Terry Towel Day

Terry Towel Day

Terry Towel Day

Happy reading.

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Now I dream of droughts in California

Now I dream of droughts in California

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Painterly Pleasures

(Inspired by Physics – Focus: Oil Droplets Form Surprising Structures)

Found this again today:

Quand vous serez bien Veille (Ronsard)

Quand vous serez bien vieille, au soir, à la chandelle,
Assise auprès du feu, dévidant et filant,
Direz, chantant mes vers, en vous émerveillant :
Ronsard me célébrait du temps que j’étais belle.

Lors, vous n’aurez servante oyant telle nouvelle,
Déjà sous le labeur à demi sommeillant,
Qui au bruit de mon nom ne s’aille réveillant,
Bénissant votre nom de louange immortelle.

Je serai sous la terre et fantôme sans os :
Par les ombres myrteux je prendrai mon repos :
Vous serez au foyer une vieille accroupie,

Regrettant mon amour et votre fier dédain.
Vivez, si m’en croyez, n’attendez à demain :
Cueillez dès aujourd’hui les roses de la vie.

— Sonnets pour Hélène, 1587 (via Bewildering Stories)

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I am winding down for summer, but here is a little bouncer for now: the SproingBok! More… 

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Caballos de Cavalia

Cavalia Odysseo

An amazing show: Cavalia’s  Odysseo. My snaps don’t do it justice- they do look better in sepia though. Photography is not allowed (yes, person with the annoying flash) during the show, but we could take some snaps in the stables afterwards. The horses were tired after their intense work-out and more interested in their food by then- lots of heads in buckets and in straw. So many different breeds: Appaloosa, Arabian, Ardennais, Belgian, Canadian (“the little iron horse”), Comtois, Criollo, Lippizan, Lusitano, Oldenberg, Paint, Percheron, Quarter horse, Spanish purebred, Warmblood. Only a few stallions (about 7?) and the rest all geldings, with more than 60 horses in the show. Apparently it is very hard to train the stallions; they want to fight all the time. And there are no mares!

I enjoyed the human acrobatics. How fit these people must be.

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The Wretchedest Rock


The saddest rock with the saddest seeds. Despite hoping and wishing that it had rather been Mister Chipmunk’s evil axe-murdering uncle who had drowned, and not him…he did not return. Oh, woe.

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Magnolia Medley

magnolia1 magnolia2 magnolia3 magnolia4 magnolia5

The magnolias are out! These were meant to make me less maudlin…

With work being done on the deck I have been letting the dogs out into the courtyard. There is just too much barking and growling and eating people’s lunches. Sekia is helping out, as usual.

Nicole on toolbox

In the courtyard we have now opened the pond from its winter slumber.

The somewhat thinner chipmunk had woken and was sitting on Chipmunk Rock a couple of days ago. The silly, wonderful robins are building a nest in the large tree next to the garage- exactly where the masons will need to do their work. I do hope there are no eggs yet…

This morning,  I peered at  the debris that had settled on the pond bottom overnight. With great sadness I have to report that Mister Chipmunk has drowned and is lying under there, his little paws outstretched. Maybe the dogs had caught him unawares…

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Voce muto today: NaPoWriMo26 (ReBlog)

Originally posted on michelledevilliersartandstories:

The Nightingale Le Chanson du Rossignol: Canción de la RuiSeñora
Collage of a Torn Girl; Michelle de Villiers; Creative Commons

Philomela sad

lives in nightingale’s sweet song

rossignol the key

View original

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Hospice Eyes

Hospice Eyes, Acrylic Monotype

Hospice Eyes

hospice eyes

no deck of cards

no shelf of books

a world shrunk to a bed with rails

eyes light up as you grit

your teeth at hospice wails

who are you again my dear? do sit!

(acrylic monotype)

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Blind Edges

Blind Edges

Blind Edges

my eyes, my sensors,

scan the crimson pomegranate on the darkened table:

clenched kernels, a brain-fist;

some loose ones swimming- like the smallest squid

in a shadow sea

…before the picture then, came the sensor eye,

…then culture handprinted on cave walls

…those grunts floating between apes

…at last flattened into print…

these pomegranates are not conversing;

they have now turned black,

like an art statement of the cave hour;

my blind edges stay frayed,

but the pomegranates jeer with ghoulish faces

and ignite the  flee or fight response

(should we teach our machines to think in pictures first?)

my mirrored eyes of blind insight focus inward:

maybe our culture will desert us

and so too our consciousness,

when our mismanaged earth starts boiling

and a phase change

turns us back into rocks.


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