July 7th, 2009


Afternoon -

I sit now in some sort of bogglement as to what I might want to say.

Perhaps that happens when I read the news, the news on dignity and ethics and what McNamara allowed and did.



and then there are dogs sniffing out health problems. http://well.blogs.nytimes.com/2009/07/06/dogs-sniffing-out-health-problems/

I saw the doctor today for a physical and got a tetanus shot so I am all set. Blood work is fine.

Her office is by the bay, so I self-served a cup of coffee at the Bait and Tackle Shop and listened to the fishermen talk about whether to go out or not. Though the only fish I ever caught was with my niece Katy's Snoopy fishing rod when she was four or five, and that fish I put back, I seem to enjoy the talk of bait and lures.

I realize that amidst it all I feel positive. Perhaps it is where I live. We had a friend of Steve's to dinner last night. He was out from NY and had spent the last few days in Carmel, Monterey, and Santa Cruz, and yesterday went up the Marin coast. He kept exclaiming over the horizons. Perhaps we need to see the horizon to put everything in perspective, perhaps we need to watch the tides go in and out and expose little critters and cover them up and watch the moon rise and set and the sun. Perhaps.

oregon, willamette, 1 proxy falls

Poem by Cathy Song!

This poem says what I would like to say today.

The Man Moves Earth

by Cathy Song

The man moves earth
to dispel grief.
He digs holes
the size of cars.
In proportion to what is taken
what is given multiplies—
rain-swollen ponds
and dirt mounds
rooted with flame-tipped flowers.
He carries trees like children
struggling to be set down.
Trees that have lived
out their lives,
he cuts and stacks
like loaves of bread
which he will feed the fire.
The green smoke sweetens
his house.

The woman sweeps air
to banish sadness.
She dusts floors,
polishes objects
made of clay and wood.
In proportion to what is taken
what is given multiplies—
the task of something
else to clean.
Gleaming appliances
beg to be smudged,
breathed upon by small children
and large animals
flicking out hope
as she whirls by,
flap of tongue,
scratch of paw,
sweetly reminding her.

The man moves earth,
the woman sweeps air.
Together they pull water
out of the other,
pull with the muscular
ache of the living,
hauling from the deep
well of the body
the rain-swollen,
the flame-tipped,
the milk-fed—
all that cycles
through lives moving,
lives sweeping, water
circulating between them
like breath,
drawn out of leaves by light




alan's flowers

Protecting children -

Michael Jackson was not protected from the physical abuse of his father who thought it was fine to whip his children with straps and belts. Now, the children, who are not biologically related to Jackson, have been given in temporary custody to Jackson's mother, and therefore, the abusive father. The abuse that Michael Jackson suffered at the hands of his father is proof that his father should have access to no children at all.