Just Home…

I was house-sitting near Windward Circle last week. One night I went out to get a bite to eat. Before picking up some organic pink lentil soup and vegan coconut mousse at Seed, I took a stroll along the beach to watch the sunset then came back via the Boardwalk. There was a rock band made up of very thin and hip young men – all in very tight jeans – who were playing at the end of Westminster. They had a horn player, in particular, that caught my ear. I liked the song that was finishing. The sun was gone, only crimson dusk and baby blue left in the waning day sky. A gathered crowd was in a good mood, grateful that warm had returned to Southern California.

The singer – shirtless, standing next to a blonde guitar player – announced they were going to play one more song. An old black guy in a wheel chair and heavy green coat, sitting near me, made a sarcastic aside, “Oh now it’s the last song. The last one was supposed to be the last one…and before that, that was the last one.” He didn’t seem as if he wanted them to stop. I think he was annoyed that they were indecisive about when they were through.

Before they launched their final number, the singer – his hair cut so that it kept falling in his eyes – told us, in a European accent that might’ve been German, to look to our left, then to our right. “These are your new neighbors,” he informed us with the deep sincerity that only young boys, sure of who they have decided they are, can have. Regardless, of whether or not that friendly neighbor talk was real or just part of the show, I smiled. They were so young. Giddiness is fleeting, but sneaks up on you from time to time.

The Pink Floyd cover that came out next was barely tolerable, unfortunately, unlike the previous two songs I had heard. I lasted a few more minutes then headed back to the apartment.

The next day, I was walking dogs in Venice, near San Juan and Westminster, when a woman, with whom I was familiar from the neighborhood, called to me. She was holding two boxers by the collars. One of those boxers was red, but old with a lot of fur that had gone gray. The other, a female – was even older, white with sores on her belly.

The woman, in her 40s, had a walking cast on her left leg. She was of the Old Venice sort, a plucky, aging Granola gal kind of like me, I suppose.  ”Do you know whose dogs these are?” She explained that the boxers were out wandering.

“No, I have never seen them.”

“Can you help me? I don’t want them to end up in a pound.” They did not have tags and she wanted to put them in her car, so she could drive around the neighborhood. Though I knew old dogs like those would be put down in about five hours at a pound, I was a little nervous to assist, because the old female lab I was walking, did not always take to other dogs. But, she was fine. So, I held the grandlady boxer by the collar, while the woman put the other one in her car.

“Well,” I said, “you know they haven’t come from very far. An old gal like this can’t move that fast.”

“Oh, I know. They belong to someone close.” She took the other boxer from me, balancing herself on her good foot.

“I will look for open gates while I am walking dogs. If I see anything, I will let you know.” Pointing to the red boxer who had on a navy blue doggie jacket, “That one has a coat, so they haven’t been out very long.”

A half hour later, I hadn’t seen any houses, that looked as if they might have been security breached by a couple of curious, ancient canines. I told the woman when she stopped and asked. The dogs were still in the back of her car. She hadn’t had any luck in locating the owner either. “I’m going to take them to the vet and see if they have microchips,” was her next plan.

I found out later from a third party, who lived on that same street, that the dogs had been implanted with chips and they were returned to a grateful owner. I thought that a stranger in a walking cast had certainly gone to some trouble for a couple of really old animals that didn’t belong to her. That’s Venice. That’s any place where there is love. That’s home.

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Gone House Building…

Two days before Christmas, I took a stroll at sunset through a beautiful old cemetery, one of my favorite places. Built on the side of  hill on the very edge of Paris, Illinois, it is where I clear my head when I am home visiting. While I was walking, I came around the bend to see six white tail deer, as they were frightened by a car pulling through behind me. It is not uncommon to see deer in that graveyard this time of year. It is hunting season and they often seek sanctuary from rifle bullets and arrows where the town lays its dead to rest…

Looking through old photos while at my parents’, I remembered how we always had great Christmases, how much I missed my Grandpa Joe, how crazy and wonderful my Grandma Alice was.

During my visit, I became aware of more patterns that I had from my upbringing that were not necessarily good. My folks were a bit young and volatile when we started out. I remembered how my Grandma Toots could say any awful thing in the moment – true or not – to try and get what she wanted. Though I have never lived near her level of mean, I confronted my own cruelty with words when my anger runs too hot. I remind myself to be humble in my rage and not self-righteous, and to try to get a handle on my expectations.

When I was in my mid 20s, I had these numbers in my mind as to how old my parents would live. So, I came up with, what were astronomical figures at the time – 84 for my father and 92 for my mom. I would be in my early 60s when my father died and in my mid 70s with mother. At the time, it was so far away…

In twenty years, my father will be 84. God help me, I hope he lives at least that long, but twenty years is nothing. It will be gone in a flash. It kills me to think, even for a second, of a planet without my dad on it. But, that day will come. And as far as my mother’s death – she has been a constant source of light in my life and I couldn’t imagine I’d even want to be here without her.

Unless we are touched by it prematurely, we think for so long, that death is something that happens to other people. Or, something so far away, it might as well be forever. Some day, I will be dead. It’s not one of those things where you can beat the odds. It is inevitable. Everybody dies. If you are lucky, you live long and full.

Back in LA, I am busy – producing, maybe picking up a directing project, writing, still trying to learn the fucking guitar…finding a routine that will give me some structure and raise my productivity. And, I must get out and meet people. Been doing it. I want to do it. I am happy again. I am feeling adventurous, though a little tired from work. Also, I am coming to terms with all that I have missed due to my own bad choices.

I was out the other night, locally, and I caught some, not uncommon, Venice Beach dynamics among a crowd of older, long time residents – competition, little control and fragile self esteem stuff… I thought, you know, it is not my job to judge this. It is my job to sit here and love. Then, it is funny how your vision expands. I felt more heart and less ego. I saw myself in this woman who was much older than me:  Needing a certain kind of attention even when giving support; insecurity; wanting others to see the light inside and draw it out, instead of simply believing in it and offering…I let a lot of that go back in my mid 30s, but not in every aspect of my life…

When I used to be an actor, because of constantly auditioning, you get in a mentality of always trying to make the most of short windows of opportunity. There is a lot of work and sweat that leads to three minutes in front of some people who, by slim odds, might give you a job. Then it is over and you rarely hear a thing. And you get into this kind of  ”PICK ME” mentality, instead of driving choices for yourself. Doing theatre, it can be the same thing – short intense build up to a show that lasts two months or so. Stapled, safety pinned and glue gunned together, it only has to look good enough for stage, and if you’re lucky, manages to be entertaining.

These patterns are not how you build a life. Because of my impatience and need to prove I am smart, I have burned more than one bridge that may have led to a career opportunity. In the past several years, I find I rush things emotionally with men. I think that’s why I have had a lot of interactions with men who push things sexually – aging players or guys who need sex as some kind of validation. You get these extremes. They want to steam roll over me, so I blow them up. I have to be done with that. Too fucking old. I see now, how it’s usually not about one night or a magic moment like in the movies. It happens with work, friendship and mutual investment.

I can’t start all the way over. There’s no need really. I have picked a decent plot of land on which to build. The foundation is level and well poured. I’ve got good materials. It’s a little overwhelming at my age, but I have got to find the patience, focus and energy to construct a solid, comfortable house that will last into the long term future. Maybe it will take more time than I would like, but what I cannot afford is for my life to fall apart again, because it’s all shortcuts and slapped together.

Brick by brick as they say…I’ve got my truth. Now, I want the work.

Drunken Bastards, Needle & Thread and a 2×4

My Grandma Toots could tell a great story and there were many. One of my favorites came out of her childhood. It was about the importance of the woman’s circle, especially at a time when women had very few rights and were often at the mercy of their husbands, fathers and brothers. She came from a line of independent ladies. There was a great grandmother, half Cherokee, who abandoned her husband for his brother and died on an Indian Reservation.  Grandma’s mother, Tina Lee Jones (left in the photo above), had gotten pregnant out of wedlock (HUGE scandal in the early 1900s) and refused to marry the man because he was an alcoholic. She later married my great grandfather and had five more children with him. She had to remain scrappy as her husband, ironically, became an alcoholic (side effect of working in the coal mines); and, often left her to fend for herself when he would disappear on two week long binges.

Tina (pronounced TIE-nuh) had a good friend who was in a particularly bad marriage with an abusive alcoholic. This man, not only would go off on frequent drinking binges, but he would come home and knock her around when he had had too much. One night, he returned to the house particularly wasted and, sure enough, beat her pretty good, though not anything life threatening, thank goodness. He then passed out in their marriage bed.

At that point, after years of this crap, his wife had had enough. So, she got out her sewing kit, pulled the sheet over the bastard and quietly and quickly sewed a circle all the way around him, binding the sheet and him into the bed. Then, she got a 2×4 and she began to whack the shit out of him. I cannot imagine what it would be like, not only to be awakened by the wicked end of a heavy board, but to find yourself trapped underneath a sheet, unable to escape, inside some kind of womb from hell. After she had beaten him pretty good and he lost consciousness, she quietly removed the thread and left him lying there, a bloody mess. Thank God, he was not dead.

In the morning, he awoke with no memory whatsoever of the incident, though he looked like hell with gashes, bruises and a few broken ribs. When he questioned his wife, she innocently told him that he had come home in that condition and she had no idea what had happened. When he asked his buddies, they said he had left the bar drunk, but not bloody. He had left alone, so they could not account for what might have happened to him on the way home. He assumed he had been attacked on the walk. It shook him up pretty good. The drunken asshole behaved himself for a few months after that, and, although he returned to his old ways eventually, his drinking and violence never quite reached previous levels.

This story was pretty hot in the ladies’ circles at the time, but the men never knew the truth. The confidentiality between women was vital to their survival and these circles were tight. I love that story, but am so grateful that we’ve come a long way, baby. Today, I am able to keep up my own simple rule with the opposite sex: Leave a man BEFORE you commit a felony. Back then; however, it could be your only way to keep sane.

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Bumming

My Grandpa Joe has been dead for over nineteen years, but I still miss him and think about him often. He grew up in a tiny coal mining town, Universal, Indiana, which was known as Bunsen after the Bunsen Burner that coal miners used to light their way in the dark depths of the strip mines. He was a young man during the Great Depression and lived in Chicago during the early part of his marriage to my grandmother before returning to his home state.

He worked hard his entire life and died a card carrying Teamster. Like my grandmother, he was adamant that Franklin Roosevelt was the greatest president the United States had ever known. He was particularly proud of the time he spent with the Civilian Conservation Corps or 3 C’s as he called it, which was one of FDR’s pet projects, an off shoot of the WPA, created to put young men to work.  Grandpa Joe helped build many of the roads and public parks in Kentucky, Tennessee and Indiana that are still used in this country today.

Beginning from the age of twelve until his mid teens, my grandfather did what they called “bumming” back during the Depression. He and his two friends, Burt and Duck (who, ironically, died in a drowning accident) would sneak into open box cars on freight trains and travel all over the country. A lot of men did this looking for work. It was also not unheard of for impoverished families to travel this way, either looking for work or trying to get to relatives who could help them out. With my grandfather and his friends, though they claimed to have been looking for any jobs to be had, it seemed to be more about the adventure.

During the day, he and the other “bums” would go through wherever town they found themselves, offering to do odd jobs or run errands in exchange for money or food. Sometimes a grateful housewife would make him a sandwich or invite him in to dinner. Other times, they were given potatoes, carrots and other raw vegetables, even meat fat. He said it was rare that people didn’t have anything at all. Everyone tried as best they could to help each other out. The boys would take whatever they were given back to the rail yard or “jungle,” where the travelers and hobos put it all together to make Mulligan stew.

One summer, he and his buddies went up to Chicago and stayed in Grant Park, at that time dubbed, “The Hoover Hotel,” due to the number of homeless people living there. As my grandfather was falling asleep near some benches one evening, a fellow “guest” tapped him on the shoulder, warning, “Hey Buddy, you better tighten your laces, tie them together and double knot them or you’ll wake up in your stocking feet.” A good pair of shoes was quite the commodity.

On another of their travels, while heading south in the middle of winter, the three boys managed to hide in the corner of a box car, as workers rounded up all the transients before departure. The boys assumed the railroad was arresting the unauthorized travelers. Managing to avoid detection, they huddled together, shivering, watching the February snow fall through an opening in the sliding door.

The train stopped and they hopped off, nearly frozen, but feeling rather superior that they had managed to elude the railway workers. Much to their surprise, they witnessed all the other illegal passengers, cheerfully stepping out of the rear train car. Instead of arresting them, the workers had invited the desperate travelers to ride in the warm caboose, where all were fed a hot meal. As one of the lucky men strode passed the chilled boys, he laughed and held up partially eaten drumstick, “You hungry?”

That following summer, Burt, Duck and Schnozz (Grandpa Joe’s nickname) heard they could get a ranching job in Montana. Sounded like fun, so they hit the rails again, this time out West, a direction they had yet to explore…

Somewhere in Kansas, my grandfather shot up suddenly in the middle of the night. He found he couldn’t to speak. Panicked, he awoke Burt and Duck. When he tried to explain what was wrong, all he could do was open and close his mouth, as if muted.

Concerned for their friend, they awakened an old hobo to ask for help. The man strolled over to my grandfather, “Hey, what’s wrong there buddy?” In response, the frightened boy shook his head and wagged his mouth incoherently. The old man grinned after staring at him hard: “He’s homesick,” was the assessment.

Grandpa Joe recalled, “As soon as he said that, I started bawling my eyes out.” Once he had calmed down, the old bum explained to my grandfather what trains he needed to get to Indiana.

When he made it back, my grandfather ran home from Clinton where the train had stopped, sprinting up Bunsen Hill, around the bend to his family’s shack in the woods. Discovering his sisters, Mary and Betty, doing the wash in the backyard, he threw his arms around them. They all laughed. The young women made him a nice lunch. He saw his brothers, John, Paul and Chuck.

Once he’d walked the farm and spoke to his father, his sense of adventure soon returned. Three days after arriving home, just shy of sunrise, Grandpa Joe caught a train going north. He said to me smiling as he remembered one of the happiest times of his life, “I was never homesick again.”

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Serving Breath

I stopped by the Talking Stick on Friday night to show my love for their Venice MoZaic series hosted by the lovely Audrey. I had a cappuccino and enjoyed one of the bands for about a half hour or so. Getting a little hungry, I decided I would head to Santino’s for a bite and check out Fabiano, one of their regular guitarists.

On my way out, I ran into a man from South America, a musician, who had been in this country for some years. He followed me to my car and asked if he could play my guitar. When he saw my standard factory Fender acoustic, he noted that he actually played Spanish Guitar, but he could still play mine. He did, beautifully, and he sang right on the street – to me and the night. I always love when Elizabeth is handled by a real musician. It makes me feel less guilty.

Then we kept talking, mostly about his personal life, which I will not get into, but to say it was heartbreaking and fascinating. In the beginning of the conversation, he revealed he was writing a book on economics. Then he went on to say that he found musicians in the United States were different than other countries in that, they were so absorbed in the music or the lifestyle of the musician, it was all there was, all they had. In other countries, he said, musicians develop their intellects and are more socially active and engaged outside of their own world.

Now, to be fair,  I do not think he meant the ENTIRETY of American musicians. He seemed as though he had been based in LA most of the time he’d lived here and, probably, specifically, Venice Beach. But from my observations of the local scene and certain aspects of the biz at large, I had to agree with him. I also thought, yeah, and they smoke too much pot and spend way too much time watching YouTube…

He went on to say that he did not know how he could continue to grow as a musician, for his composition to mature and his life to move forward, if he did not develop his intellect and spiritual life along with his musical skills. Again, I concurred. I had seen what extremely out of balance lives could do to brilliant musicians, how it negatively impacted their music and the people around them. And that goes for others, too…

I was reminded of my Chicago actor days. I fell in to being a legal secretary to support myself until the BIG DREAM came true. I got lucky and ended up with a boss who loved me and was very flexible with my actor life. I got pretty emotionally involved with the office where I worked. I also adored the partner whose office was next to my boss, and three out of four secretaries who sat next to my cubicle over the years.

Kind of a Polly Anna on crack, I was probably too involved, but I looked hard at the lives of the people around me and did my best to be, not just a good worker, but a positive influence. After all, 40 hours a week is a lot of time to simply not participate in being human. I often got angry with Chicago plays set in offices because I thought the characterizations of corporate life were incredibly thin.

Along those lines, I had a conversation with a young actor at a party once. We both revealed that office work was the primary way we ate. I mentioned that I loved the people I worked with. To which he replied, “Oh! I know what you mean.”

“What do I mean?” Since I thought it was a pretty straightforward statement, I wondered at how he had interpreted it.

“You mean you love what you observe and learn about character. You love what you can use, what you get out of those people.”

“No…Uh…I really love the people I work with.”

“Wow! You mean you actually like those people!?!”

And I thought, how can you be a good actor if you are standing back, never engaging in life, so that you are always recreating a false experience? How can you be a good actor if you are always judging the very people it is your job to portray? What kind of artist puts himself above the audience? Why do so many seem to prefer worship over love?

We like fame in this country. When I was an actor, I dreamt of fame. In that field, it was the highest level of success. Not only that, it would validate my existence, all my life choices. When I did not achieve much worldly success as an actor, my sense of self worth suffered, but it did not completely tank. Though I may have neglected certain parts of my life for my art, I never hid in it. I never ran away from my responsibilities and the messes I had made. I never saw my work as a justification to use outsiders as food or to perpetuate some narrow minded master plan against my enemies.

When I am at my happiest as a writer and performer, it is when I know that I have chosen a life of service. When I am in balance in that life, I am at peace and I always have everything I need. That’s a good life. And like any good life, it starts with love, it starts with truth. Breath first, then creation…So simple, why do we so easily forget?

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Cosmic Mama Don’t Dance

I met a guy on Santa Monica Pier last week. I was there for the Twilight Dance Series, my first time back in a couple of years. The Gumbo Brothers, local to Venice, were rocking the crowd. Later, a pretty cool funk band, out of New York, would take the stage.

As this guy (cute, like a young John Ritter) and I were chatting and shaking our things, he asked if I ever hung out in Venice Beach. He told me that he lived near the Sidewalk Cafe.

“I go to Acoustic Thursdays at Santino’s sometimes.”

“That’s near Windward Circle,” he was honing in on the area.

“Yep. On Pacific.”

“Isn’t that where a bunch of elitist musicians play weird shit for themselves?”

My heart fell a little. Not really, was my thought, I had heard some cool jams there, along with several young guitarists and singers finding their way. Though I had to concede, sometimes, there seemed to be an exclusive vibe that I didn’t much care for.

When our conversation lulled, my body loosened into some high revved, tearing it up sax playing. After observing that he thought I was a great dancer, my clever new friend (who had purported to be an art thief and took some pleasure in lightly making fun of folks), snarkily asked why rich, middle-aged, white people all danced like idiots – referring to some pale, affluent citizens of Santa Monica who were getting their salt and pepper grooves on.

“At least they dance,” I said. “Ever notice in Venice, how no one dances? Isn’t that a little weird for a bunch of Bohemians who are into the 60s?” A generalization, of course, but there is a noticeable dearth of boogie.

The Art Thief started to protest, then thought about it, playing the Boardwalk scene in his mind with its endless string of musicians, perpetually performing to walking and standing throngs: “You’re right. That is weird.”

“Go to a concert festival along Venice Beach and, if anyone is dancing, it is a lone homeless person or a couple of serious drug addicts.”

He considered further, “I never thought about it. Why is it like that?”

I could’ve said a lot of things, but I didn’t. I know, first hand, that Cosmic Mamas get eaten alive if they show their love. Probably the same deal for the few Pure Papas who remain. Art meets Thug means Street Cred trumps Music. Hustlers don’t like joy because it is harder to steal from Happy People.

So, they don’t dance on Venice Beach. Go figure…

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Smiling Copper Dragonfly

From putting Bogey, the Big Dog, inside the house, a tired and foul mooded Dog Mama turned into a world where fairies do exist.

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Feisty

A man called her feisty.

He said he liked feisty women.

It was a compliment, so it was ok.

 

She had stopped being offended by feisty,

And other so-called compliments like

Fiery, spunky, plucky, spirited…

That some chose to say.

 

Life is too short for excuses to hate men.

Besides, they are harder to fuck that way.

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Conversations with Indiana Musicians

When I visited the Midwest a couple of weeks ago, me and the family took a little trip within a trip. My parents live in Illinois on the Indiana border. My father rented an SUV and me, him, Mom, Brother and his Gal, and a Dog all headed to Southern Indiana. We went to a couple of beautiful state parks, including Clifty Falls; visited the Thomas Family Winery in historic Madison along the Ohio River; and, stayed at a really cool, super dog friendly hotel in Columbus.

Down in Nashville, Indiana – a quaint and groovy little tourist town – we hung out at a Microbrewery. (There was an unfortunate incident with Bubby, our Boxer, but I won’t get into that). They had live music on the patio, a singer/guitarist was featured.

“Who’s he sound like?” Dad leaned over to play his Betcha Don’t Know Game.

“Neil Young.” Of course I knew. Who the hell else sounds like Neil Young?

When the musician went on break, I chatted with the lanky, around fifty, slightly built, nerdy redneck with a buzz cut, wearing old jeans and thick glasses. “That was great! Do you play here all the time?”

“Oh yeah,” he had one of those wonderful Southern Indiana accents that non-Midwesterners would mistake for Kentucky. “I play all over. In Columbus and all the bars.”

“And you work? You like it?”

“There’s work, sure, but it’s competitive. Guys pulling crazy shit…But I don’t do it for the money or the attention…”

“You do it because you have to.” I knew exactly how to end that sentence. I’d heard this all somewhere before.

“Yeah.”

My folks were getting ready to leave, so I said a quick farewell. As the family was heading back to the car, I lingered to look at the old timey buildings. From behind me, absent-mindedly uttered, “I need to smoke a bowl.” I turned. It was my Hillbilly Neil. “Oh man, what the hell am I saying?” he touched his hand to his forehead. He was right about that. It was still Indiana.

“Oh honey. I’m from Venice Beach. You don’t have to explain anything to me.”

A little bell dinged inside his head, “I grow it in mason jars and in with my potted plants.”

I smiled and considered following him. I think that is why he had uttered his intentions out loud. The happenstance tone was merely to make it seem accidental. You have to be careful with musicians. Very, very careful. They know all about striking chords.

“Gotta catch up with my Dad,” I waved and trotted to my family.

A couple days later, when we had returned from our trip within my trip, I had dinner in Terre Haute, Indiana at TGI Fridays with my childhood friend and her family. This is a very different part of Indiana. Not much tourist appeal to the stinky Wabash River, the Creosote plant and the place where they electrocuted Timothy McVeigh.

Regardless, dinner at the mall was wonderful. The company is all that counts. I had not seen my friend’s mother in twenty years. Her sister was so funny and delightful, I couldn’t get over it. I never remembered her that way, but then, I hadn’t seen her in three decades. What the hell had I known as a child?

My friend has two sons, one who is a wrestler and getting ready to enter college. I had been reading all about him on Facebook. The older one is a musician who plays nine instruments, including guitar, banjo and mandolin. I had not know this last fact, until that day.

I loved this young boy, a wonderful pale teddy bear, his shoulders thrust up to short red hair and sideburns, rolling his back into the accident baby’s “I’m sorry I’m here” posture – a held physicality I know all too well. He is married to his childhood sweetheart, the young woman he has been with since they were fourteen. He is an atheist, but not the angry kind. A gentle young man who pays close attention, he has to understand before he believes.

“So, do you play with a band?” I asked, wondering why someone like him would be in this part of the Midwest. As I had observed in Southern Indiana, around Brown County and IU, there is actually a decent music and art scene. But again, we were in Terre Haute…the “armpit of America” as Steve Martin once dubbed it.

“I had a band at school, in Florida. We recorded out in San Diego.”

“You don’t play with guys around here?”

“Well…” my new young friend lowered his eyes in genuine humility and softened his voice to match, “It’s hard to find guys around here who play at my level.”

“I bet.” Something about him made me trust, implicitly, his self assessment. I knew he was talented.

He went on to the second major issue, one not exclusive to geography, “And, then a lot of guys just want to sit around and smoke pot. So we don’t make any music.”

“I can see that.”

“Or…” and I should have seen this coming, but I forgot where I came from, “They just want to play Metal.” There was a little nausea in his throat.

“Of course they do.” I almost laughed, but the thought of this poor young man and his banjo and a Death Metal Cover Band in some forty year old guy’s mother’s garage…

I told him a few funny musician stories and quotes from guitarists I knew in San Francisco and LA. My young friend shared some secrets of the trade, confirming long held suspicions I had about his sort. So sweet, so open and so honest…I so enjoyed his youth.

“Get out West!” the last thing I said to anyone right before I left, my belly full of Jack Daniel’s salmon and fried cheese. Even if I am scared of how it will change him, I recognize a fish who was born into the wrong pond.

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No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise except as permitted under Sections 107 or 108 of the 1976 United States Copyright Act, without either the prior written permission of the Publisher, or authorization through payment of the appropriate per-copy fee.

Urban Nature IV: Getty Gardens on a Late Sunday Afternoon

White flooding hope licks crimson revelers held staunch by cool, uneven shadow, kindling goldenrod crystal passion…

Amber leaves bristle, ” Come hither” to a shy purple flower. She covers her mouth, coyly, with gossamer orchid fingers.

Ah, my old friend, Bee. I cannot resist them…Says something about me, I suppose, that Grandma was deathly allergic and and I am fascinated by these creatures of endless duty.

Prickly, green sea-foam pops red and violet mermaid whimsy. Emerging in schools to breathe sunbeams – on undetectable pitches (in twelve part harmony) – they sing.

Simple and sturdy, golden thread touches and the wonders of organic structure. Nature’s fingernail brushes on Creation.

Sweet Daisy. Open, free and easy…Left on my own, it is what I strive to be.

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No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise except as permitted under Sections 107 or 108 of the 1976 United States Copyright Act, without either the prior written permission of the Publisher, or authorization through payment of the appropriate per-copy fee.