A couple characters on a Friday night....

I went out to a neighborhood "Wendy's" last night to have a burger. When I 'eat in' I always try to sit so that I can watch the people coming in and out. That is, unless I've decided to read instead. Then I'll sit anywhere. I wasn't planning to be there long, so I hadn't bought any reading material with me. So, people watching it was.

Not a lot to look at until this 'old guy' came in. (What's an 'old guy'? Some would surely pin me as an 'old guy'!) He was short with a bald spot in front and white hair that was trailing down over the back of his collar, dressed in a black shirt and black pants. His belt was doing a valiant job of trying to keep his pants hitched up but was losing the battle to his stomach. Probably in his early 60's, I'd say.

My immediate guess was that he was a truck driver. Maybe it was the 'wallet chain' leading into his back pocket. Anyway. He sat down near me, and started in on his meal. I wasn't really paying that much attention to him except to notice his jaw working like a machine gumming his food into submission. He had what looked like envelopes in his shirt pocket, and he took these out to look at them while he ate. Turned out they were big scratch-off lottery tickets. I don't know enough about lottery tickets to tell how much they cost him, but based on the size of them, I doubt they were the variety that you get for a dollar.

These tickets were his evening's entertainment. As he consumed his meal he began methodically scratching away at them with the edge of a nickel. Based on the number of spaces he seemed to be uncovering, and the size of the card, I'm thinking that maybe they were some kind of Soduku game. Whatever they were, he was quite absorbed in it, and in no hurry to have it over with. I didn't see that he was getting anywhere, or winning anything, but it became apparent the winning would be a bonus. He was perfectly content to slowly reveal either the loss of his money or his big winnings. Now that's simple entertainment....

I got distracted from continuing to watch him when this other guy came into the restaurant. He was probably in his late 20's, thin, wearing a baseball cap and a t-shirt and shorts. None of which looked to have been laundered recently. He was clutching to his chest a black lap-top case. The look in his eyes was strange.. as if he was afraid someone was going to rob him or something. He sort of slunk around like he was hunting for a hole to hide in , or as if he'd lost something. Finally, he sat down at a table next to the wall and near the back of the restaurant, and opened up his case, extracting his laptop.. and a power cord. He'd been looking for a wall outlet.

Interesting... he got his laptop all arranged and plugged in, and produced a bottle of water from somewhere, placing it on the table. (Hmmm... Wendy's must have Wifi at this location!! ) He looked around nervously, and then proceeded to log on. Like an idiot, I thought he might at least buy a drink or something from their establishment, since he was making use of their wireless service, and electricity. That didn't look like it was going to happen..and didn't. At least not while I was there. [ I've also seen this phenomenon take place at a local McD's... a guy sneaking in and hiding in a corner somewhere with his laptop. Hoping no one noticed his entrance.... pitiful. ] I watched his for a while, but I was almost done with my supper, so I didn't stay around much after that. Only long enough to see him pull out a headset complete with microphone and put it on his head and plug it into his computer!! Amazing!! Heey.. while I'm here sponging I might as well make a few calls too!!!

That was enough for me. Time to go. I'll give the guy the benefit of the doubt and hope that he did finally decide that maybe he'd patronize the place in some small manner. As it was, he looked pretty settled in for the long haul.. don't know that I'd leave my 'puter on the table and go up to the counter now.... Dude, the least you could have done was scrounge a cup out of the trash or something. At least at Borders the laptop people buy some coffee...

the push and pull of memory

"Memory Wall" - stories by Anthony Doerr

Just finished this fine work by Anthony Doerr. An exemplary stylist with a finely-tuned sensibility about what moves the human heart. He places these stories all over the globe, from the Three Gorges Dam, South Africa, Lithuania, to Idaho and Ohio. The underlying theme is memory, with shattering loss being the taint that shades many of the narratives.

His tales have a way of sucking you in so that the world outside your head recedes to a distracting murmur. I'm struck by his vivid portrayals of the locations of the stories. He makes sure that location is more than just a geographic anchor for the story. Instead it becomes an integral factor in the tale being told, while his treatment of 'time' becomes a factor with great fluidity. Thus, he skillfully but subtly bring to our consciousness the realization that memory is composed of many discrete factors that hold different meanings and odd psychic 'weights' at variance with their 'exterior' meanings in our culture.

I was sorry to have to come to the end of this book. Each strange morsel was savory, and full of long forgotten flavors. This was the first I'd heard of Mr. Doerr, but you can be sure I'll going back to check out his other fiction. If, like me, you've never run across his writing before, I can heartily recommend this as profitable introduction to a talented writer.

Stumbling Through the Dark Mountains...

Book one--- "The Last Goodnights- assisting my parents with their suicides" by John West.

Now that I'm older and find myself wondering about how my own demise might look, I suppose it's not a surprise that I picked this up at the library. I was curious about what sort of tale 'the executor' might relate, especially since he managed to facilitate the departures of both his parents. How does one manage to go through with that not just once, but twice?

Mr. West's parents, who were in their early to mid-70's at the times of their deaths, were notable professional people in Los Angeles, with many awards and accomplishments to their credit. I think it would be safe to say they circulated in the upper strata of L.A. society. His father was a well-respected physician and his mother had a long career as a psychiatrist.

However, all the accomplishments in the world will not insulate you from eventual aging and decrepitude, despite whatever Donald Trump may think. ( Has he looked at his own hair lately???) John West's father was diagnosed with a virulent cancer of the type that only guarantees an extended period of prolonged misery disguised as 'heroic measures'. Since, as a physician, he had witnessed many such 'treatment regimens', he had previously decided that he was not going to endure that himself if diagnosed with such a malady. In fact, both parents had stated much earlier that they were not interested in 'lingering' if they became severely ill.

West's mother was afflicted with a number of different conditions: osteoporosis, emphysema, and finally, mid-stage Alzheimer's. Sadly.. by the time her husband had gotten his diagnostic death sentence, it was improbable that Mrs. West was going to be able to assist her partner in his suicide plans, as they had originally agreed to do. Thus, the author found himself actively recruited by his father to make sure that his previous end-of-life scheme could still be pulled off. After overcoming his shock at being thrust into the very messy middle of these plans, he agreed to help his father get this done.

In actuality, the 'termination' of his father happens quite early in the book. Much of the writing in this part has to do with the minutiae of getting the job done with enough stealth to avoid having the death look suspicious. Since his father was a physician the matter of assembling enough of the right prescription drugs was a relatively easy matter, in that there was a lot of 'spare stuff' floating around the house. It was the rest of the 'planning' that was rife with uncertainty. This aura of uncertainty and the need to keep the whole operation a closely guarded secret (even from other siblings--and his mother, since she was not always coherent) and the toll it takes on the author are an underlying theme throughout the book.

The father's plan goes awry when he falls in the shower and breaks a hip honeycombed with the already advanced cancer. Upon admittance to the hospital and subsequent examination of the injury, it turns out that the only medical solution to the injury is to do a double hip joint replacement. Since there was no way to just say, "Never mind, we'll just take him home, since he has other plans.", West senior undergoes the operation and subsequent therapeutic treatments, so that when all is said and done, he can go home and put himself to death.

Once the elder Mr. West is released, the plan for termination is taken up once again. Of course, this involves the Herculean task of bringing all the various 'post-operative recovery' equipment home so that they can set up a 'sick room', under the pretense that he is going to get better. Just this planning itself is enough to shred the nerves and strain the will of any adult child that has ever undertaken this task for his parents. But, this was only the beginning, being the necessary effort needed to construct the scrim disguising the true undertaking.

Once "Dad" had arrived home, and the attendant swirl of activity had passed, the final plan was able to be undertaken. The lethal combination of drugs was ingested, and a night-long death watch began. Despite some false alarms, within 24 hours or so, Dr. West got his wish and passed away. The post-mortem steps were taken and the various authorities and medical personnel were notified. His swift death after returning home did not raise a lot of eyebrows, which was a relief for his son.

The second part of the book has to do with his efforts to enable his mother to do likewise. This is greatly complicated by the fact of her condition of rapidly advancing Alzheimer's. This entails a cautious dance for him, in that he has to plot this with his mother, and also keep it a secret from everyone else. Not an easy task when the principal player has both a failing memory and a loosening grasp on reality. By the end of the book, the author is clearly a worn out wreck, but has managed to accomplish his 'mission' despite the cost to himself.

About this same time, I ran across another account concerning the same subject, this one entitled "Imperfect Endings" by Zoe Carter. I'll spare you a long account of this one, and summarize. This tale is more about the three sisters that have to face their mother's clearly revealed insistence that she wants to end her life and she expects them to 'attend', if not participate. Again , a long tale of angst, denial, and resistance with a predictable end.

What struck me most about both books was the circumstances in which these folks desiring this end were living. All were very well-to-do white folks with abundant resources and hired help. Plus, relative easy access to medical services and 'medicines', which could easily serve as a scrim behind which they can plot their final exits. One has to wonder about others who are not so fortunate when the outlook for the waning years of their lives becomes bleak and devoid of anything resembling comfort or normality. What saving grace is going to appear for them if they evince a desire to cease living, as these others did?

The subject of these two books is of interest to me. As I contemplate growing older and more infirm, and remember the sad half-life of my parent's last years, I often give thought to what I will do when the shroud of illness and incapacity settles on my shoulders. Will I tough it out with 'dignity' ( dignity? There's some dignity in a slow wasting demise??), or will I wish for a swift end? Will I even have the opportunity to make the choice, or will we continue to force those suffering and the ones that love them to resort to subterfuge and deceit in order to bring about a final easement of their overwhelming distress?

under the bridge by the creek

under the bridge by the creek
Originally uploaded by DharmaCrow

a layered composite of some graffiti greatly altered

A wonky idea, but maybe not....

This morning during my usual 'mind journeys' while I'm soaking in the tub, it came to me that when people marry they're in essence setting up permanent residence in a empty theater. No, not a movie house, not an auditorium, a theater, with the stage, curtains, audience area, the 'wings' and all that attendant stuff. It's also useful to finally realize (although you might not think so at the beginning..) that while the various rooms have doors, there are no locks on any of them.

Sometimes both of you will be on stage at the same time. Other times, one of you will be up there and if you're lucky the other will be out in the 'audience' section. Then there will be the frustrating times when you're up on stage and you partner is not watching at all, and in fact, is off in the wings somewhere fooling around with the props.

There will probably be long periods where not only the stage, but also 'the house' is dark and you'll be stumbling around feeling your way via a barely remembered floor plan. There will be shouting in the dark and requests to turn the damn spotlight off. If you want to forge some success between the two actors over the long haul, it's best if you 'accidentally' misplace the scripts you came in with backstage somewhere and learn to write a new one together.....

Okay. That's enough riffs on that for now.....

mandala of the woodland stars

mandala of the woodland stars
Originally uploaded by DharmaCrow

Since it's too wintry to go out 'shooting', I've been fooling with images I already have in my collection. This is a construction that evolved this afternoon out of something entirely different. Reminds me of an 'altar cloth'.

The virgin's robe

The virgin's robe
Originally uploaded by DharmaCrow

this is one from some work I was doing this afternoon. It was beginning to snow and there didn't seem to be any reason to go out. So I started fooling around. Another 'quadratic abstract' .

faint(er) messages from the dream realm

I just wanted to get down the scraps of the dream I had last night before it all faded away. There were three memorable components. The first was about some sort of visit to one of my sons, who seemed to be incarcerated in some sort of semi-penal institution. I went to visit him with a vague idea of getting him 'released'. ( I've no idea why he was there or anything..) Once I tracked him down inside the place he seemed peeved to see me, as if I should have either gotten there earlier, or not have come altogether.

After speaking to him, I went off to find the proper authorities to get him released. That part was sort of vague, but once I'd completed my negotiations, I went back 'inside' to track him down. Somehow, between the time I'd left him and the time I got back, he'd done something to get "time" added to his sentence, so he couldn't leave. Once I found that out, I figured there was little I could do now but come back another time. Since he'd managed to make trouble for himself again, there seemed little reason for me to hang around. He was mad that I wasn't going to try to wrangle his release, but I figured it was his own mess and he wasn't all that keen on having me there in the first place, so.... see ya later alligator. That was part one... probably the most rationally 'complete' of the three scenes.

I think the second part was related to the first, in that I believe I was trying to get back 'there' (wherever that was..) to see him again. However, my return method was little on the wonky side. I decided that I'd get there by going hand over hand on the overhead power lines strung between those big metal structures you see criss-crossing the country. Somehow I was convinced that would be the fastest way.

One of the interesting symbolic parts of this scene was the lines themselves. They were this sort of 'silver' color, rather than black or grey like they probably really are. I did manage to get up there and grab hold of the cables and start across, but was having some doubts about my strength and ability to make it to the next pylon. Of course, I didn't have these misgivings until I was already out there doing the old hand over hand thing suspended above the earth. I wasn't afraid of falling, (and didn't feel heavy) but I was being very tentative with my grip and the length of my reach.

Due to frustration about this, I finally just said 'fuck it' and started to really stretch out there as I was making my way across. Somehow, this was just what was needed and I shot across that expanse of cable faster than I thought would be possible for a mere human like me. I remember looking at the cable as I was traversing it and seeing that parts of it were stained. But the cable itself was not frayed or anything. It's basic integrity was very much in evidence, even though some parts of it were darkened. The only other significant thing I remember about this part was telling myself that I needed to get some gloves if I was going to continue my journey.

The third section of my dream was a little less linear. There was minor storyline about my having had to fix a hole in a car belonging to a neighborhood chum (from my childhood) that I'd borrowed and messed up somehow. So, I was in this big, old, messy hardware store back in one corner looking through their section that held the nuts, bolts, and screws.

The 'hardware' section where I was had a mix of drawers and packages on hooks. Things were scattered all over the place, and it was obvious that no employee had been back there in a long time to straighten things up or put things in order. Consequently, I was on my own in quest to find the right screw for the job. I knew what I wanted, but had to poke around in various drawers and bins, sifting through the mess that other people had left behind. Many of the drawers had various sizes all mixed together and I was trying to find some matching screws so that I'd have enough to do the job.

Interestingly, most of the hardware was of a good quality, a black carbon steel of nice hardness, and I knew it would do the job well if I could find the right ones. I was very reassured about getting the 'right stuff' even though it was not easy going finding what I needed. In the midst of my search, the owner/neighbor guy showed up to pester me about getting his vehicle fixed, and he was accompanied by his bleached blonde bimbo girlfriend. ( Based on the identity of this guy from my past and the presence of his companion, I've surmised that this was a representation of my 'id'. That part seemed pretty clear upon reflection after I woke up.)

After annoying the shit out of me, they finally left the store and I went back to my search. I had been 'thrown off the scent' by having to deal with them, and couldn't regain the concentration needed to continue my search for the right part. I was frustrated because I liked the quality of the parts I'd found, but was running out of time to get just the correct ones. So,... I decided to leave the chaotic, disorganized, but somehow comforting hardware store and go to a "Menard's" that was in a nearby mall. I remember thinking that their hardware section would be all neat and tidy and I'd be able to find what I had in mind, but that those lovely plastic packages all labeled and hung up on hooks would contain cheap metal screws made in China. Not only that, but I'd have to take what cheap low quality stuff they gave me rather than get just the type and amount (and quality) I needed. Man, is that metaphoric or what???

Anyway.. that's enough of that stuff. I just wanted to make sure I'd written it down so I could go back to it later.. All for now.

Wonder what he would have thought if I'd gotten out my video camera and started recording???

Since it's the first of the month, I decided to take myself out for a little supper tonight. ( For those of you who need to know, "Bob Evans" now features a big screen TV mounted over the counter. Serving alcohol, and making the 'waitrons' wear revealing outfits can't be far behind now..) But that's not really my story....

In my part of town, the "Bob's" is next door to "Borders", so I thought I'd go over there and check to see if there were new issues of the the magazines I'm interested in. After all, I figured, it's a new month, should be new issues. However, this particular "Borders" anarcho-style of store management is such that I'm never sure when they will decide to get the stuff on the shelf. Figured it couldn't hurt to look, and I was in no hurry to get home.

Usually, I check the various "Buddhist" mags, and then take a look at the photography mags. Mostly the ones that have real 'photography' on the covers rather than the latest camera model or lens-y gadget. As I was standing there paging through one of them, I could hear a guy blabbing away on the other side of the rack where the 'cafe' section of the store is. Not an unusual occurrence, since it is sort of a public gathering place over there. Unfortunately, for the rest of us, he seemed to lack the ability to moderate the volume of his voice, so everyone within 30-40 feet had to endure his conversation whether we wanted to or not.

My curiosity was piqued. (as was my annoyance level..) I peeked over the stand to see who he was talking to. Of course,.. there was no one in sight. Instead, he's wearing some set of headphones (covering both ears) that functioned as a telephone. He's got a bunch of books on the table and he's 'selling' them to some person on the other end of his (non-private) conversation. Due to the fact that he can't hear anything except the world inside of his head (I'll bet there's quite an echo in there...), he's shilling for the rest of us, too. But, dude, we're not really interested in your banter, and you aren't that slick.

I was hoping for a swift end to the spectacle, but he kept getting up and walking over to the 'bargain racks' (talking the whole time) and getting more books!!! What a treasure hunter!

Finally, I gave up, and removed myself from his vociferous vicinity.

After poking around the rest of the store for a while, I decided it was time to leave. When I got outside, I could see through the window that he was still 'at it', and oblivious to his effect on those around him. I wonder if he'd have gotten a bit more self-conscious if I'd gotten out the little video camera I carry in my coat and started recording... nah. Probably not. Besides, I was already outside.. ah-this modern world.

behind the mall

behind the mall
Originally uploaded by DharmaCrow

This is one of the photos I was working on the other night. I call them quadratic abstracts, in that it's the same image repeated four times. This one was a tree next to the road by 'the mall'. I photographed it when I went out to buy some milk at Target one night. Hard to get the full effect in this small version. I'm always struck by the forms and faces that seem to manifest in these abstracts.

I can't believe I read the whole thing..

Book Review: " John Dies At The End" by David Wong

Hmmm.... Looking back, I'm not sure what spurred me to pick up this book. The green-painted fingernails of the hand on the cover? The faux amateur artwork/graffiti adorning the cover? Certainly not the back cover, which is sort of a gruesome continuation of the front. The whole package seemed a little fey and kitschy; but what the heck, if it wasn't my cup of tea, I'd just take it back to the library.

David Wong is the 'pen name' (do we say 'keyboard name' now?) of the author, who's credentials include a stint as editor at Cracked.com. As a young teen boy, I always thought "Cracked" was a second-rate version of "Mad" magazine, so there wasn't a huge amount of expectation on my part that this book was going to win any literary awards.

One thing I can say for sure is that describing the arc of the narrative or the plot components in any manner that would remain coherent is almost impossible. This is not to say that the book is bad. Rather, the twists and loop-the-loops of the story are so far out there that if you tried to tell someone, they'd probably start urging you to get your head examined, or at least tell you to call when you're back in contact with reality.

If you can imagine a mix of Stephen King, James P. Blaylock, and Caitlin Keirnan on 'shrooms, you might be getting close to the action of this novel. It contains elements of satire, bloody gruesomeness, slapstick comedy, and philosophical musings.

The two main characters, the "John" of the title, and "David" of the authorial reference, are two pals that bear a twisted resemblance to the duo in "Wayne's World", but with more smarts and some old fashioned courage. There's a struggle between good and evil, hope and despair, the ridiculous and the sublime, and heaping belly laughs at 'modern culture', all taking place in "Undisclosed". As far as I've been able to ascertain, "Undisclosed" is supposed to be in the Midwest somewhere a bit south of Chicago... mm--maybe.

There's really no way to describe the various fast left turns, and violent jump-cuts that fling the reader back and forth, and into various strange worlds and realities populated by a cast of bizarre and creepy beings. And that's just in "Undisclosed"!! There's a whole other universe that the main narrator pops in and out of throughout the book as well. This will never be a mainstream success in the publishing world, but for a certain type of reader with some familiarity with the authors I mentioned earlier, this one is a must read and will keep you entertained thru a cold winter's night or two. Don't blame me if you have some weird dreams while you're perusing it, or if ordinary reality suddenly doesn't seem quite so 'real' anymore.

Based on the 'afterword', it sounds like there will be more stories featuring David and John. I think that because, well, unless I missed it, "John" didn't die at the end of this one. Enjoy this one, but don't fool yourself into thinking you'll be able to describe it to your friends.

Djinns and Demons Do Double Duty

Book Review---- "Requiem" and "How to Make Friends With a Demon" by Graham Joyce

I recently finished reading two books by the English author, Graham Joyce. My initial read was the novel, "How to Make Friends With a Demon", which I'd picked up at the library based on an interesting cover. ( Don't laugh!! Of course, you've never done that yourself...) Since was loosely categorized as 'fantasy/sci-fi', I figured it would be sort of a Gothic-type tale that would take a certain suspension of Crabby Crow logic to enjoy. You know... dark urban scenes, a little 'black magic', scary and malevolent non-human participants, a certain postmodern angst and despair passed around for all to savor.

As it turned out, this was not really the case. By the time I was far enough into the story to discern my mistaken assumption, I was taken by the strength of Mr. Joyce's writing and his clever propulsion of plot details.

"Demon" takes place primarily in London and it's environs, and is the tale of a man who embarks upon a sort of redemption for what he perceives as his life's errors and stupid mistakes, undertaking this even if it takes a little deception and fraud to put things right. He's an alcohol addled member of a secretive trio of disparate characters that called themselves "The Candlelight Club". Their main charter(besides getting soused every fortnight) seems to be the manufacture and sale of fraudulent copies of sought-after rare manuscripts to greedy and unwitting collectors. Then the ill gotten gains are funneled into an 'under the official radar' halfway house for the down and out run by a woman friend of the main character.

The 'demon' part of the book has to do with the character's ability to see people's 'demons'; which he insists plague the living and account for much of the mess these folks seem unable to shake. Yes, the author does bring in a shade of the supernatural, but it's not really a story about that whole gestalt. As the tale unfolds we're drawn into the interconnections between the various members of the "Candlelight Club" and their own personal demons, and the general struggle to do good and find some redemption and relief from our own personal hauntings. There are many eccentric and interesting people that we meet along the way, including a truly haunted vet of the Iraq war that takes on a doppelganger's role as the plot become enriched with dread.

As with all good tales, by the end, there is at least some sort of resolution for the main crowd of survivors. My usual cynicism was nudged out of the way at least for a little while after I had finished the book and sussed out the moral of the story.

This was my first exposure to Graham Joyce, ( I'm always delighted to find a good author I've never heard of before!!) and based on that, I went back to the library to see if I could track down some of his other writing. "Demon" was his most recent, so I pulled a couple of older ones from the stacks and bought them home in hopes of more winter's night distraction.

The next one that I chose to read was the aforementioned "Requiem". Again, a bit seduced by the cover, which was a portion of a luminous "Madonna" painting from the Renaissance period. This one was published in 1995, so probably written in the early part of that particular decade.

Well, this one was also filled with 'demons', but for the most part they were referred to as 'djinns', partly due to the fact that the majority of the book is placed in the Middle East, specifically Jerusalem. Similar plot line, a man trying to escape his past, and make some sort of amends or at least garner some forgiveness for his behavior. Although the main character is again an Englishman, many of the other people that are germane to the story are not. This being Jerusalem, we have both Jewish and Arab characters, not to mention a subplot dealing with both the "Dead Sea Scrolls" and the shadowy persona of "Mary Magdalene" and her involvement with Jesus.

Of the two books, this one is the more exotic, both in terms of the various locations, and in terms of the behavior and personalities of the supporting cast. I found the potent plot a bit hard to keep sorted because there was so much going on. The obsessive anguish of the main character pulls everyone else along into places and events that they're barely prepared to deal with. Plus, there was some unavoidable socio/historical commentary that was played out concerning the struggle between the Jewish and Palestinian populations of Jerusalem, and a certain religious undercurrent about the validity of generally accepted Christian history.

This novel brings a more genuine pathological mental-illness slant into the mix, not to mention a whole pervasive dialog about 'demonic possession' , so there is a darker and more desperate tone to the story than that of "Demons". I'm still undecided about whether I was satisfied with the resolution of this story. My personal feeling is that I would have been hard pressed myself to get the viscous stew of this book to come out alright if it was me, so I think Mr. Joyce did a pretty good job with the unwieldy mix he'd concocted.

Kudos to Graham Joyce for his willingness to tackle a subject that could have easily strayed into sensationalistic, gory vaudeville. Instead he kept it on a human scale that was compelling and interesting, and he managed to do it TWICE !!!! I'm looking forward to his other writing... but for now I think I'll see if I can find something else to poke my nose into..

Can a "Hobby Farm" really be a hobby?

BOOK REVIEW--- "Trauma Farm" by Brian Brett. I bypassed this book on the shelves of the library a couple of times before I finally checked it out. The cover was intriguing, but then, you can hardly go wrong with the color red and a chicken. I wasn't sure I was all that interested in someone's take on 'hobby farming', since I knew that wasn't ever a route I was likely to persue myself. In the end, I decided I could at least get someone's take on the whole biz, if for no other reason but to feel like I at least had a sense of what it was all about.

Mr. Brett, living on Salt Spring Island in British Columbia, is a poet by trade and an 'amateur' farmer by choice and inclination. He, along with his spouse, have 'farmed' in various capacities for about 18 years. Wise enough to recognize the certain curse of sure poverty that all small farmers struggle to hold at bay, he and his wife have paying jobs that help float their real love of the land and their livestock.

He's constructed the book in such a manner that he can parse the various chapters into the span of what he refers to as an "eighteen year long day". Thus, you are witness to the different modes of daily farm life and operation, and given a considered history of the various changes agriculture has gone through in the last couple of decades. Hardly a dry tome, with many a hilarious event blossoming out of unexpected circumstances, and a warm human history of not only his own family, but also of the community of islanders he shares the land with.

His obvious love for the land and all creatures shines throughout the book, without it being treacly sentimental. As he is wont to point out, the hard realities of death and life are placed in front of you every day, in addition to being lodged under one's fingernails, and tossed on the compost pile. He addresses all manner of farming issues, including "Big Agriculture", use of pesticides and genetic engineering of seedstock, boneheaded regulation from bureaucracies that are in thrall to the 'farming industry' titans, and the sad loss of much of the traditional 'folk wisdom' of farming due to the disappearance of small farms.

Despite the items I've listed above, the book is not a tale of woe, by any means. Mr. Brett has thought long and hard about this whole sphere, and put a lot of work in making sure his views had needed balance. For this reader, one of the things that I keep coming back to as I observe the everyday news is his observation that in farming, like much of the development of the human animal, we've become too clever by half, pointing out that historically we manage to develop increasingly clever tools at a pace that far outstrips the needed wisdom to properly wield them, or consider their ultimate impact on the environment, both natural and social.

I hope this is enough of a teaser to get you to read his book. I still don't have any desire to put in a huge garden, or get some chickens, but he has managed to at least convince me that my love of the land and my respect for the people who choose that life is not misplaced. Hmmm... I wonder if Wendell Berry knows this guy? (Four Stars)

feet of clay keep you grounded

I think you have to discard a certain self-consciousness to do a blog. Either that, or you have an overabundance of self-regard, or you're totally clueless about how others see you, or you're like me.. of an age when it's hardly worth wondering what the majority of the herd thinks about your behavior. In Casteneda's writings one of the main themes is that Death is your constant companion. Now that the mists are clearing around the 'finish line', the hovering of this particular daemon gets a bit more noticeable for me, and the muttering of the masses carries less and less weight in my world. So... 'word mincing' isn't likely to be one of my personal guidelines as I go forward (backward?) with my writing here.

Vinegar and sugarcane

It's already '2010'? Damn, here I am still trying to slog through the debris and wreckage of 2009. Actually... what's 'a year'? To me, it's the cycle of the seasons rather than a grid of 'holidays', appointments, and payments due. That 'New Year's' thing has more the feeling of standing at the edge of a cliff trying to talk myself into not backing up into my 'old' life, while my spectators are watching and calling for me to jump. You guys go ahead on.....