Thursday, March 30, 2017

"15,000 Years Later"

1.  Nikki McClure's paper cut:  15,000 Years Later.

2.  Coast Redwood seedling on my porch.  Ordered on-line from Trees of Mystery in Klamath, California.  Arrived in my mailbox on St. Patrick's Day.  Planted in memory of my father who died on St. Patrick's Day in 2003.  I hope that my seedling lives 2,000 years, if not 50,000.  The three redwood seeds that I planted in December did not sprout, but I have followed my intuition as did the man in my dream from last December.

3.  "Another, more beautiful America is arising ..." (Rebecca Solnit)

Sunday, March 26, 2017

Mothers and Dolls and Horses and Daughters / "Music is the best way to communicate"

Still thinking about my unbridled laughter mixed with tears in response to the video of the runaway horse, along with the one of the Tyrannosaurus Rex making a snow angel and making its uneven way through the snowy landscape and how those tears and that laughter relate to experiencing some peace in connection with my mother, who died in 1994.  If she were still alive, she would be 101 years old on April 30. Maybe not peace.  Maybe just losing my fear of the Tyrannosaurus Rex mother and meeting the gentle looking child that my mother was as she held her doll.

1.  My mother as a 4-year-old girl in St. Paul, Minnesota, in 1920, holding a beloved doll.  My mother said that she always wanted to have children, from an early age.

2.  My mother as a young woman in the 1930s in Los Angeles.

3.  Me in our apartment in San Mateo, California, with my red horse, 21 months old, Easter Day.

4.  Me at 2 years old with my red horse.  My mother did not seem to like me and my sisters or my father, and I did not like dolls or ever picture myself being married.  When my mother brought me to a toy store and asked me to choose a doll, I angrily refused to choose a doll.  I remember that moment so clearly.  I wanted a boyfriend from a very early age but believed I would never have one because I was unloveable, that no one would ever want to marry me.

5.  The orange horse with the purple mane and red-violet bridle that I drew when I was 5 years old.

6.  My mother, my youngest sister, and me just before I turned 8 years old, when I was starting riding lessons at Rohn Stables, not far from where we lived in Redwood City, California.  I was not afraid of horses, but I was deeply afraid of my mother's anger.  When I saw the movie "Jurassic Park," around the time my mother died, the terrifying Tyrannosaurus Rex reminded me of my mother.  I could not imagine growing up and having children and being as unhappy and angry as my mother seemed to be.

I've probably posted all these photos before.  I am seeing them with new eyes.

"Music is the best way to communicate" (Toumani Diabate)

Friday, March 24, 2017

We shall be released in unexpected ways

When I was a young girl I took English horseback riding lessons at Stanford Riding Academy.  My mother was a natural born horsewoman and wanted her three daughters to have the wonderful experience she had with horses as a young woman in her 20's, but none of us inherited her gift with horses.  One of the many horses I rode was named Beau. Beau was very much like the horse in the YoutTube video in that he had a mind of his own.  Beau ran away with me on several occasions and once stopped abruptly, and I flew over his head and landed on my feet on the ground in front of him.  Shaking in my boots, I climbed back up on Beau.  I clearly remember my tears and frustration.  I wanted so much to be good at riding horses like my mother, but I simply didn't have what it took.

It's been a long time since I laughed in the way I did watching this video and the one on my previous post with the Tyrannosaurus Rex making a snow angels and wandering off into a snowy landscape. Something is shifting inside me, with the arrival of both tears and laughter.

I would not have found the horse that made me laugh if I hadn't searched for, found, and listened to the video below.  For some reason, the horse video in the sidebar caught my attention.  Who knows why.

Monday, March 13, 2017

A medical term. Plicate: being folded, tucked, or ridged, especially like a fan. Not to be confused with placate.

Still thinking about The Neverending Story and Bob Dylan's Neverending Tour and Charlie Chaplin and "The Dictator."

And current events.

In the end of the book, Bastian cannot remember his own name, but Atreyu (his mirror image) steps in and makes a promise to complete Bastian's unfinished stories.

A younger friend of mine commented that she was mourning the disappearance of Bob Dylan as she listened the cuts that have been released from "Triplicate." She said she was grateful to have all his previous work to listen to.  She asked me for an explanation.  I don't have one.

All I know is that I keep hearing the sound of Bob Dylan's voice in my mind and my heart.  That's good enough for me.

Playing with words today.  Triplicate.  Threefold.  Triptych.  Fans. Covers. Prayers like rhymes.  Liner notes from "John Wesley Harding":

There were three kings and a jolly three too. The first one had a broken nose, the second, a broken arm and the third was broke. "Faith is the key!" said the first king. "No, froth is the key!" said the second. "You're both wrong," said the third, "the key is Frank!

"... With your holy medallion which your fingertips plicate ..."

Sad Eyed Lady of the Lowlands
With your mercury mouth in the missionary times,
And your eyes like smoke and your prayers like rhymes,
And your silver cross, and your voice like chimes,
Oh, do they think could bury you?
With your pockets well protected at last,
And your streetcar visions which you place on the grass,
And your flesh like silk, and your face like glass,
Who could they get to carry you?
Sad-eyed lady of the lowlands,
Where the sad-eyed prophet says that no man comes,
My warehouse eyes, my Arabian drums,
Should I put them by your gate,
Or, sad-eyed lady, should I wait?
With your sheets like metal and your belt like lace,
And your deck of cards missing the jack and the ace,
And your basement clothes and your hollow face,
Who among them can think he could outguess you?
With your silhouette when the sunlight dims
Into your eyes where the moonlight swims,
And your match-book songs and your gypsy hymns,
Who among them would try to impress you?
Sad-eyed lady of the lowlands,
Where the sad-eyed prophet says that no man comes,
My warehouse eyes, my Arabian drums,
Should I put them by your gate,
Or, sad-eyed lady, should I wait?
The kings of Tyrus with their convict list
Are waiting in line for their geranium kiss,
And you wouldn't know it would happen like this,
But who among them really wants just to kiss you?
With your childhood flames on your midnight rug,
And your Spanish manners and your mother's drugs,
And your cowboy mouth and your curfew plugs,
Who among them do you think could resist you?
Sad-eyed lady of the lowlands,
Where the sad-eyed prophet says that no man comes,
My warehouse eyes, my Arabian drums,
Should I leave them by your gate,
Or, sad-eyed lady, should I wait?
Oh, the farmers and the businessmen, they all did decide
To show you the dead angels that they used to hide.
But why did they pick you to sympathize with their side?
Oh, how could they ever mistake you?
They wished you'd accepted the blame for the farm,
But with the sea at your feet and the phony false alarm,
And with the child of a hoodlum wrapped up in your arms,
How could they ever, ever persuade you?
Sad-eyed lady of the lowlands,
Where the sad-eyed prophet says that no man comes,
My warehouse eyes, my Arabian drums,
Should I leave them by your gate,
Or, sad-eyed lady, should I wait?
With your sheet-metal memory of Cannery Row,
And your magazine-husband who one day just had to go,
And your gentleness now, which you just can't help but show,
Who among them do you think would employ you?
Now you stand with your thief, you're on his parole
With your holy medallion which your fingertips fold,
And your saintlike face and your ghostlike soul,
Oh, who among them do you think could destroy you?
Sad-eyed lady of the lowlands,
Where the sad-eyed prophet says that no man comes,
My warehouse eyes, my Arabian drums,
Should I leave them by your gate,
Or, sad-eyed lady, should I wait?

Sunday, March 12, 2017

Seeds of a longer post on Bob Dylan

Spirit on the Water
Spirit on the water
Darkness on the face of the deep
I keep thinking about you baby
I can't hardly sleep
I'm traveling by land
Traveling through the dawn of the day
You're always on my mind
I can't stay away
I'd forgotten about you
Then you turned up again
I always knew
That we were meant to be more than friends
When you are near
It's just as plain as it can be
I'm wild about you, gal
You ought to be a fool about me
Can't explain
The sources of this hidden pain
You burned your way into my heart
You got the key to my brain
I've been trampling through mud
Praying to the powers above
I'm sweating blood
You got a face that begs for love
Life without you
Doesn't mean a thing to me
If I can't have you
I'll throw my love into the deep blue sea
Sometimes I wonder
Why you can't treat me right
You do good all day
Then you do wrong all night
When you're with me
I'm a thousand times happier than I could ever say
What does it matter
What price I pay
They're braggin' about your sugar
Brag about it all over town
Put some sugar in my bowl
I feel like laying down
I'm as pale as a ghost
Holding a blossom on a stem
You ever seen a ghost? no
But you've heard of them
I see you there
I'm blinded by the colors I see
I take good care
Of what belongs to me
I hear your name
Ringing up and down the line
I'm saying it plain
These ties are strong enough to bind
Now your sweet voice
Calls out from some old familiar shrine
I got no choice
Can't believe these things would ever fade from your mind
I could live forever
With you perfectly
You don't ever
Have to make a fuss over me
From East to West
Ever since the world began
I only mean it for the best
I want to be with you any way I can
I been in a brawl
Now I'm feeling the wall
I'm going away baby
I won't be back 'til fall
High on the hill
You can carry all my thoughts with you
You've numbed my will
This love could tear me in two
I wanna be with you in paradise
And it seems so unfair
I can't go to paradise no more
I killed a man back there
You think I'm over the hill
You think I'm past my prime
Let me see what you got
We can have a whoppin' good time.


Friday, March 10, 2017

From Stardust to Political World and The Neverending Tour

This morning I received an email from with "Stardust" from "Triplicate," the three CD set that Bob Dylan is releasing this month.  Immediately following "Stardust" on YouTube was "Political World."

John Goodman said,  "Just working with him, because if you try to read anything into him or try to interpret anything but just face value, you could get yourself in trouble."

For the first time since was 14 years old, I will not be buying Bob Dylan's latest offering because I really can't afford it.  However, I will listen to the copy that our public library will inevitably purchase for its collection.

Just finished reading The Neverending Story, by Michael Ende, translated from German.  Timely.  A friend had recommended it. Otherwise I never would have read it.  Why?  It was too popular. However, I did wonder if there was a connection between the book and Bob Dylan's Neverending Tour.

Tuesday, March 7, 2017

Mandala #25: Evolution of Forgiveness Revisited

Finished this early this morning.  Started it a few months ago. December, I think.  There was nothing except the black center until sometime in the last few weeks.

Listen to Sean Lennon talk about "The Conscious Universe":

This series of interviews took place in 2010 when Sean Lennon was 35, the year John Lennon would have turned 70.