Indian Arts is small but the quality is astounding! 202 E 2nd Street, on the corner of Williamson Ave and 2nd St. (the one-way (Rt 66) going east). Ph: 928-221-1950 (closed and gone when I passed thru in Oct. 2023)
Lawrence E. Melendez, owner/artist (above) knows everyone personally and can answer any question. I bought this 4 1/2 inch by 3 and 3/4 inch, inkjet print by Joe Maktima for $20.00. This is a terrible photo, it doesn't show the depth of color, but I didn't want to take it out of the cellophane. My collector days are over, but the gifts may sit around for a while before finding homes.
They are my new heros. Although Christine died in June of 2010 of cancer and Otto entered the Mercedes museum in Stuttgart, Gunther is somewhere in Bavaria. I surmise he's debating whether to go with a 3-cylinder Metro or a 1996 Tracker. Note the similarity. Otto - Gunther's vehicle
You were doing rolls and loops over Lovell Canyon, Nevada about 30 miles west of Las Vegas. I was camped in my 1996 Geo Tracker not far from a telephone line road when I saw the flash of your running lights. At first I was annoyed at the intrusion, but quickly realized what was up. The finale was spectacular! A death-defying triple, end-over-end cartwheel! Something I've never seen anyone do before! If you read this, please contact me, I'd appreciate the opportunity to congratulate you on your skills. My email is in my profile. Another sign...of the times?
Detail !!!!
For those who're curious.....COALATREE One more....
I had begun to to think we'd angered the gods. Camp after camp was too near a road, adjacent a shooting range, and in one amazing incident WAY the hell out in the wildest steppe of Central Oregon, several trucks, one pulling a 25' horse trailer full of dogs pulled up barely 300' away. Four women climbed out and began training the dogs. First up straddles her ATV and drives a quarter mile up the side of the nearby hill. From this vantage she can observe the dog's workings, but we're downwind. The breeze carried the shrill whistlings and the voice commands, calm and assured at first, were soon growing strident as the dog succumbed to the need to meet and greet us. I put on my pants and glared, but the distance was too far to be effective. Leaving, I stopped by to learn how they'd picked this spot out of the millions of surrounding acres. Contrary to what GPS assured was Nat'l Forest, I was politely informed I was on private land. It's been known to be wrong, but since they weren't the actual owners I shared my skepticism...and trundled off. Sheesh! And so it went. A week later I was reviewing some notes on campsites and realized we were sitting on the doorstep. Driving through the creek was cake for Phoebe and as we rounded the bend next to the tree we knew we were home.
Smith went wild. THIS was what she'd signed on for! She got a running start from the far side of the open area and flung herself half way up!
The stroll to Falls Creek Falls took us the better part of 2 1/2 hours. It's just under a mile and Smith walked most of the time. Her pace is similar to mine, stopping every couple of hundred feet to take in the view, sniff the flower and see what might be in this hole. She was on her palanquin (see banner image at top of blog) when the family with the lab came by. Ignoring the dog, she surprised us all when the boy, ageish 7, reached up to pet her and she let out a take-no-prisoners hiss. Embarrassed, I explained she was young and inexperienced, but her prosody prompted the grandfather to ask if she was some kind of wild cat. At camp I tried a game Sophie, who died in 2010, used to enjoy. Clomping heavily, in a crouch, with arms extended and fingers wriggling, I moved slowly toward her saying, "Closer...and closer. I'm gonna getchya." As with the child, she went on the offensive. With full Zucchini Tail and arched back, she advanced on stiff-legged tipee-toe -- leaving no question that I should be saying my prayers. Then she heard my hooting chuckle (see video).
Smith slipped into her new walking jacket as if she'd been handed a martini and told her fav suitor was at the door. We strolled over the bridge, then galloped down the trail.
This and the Metolius River are the cleanest I've seen in the lower 48.
Taking a bearing.
Nearing the end, she sought refuge in her palanquin from the press of the cheering crowds. The street-sweepers will be busy all night at the confetti.
