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!!!

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.

So it was a complete shock when Michelle lay down on the floor to begin the game and 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)

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 themarginalian, 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

It's So Nice We Had This Time Together

Almost 9,000 ft (2.74km) not far from Los Alamos 

Annual Boot Cleaning (with fly swatter)

Hours Later

Mentioned in Diane Ackerman's

One Hundred Names For Love: A Memoir

about her husband's stroke

It got warm at mid-day

When she was 19 she had

one of these...and car-camped in it.

Parting is always tough

Home Movie

(only meaningful if you were there)

4wdr low needed to get to the hilltop idyll.

Way out in the woods,

I tried to view it as an art installation.

The Cure

Small Accidents Synchronicity...and Everything in Its Place

We left Albuquerque (that's the Royale WE, Phoebe and I) around 2:00 in the afternoon and over the next hour and a half made it about 25 miles to Tohajiilee. The sun was hot and we were exhausted from the exertions of departure.

I managed to clear enough space where the front passenger seat used to be to make room for my torso. My feet went atop the cooler....a sort of barque-o-lounger position with a hint of Pilates. I woke two hours later much refreshed. There was a Shaved Ice place about 300 feet (0.09km -- but I put it in FEET for you-know-who....she HATES the metric system!!) away but what with all the Covid & HPV going around, I passed.

ANYWAY, as luck would have it, one of those damn middle-of-the-night farts required a change of drawers. I got out two....Justin Case (he's a relative of Damfino Michelle discovered somewhere along the way).

This morning, when I went to arrange things before morning coffee, I tossed the soiled & chagrined toward the laundry bag and returned the "extra" to their proper place in the luggage. Something about putting things where they belong leant a kinesthesiatic delight to my first morning back outside. Once again I can FEEL what's happening...life isn't "enclosed" in a sheet-rock lozenge surrounded by pavement. And no crotch-rockets winding through their gears.

AAAAHHHHH! Bliss, or nearly; now where IS that woman?


Back in the saddle again, albeit with slightly loose bowels. (Aww, maaaaAAAAAN!!)

                                           

Nitrogen

On the morning of the 14th, the 6th anniversary of a previous attempt, I tried the nitrogen. It didn't work...at least not in the way I planned. But it, and the LSD the day before, relieved some of the tension and by the following evening, yesterday, when this photo was taken, we were at dinner and I was enjoying myself again.

Ramblin' Jack Elliott

Old Blue

For those who may be considering...setup was relatively easy (link is to a pdf), but the experience itself entailed some problems. To be sure...you'll need an adjustable wrench or one of the proper size to attach the regulator to the tank and an allen wrench to adjust the regulator from its factory setting of 100psi down to the suggested 12 psi.

Also, EXIT International cautions about structural changes that frequently occur in the face that can result in leakage. I was fortunate to find (on craigslist) a high-quality C-Pap mask with a silicone rim that I felt would be trustworthy. The mask was vented and I taped the vent closed. That made  breathing a little difficult and I had to lift the lower part a couple of times to get enough air. This too was, in the first phase, a bit exasperating as I expected the nitrogen to work more quickly than it did.

Also during the first phase I experienced some angina. I had a heart attack the first week of March and as the oxygen in my blood decreased, the pain in my chest increased. Expecting to soon lose consciousness, I withstood the pain for a while, but when, after about ten minutes I was still awake, I stopped the process and took some nitroglycerin. This quelled the angina after which, with increased enthusiasm, I climbed back into the mask.

(Note to those with arthritis or other debilitations: the mask has bands that go around the base of the scull and the back of the head and take a bit of wrangling.)

Round Two: I was now relaxed (a side affect of the nitrogen) and pleased to realize all anxiety had dissipated. I got comfortable and settled in for the final go. After about 15 minutes, still conscious, I realized that, and this is the hilarious part, my mindset had changed. I was now both angry at it having taken so long and -- apparently a side-affect of nitrogen -- simultaneously in a more positive frame of mind; I decided to hold off. I shut off the valves, one on the tank and a secondary on the regulator, and lay back to think. It took about two hours for my (alleged) mind to clear.

I recalled my favorite therapist telling me once that the sign of maturity was an individual's ability to tolerate ambivalence. I laughed aloud as I lay there, like a pig in a waller (of ambivalence) and thought, "Maybe some acid would help?" It did; it churned the milk and turned in into butter. I made some toast to go with it and, once again, decided to see what the morrow brings. Blue's a patient dawg.

Further!

Below is lifted from a website about piloting planes and the use of oxygen to stave off hypoxia. I thought you might find interesting the description of euphoria that accompanies hypoxia. When I tried it, I had none of the symptoms below other than the euphoria.

The common symptoms of hypoxia include increased breathing rate, dizziness, headache, sweating, reduced peripheral vision, and fatigue, but the most insidious symptom is a feeling of euphoria. Pilots suffering from hypoxia often experience a false sense of security rather than a sense of the danger inherent to this condition.

Hypoxia also impairs night vision. Because the rod cells in the eye, which give us night vision, require a lot of oxygen, a lack of oxygen causes visual impairment.

For pilots, hypoxia's adverse effects are described in terms of time of useful consciousness (TUC) and effective performance time (EPT).

TUC is a measure of your ability to function in a meaningful way. In other words, it's a kind of threshold on the pathway to becoming, first, something like a drooling fool, and second, unconscious and certifiably out of it.

EPT is defined as the time from the loss of significant oxygen to the time when you are no longer able to perform tasks in a safe and efficient manner. This is a dangerous condition, because hypoxia's onset is subtle. Pilots may think they're doing just fine — and in fact, may well have things under control — even though their EPT is dwindling away, and the countdown clock to unconsciousness is surely running. This false sense of well-being is, in itself, a symptom of hypoxia. But usually, at this point the pilot doesn't care.

People are not the same. Even though we've just been talking in terms of EPT and TUC guidelines, it's time for a reminder: Not all pilots have the same EPT or TUC. If you're a smoker, under a great deal of stress, or don’t exercise regularly to increase your heart rate, your EPT and TUC will be considerably shorter than the published guidelines. A pack-a-day cigarette smoker is physiologically hypoxic at sea level. The smoker's lungs are so damaged that they're incapable of absorbing as much oxygen as those of a nonsmoker, so at sea level, the smoker's blood-oxygen concentrations are already at the 7,000-foot level.

For this reason, smokers and those with more sedentary lifestyles lose consciousness faster at altitude than the smoke-free and fit, and they should begin using oxygen at altitudes lower than required by the regulations. Other day-to-day factors such as nutrition, alcohol use, and quality and amount of sleep can also affect your oxygen requirements. There's even evidence that poor air quality can lower your blood oxygen saturation level. Maybe that's why "oxygen bars" are seen in high pollution metropolitan areas like Los Angeles, Mexico City, Tokyo.

Doctors and hospital staff want to see your blood oxygen saturation level at 96 to 98 percent. That's considered normal. You can measure O2 saturation with a relatively inexpensive pulse oximeter that clips over your finger tip. A 100-percent level is as good as it gets, and 95 percent is considered a minimum. An oxygen saturation level below 90 percent is a warning sign. That's when patients — and pilots — begin to experience hypoxia.

Osprey Adventure

There's little to do in Albuquerque. The fact there're more Walmarts per capita than any other city in the nation speaks volumes about the "culture"...or lack thereof.  

A friend of Michelle's spotted this osprey nest at the north end of town. We went to see. It qualifies, given the other "opportunities" the town has to offer (covid or no) as an adventure.

The requisite documentarianist selfie...

I'm thinking I'll head for the west side of the Cascades in Oregon & Washington.

Elgin Marbles In Albuq

I returned to Albuquerque to resupply my meds before heading for the Oregon coast where, hopefully, it's cooler.

Over breakfast with Michelle (link to her art), the subject of the Elgin Marbles came up. After exhausting that topic we listened to several contemporary musical pieces performed in Medieval style by Hildegard von Blingin'.

Having returned to Nashville, Tennessee after a number of years in Germany and Japan, I acquired a dislike of country music. But Michelle (photo of her with Trixie) with her inimitable humor, decided upon this one (link is to video below) as the means of morning delight...as she reveled in my annoyance. (cat-person that she is).

Lords, of course, are renowned for their ability to be tripped and beat anyone to the floor.

This, of course, led to my expounding on how I was told by the professor to, "Sit down." when I gave my presentation in the art history class at the University of New Mexico. My argument, in my presentation, (Academic thesi, dissertations and monographs are often referred to as "arguments.") was that the art of the ages idolized by academicians had, in fact, no more validity than any other medium or product that fell (clunk!) into the category of fine art. THAT led (in Michelle's and my discussion) to Googling St. Hildegard von Bingen, composer of myriad monophonies and chants, here performed by Anonymous Four.

This in turn led to mentioning the castle near Bingen, one of two on islands in the Rhine River. This is the one we passed as we took the ferry across the river on our Sunday adventures to visit castles, salt mines, rivers full of agates and other places of interest.

As it appeared in my youth

Now

The other one: The Mouse Castle

It's wonderful having an encyclopedia at your fingertips, isn't it? (Not to mention the porn!!)

AQP4 - Multicultural Collaboration

https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC7072498/



Authors:

Shirin Katoozi

Division of Anatomy, Department of Molecular Medicine, Institute of Basic Medical Sciences, University of Oslo; 0315 Oslo, Norway

https://www.semanticscholar.org/author/Shirin-Katoozi/8508363

Nadia Skauli

Division of Anatomy, Department of Molecular Medicine, Institute of Basic Medical Sciences, University of Oslo; 0315 Oslo, Norway

https://www.researchgate.net/profile/Nadia_Skauli

Soulmaz Zahl

Division of Anatomy, Department of Molecular Medicine, Institute of Basic Medical Sciences, University of Oslo; 0315 Oslo, Norway;

https://www.researchgate.net/publication/339342113_Organisation_of_extracellular_matrix_proteins_laminin_and_agrin_in_pericapillary_basal_laminae_in_mouse_brain

Tushar Deshpande

Institute of Cellular Neuroscience, Medical Faculty, University of Bonn,Venusberg-Campus 1, 53127 Bonn, Germany

https://onlinelibrary.wiley.com/doi/full/10.1002/glia.23832

Pascal Ezan

Physiology and Physiopathology of the Gliovascular Unit Research Group. Center for Interdisciplinary Research in Biology (CIRB), College de France, Unité Mixte de Recherche 7241 CNRS, Unité1050 INSERM, PSL Research University, 75005 Paris, France

PUBLICATIONS

Claudia Palazzo

Department of Basic Medical Sciences, Neurosciences and Sense Organs, School of Medicine, University of Bari Aldo Moro, 70124 Bari, Italy

PUBLICATIONS

Christian Steinhäuser

Institute of Cellular Neuroscience, Medical Faculty, University of Bonn, Venusberg-Campus 1, 53127 Bonn, Germany

Antonio Frigeri

Department of Basic Medical Sciences, Neurosciences and Sense Organs, School of Medicine, University of Bari Aldo Moro, 70124 Bari, Italy

Martine Cohen-Salmon

Physiology and Physiopathology of the Gliovascular Unit Research Group. Center for Interdisciplinary Research in Biology (CIRB), College de France, Unité Mixte de Recherche 7241 CNRS, Unité1050 INSERM, PSL Research University, 75005 Paris, France

Ole Petter Ottersen 

Division of Anatomy, Department of Molecular Medicine, Institute of Basic Medical Sciences, University of Oslo; 0315 Oslo, Norway

Mahmood Amiry-Moghaddam

Division of Anatomy, Department of Molecular Medicine, Institute of Basic Medical Sciences, University of Oslo; 0315 Oslo, Norway

Dirty Cello - Don't Call Me Honey

Rebecca Roudman, Cellist

Dirtycello.com

Believe it or Not: There was a time in the not too distant past when women weren't even considered for stringed instrument positions in symphonies. Succumbing to pressure, in the '80s several instituted "blind" auditions in which the player was hidden behind a curtain. Slowly, but surely, the incursion occurred. As you can see for yourself in the above video, talent ain't limited to those with a dick....um, 'scuse me: penis.

The Face You Look Out Of - Poem Bouquet

https://poembouquet.blogspot.com/2020/07/jim-harrison-ted-kooser.html

Winona - Model of Adaptation

The title had something to do with aging. She, the author, encapsulated her thesis as:  adaptation. Her focus was on the physical aspects: grab-bars in the bath, using a cane, a walker.

I started using a stick a couple of years ago. But even still, I've found myself, several times, after gravity suddenly having its way with me, on the ground. Fortunately, so far, nothing but a few scratches and tears in the pants.

The phalanx below encapsulates the current State of Affairs. I keep hearing the woman's comment from the other day when -- seated next to each other -- her husband came forth from the blood-draw lab and tottered down the hall. Watching after his receding figure she commented, "Old age ain't for sissies." "I'm in trouble." I rejoined.






The interesting part is the empathy that's emerged. I've always had a soft spot for underdogs, but since the heart attack it now includes humans.

Trundling across the parking lot toward the library door, I recognized the woman I'd met several weeks earlier in the portico of a nearby church. I stopped to say hello and asked about the book in her lap. It was Michelle Obama's autobiography, Becoming, which she said was, "Really good." She added that there were several copies available; with her opinion as motivation, I determined to get one.

Entering the sanctum, a worker with squirt-bottle of antiseptic, mask tightly in place and obviously on a mission, let me button-hole her. I explained about Winona's recommendation and without ado she took me straight to it.

After plucking the HOLD I'd come for: What Light Can Do: essays on art, imagination and the natural world by Robert Hass, I exited and re-engaged with Winona. She was having dinner and told how several of the libraries have tower-like columns at their fronts. The architectural alliteration had caught her interest and she'd looked up the makers. She then told how four artists had been by earlier to check on the mural that spanned the face of the building. They were making sure that now, after fifteen years or so, it was holding up. Meeting them had been a high point of her day.

A couple of days ago I received a present: The Collected Writings of Robert Motherwell edited by Stephanie Terenzio. These three diverse and very different reads are providing solace in the early morning hours. Although the Smirket Room is cozy and Ms. Cook is nearby, I miss sitting in Phoebe, listening to the birds with coffee and waiting for it to warm up enough to attend to "morning bidness."

A Smirket is a black cat.

This, the Smirket Room, is where Dana & Fox, Susan's two Smirkets, spent much of their time after Susan, Michelle's mom, died in 2015.

Dana & Fox have since also gone on and I now have it to myself.

(The painting on the paneled wall is an acrylic by Michelle called Bigger & Better. A parody of cultural influence, the miniature poodle appears to be enjoying its blow-dry from a woman with big hair, big breasts and big everything else. The fellow in the background looks a tad unsure as he checks to see if he "measures up." Another dog, also a poodle, Michelle's metaphorical icon, looks on with trepidation.)

Winona's been on the street for several years. She has several paper sacks that contain a variety of foods and a couple of other bags with clothes and other items. She dresses casually, in jeans and a t-shirt, though I noticed her undershirt, as it was the time before, was purple. As she looks over the top of her wire-rimmed glasses, her eyes have that incisive look reminiscent of your third-grade teacher in the first weeks of school.

We chatted a bit about our previous encounter. Michelle had joined us on the portico where we'd lounged on the concrete discussing the collective unconscious and -- an interest of Winona's -- the importance of a healthful diet. When we got up to leave I gave her ten dollars. This time, in anticipation of a meeting around fungi, I happened to be carrying a wad of twenties and it was easy enough to part with one. She accepted it gratefully and as I turned to make the trundle to the car, we smiled at each other...sharing the pleasure of giving and receiving; giving away money has been a life-long source of pleasure.

Maybe some day I'll get the chance to tell her she's my model of adaptation; her attitude is amazing!

Morning Light

There are various protuberances -- hooks and handholds -- that'll hang a trash bag.

And it's serendipitous moments such as this that, for me, lend magic to life in a car.

Color & Form

With Steering Wheel

That Time of Month

Homes on Wheels Alliance (HOWA) has a number of programs, but it was their Emergency Fund for Nomads that helped me make it through a rough spot last Spring.

I like to move every day or two, three at the most, and though over the years, in an effort to save money, I've managed to lessen the distances, it's still an inexorable compulsion. I've forgotten the details of how and why, but in the 3rd week of April my wallet was empty. The HOWA Emergency Fund gave me $100.00, enough to get me through. (If you scroll down on the above link you'll see a Compassion Award and a Gas Fund distribution, both on 3/21/19; one of those was me.)

Bob Wells - Co-Founder

Now, at the beginning of the month, when my ship comes in, I make a small donation. I plan to do it the rest of my life. Their goal is $15k and they're just under $9K. Perhaps you too could give? Here's the link to their DONATE page.

Thanks HOWA!!

Their 2019 Annual Report (pdf).

Niner Delta Whiskey

Michelle (Double El) and I meet with Dr. Khoo, the cardiologist today. I hope to get some idea of my condition so something like this

doesn't happen. 

And though Phoebe's never been airborne and I rarely have a passenger, I don't want to endanger anyone.