ABY

The Tengles

The Tengles

A long time ago, or perhaps it was just yesterday there were two kids, by the name of Tengle, Malcolm Tengle and Daphne Tengle. Daphne was fond of pronouncing their last name to sound like Bengal, the ancient and mysterious region of India where she imagined majestic tigers prowling in the moonlight.  However, where they lived, many folks had this reputable name, and pronounced it as, tangle, like a mass of unkempt hair. It was a name held in respect by the locals, who comprised the no nonsense people that inhabited a small town, somewhere between the endless prairies and the red mountains of Colorado.

Malcolm was a freckled, smudged faced, scamp with wheat colored hair cropped short like a harvested field. Daphne his “little” sister towered over him, a lanky, skinny girl with long dark hair and deep intelligent eyes. They lived in a house that had once belonged to their maternal grandparents before their father had purchased it just over a year ago. When quite suddenly, in a rather less than grandparental way, Jack and Helen Coffin had chosen to sell their home and everything they owned in order to move to the Bahamas, for, as they put it, “the rest of their lives”. They lived in their new country in a state of seclusion preferring no telephone and reluctantly providing a post office box.

The house was located in a small town that Jack Coffin at the age of 23, had located by throwing a dart at a map of the United States, after having been properly blindfolded and twirled by his beloved 28-year-old wife Helen. The game was part of a going away party that they threw for themselves in celebration of their early retirement having won, only days before, the Massachusetts State Jackpot. Until that moment in time they were living just outside Boston where they both were employed by a “think tank”, dedicated to the study and eventual commercialization of non-linear existence.  Despite their unique way of locating a community, once settled into their Coloradoan life they became deeply at home. In fact they almost never left the roomy bungalow they purchased at the edge of town preferring to receive deliveries whenever possible.

(The nonlinear existence research is something they kept going secretly and is an important underlying theme and reason for the odd events to follow, which the reader finds out, later)

The Tengle children were originally from the north. Their parents had met each other while attending a city university and had eventually married and lived near the campus in a small apartment for many years.  Mrs. Tengle was a quiet woman who always referred to her northerly move to college as her ‘escape”.  Mr. Tengle, who grew up reading comic books about super heroes in the compartment of his father’s cross-continental transport rig, had developed an aversion for travel and a deep love for realism.  He met his wife-to-be only several hours after being dropped off on the highway just outside the University, with only a small suitcase and an international high school diploma that he earned through correspondence.

Nancy was the first person Bob met on campus.  He was searching for the administration building to check in.  The crowds of students who were all moving at a fair clip across the grounds looked something like cars on a closely spaced interchange in down town Los Angeles, buzzing swiftly by, paying notice only to the direction they were headed.  Although accustomed to heavy traffic, Bob was used to the secure environmental control of his father’s luxury tractor-trailer cab.  Taking a deep breath he merged and followed a vigorously pumping artery toward some tall, official looking buildings set off by the mountains to the west.  Nancy was sitting behind a desk marked, Student Help in the middle of a vaulted entry hall.  She was so beautiful that Bob could not take his eyes off of her for the entire 20 minutes he stood in line for her assistance.  As he stepped up to take his turn another student appeared to relieve her.  Not wanting to miss his opportunity to speak to her, he abruptly left the window and caught her eye as she exited the booth.  “Excuse me miss.  Could you tell me where I can find the registrar’s office?”  She smiled lifting her hand to cover her teeth and gestured him forward with her head.
“I’m going that way,” she answered.  “Stay with me.”
Bob did just that.  He stayed close to her as they fled through the crowds that day and then continued to stay with her for the rest of his life.

As it turned out Nancy and Bob did not have a lot in common.  However, their strengths balanced each other’s weaknesses perfectly.  Bob had traveled all his life whereas Nancy had been born in and grown up in one small town.  During that time she had driven to the big city on numerous occasions to receive psychotherapy for posttraumatic stress syndrome brought on by apparent hallucinations.  Almost all of which had to do with things disappearing suddenly with no explanation and other things appearing out of nowhere for only moments at a time. Her parents were for the most part uninterested in their daughter’s peculiar experiences and dismissed them with a shrug and a smile.  The school health department, however, were quite disturbed by Nancy’s “stories” which seemed to be part of a greater epidemic of very similar tales being told by other children at school.  Eventually they insisted on intervention for all involved.  As a result of their peculiar experiences the children of her town all grew up rather nervous and timid, wishing to call very little notice to themselves and at odds with their parents. In the end both the kids and their folks looked forward to the day that the young ones would pack up and set out on their own.

(Few more things to expand between met and wed?)

It wasn’t until Nancy was a senior and Bob was a junior that he was able to persuade her from the habit of covering her mouth when she smiled. A year later at their wedding, following Bob’s graduation, she even opened her mouth a little to laugh.  After having ‘the children”, Nancy and Bob Tengle had imagined obtaining a larger home but time had a way of flying and it wasn’t until Daphne was 12 that they literally broke out of the place and moved south to their mother’s childhood home.  Her home, their “new” house was on a street where all the kids had grown up and moved away for good.  Very few of its retired residents got out much.  The only signs of life on the insides of the homes on Boone lane, pronounced (b  n ), were the flutter of curtains behind darkened windows that the children would often catch from the corners of their eyes.  The most neighborly excitement Daphne and Malcolm experienced since they had lived on Boone Lane was when the old man who lived across the street backed into their mailbox. He then proceeded to drag it to the corner of the block where it fell off of his bumper as he turned right and continued on his way. When the kids hefted it back to the house, mother just shook her head and said

“You may as well just throw it on the heap at the side of the house.”

Although Malcolm and Daphne had seen the heap there before it wasn’t until that incident that they noticed it was largely filled with squashed mailboxes.

There was one playground near Boone Lane about a half block away, but it had long since been abandoned.  The equipment, what little there was of it, were like steel skeletons, broken down, paint peeling and disintegrating into rust. There must have been sand at one time surrounding the monkey bars and the slide because the whole lot stood in a foot deep cement pool. Empty, except for trash and leaves most of the year it would fill to the brim during the rainy season. When not offering reflected clouds or agitated ripples the place was either covered with snow and ice or baked to an egg frying degree.

One of the more curious qualities about their locality was the utter lack of animals, more specifically, pets.  Of course there were squirrels and birds and a colony of prairie dogs next to the Dairy King, but there wasn’t even one cat or stray dog to ever be seen or heard for miles around.  This fact disturbed the Tengle children. If Malcolm and Daphne had a passion in common, it was that they both loved all kinds of ‘folks with tails’.
They called animals folks because the fact was, that they believed them to be equal to people in all ways and they also found them to be a lot friendlier than most of their relations.  They were very fond of dog folk, cat folk and rodent folk as well.  Although many of their friends back in Denver had tail folk of all kinds Daphne and Malcolm had well, zero, not even one.

When the children first asked about having a pet, their mother burst into tears and ran into the bathroom.  Their father waved his arm wildly in their direction and told them to “hush up” and to not to talk of such things. At the time they were quite young and had the impression that anything that their parents did or said was quite normal.  However, by the time they were in the upper elementary grades they began to realize this was not the case.  In fact it was a feeling of mortification that swept over them when a friend suggested visiting their home

It seemed to them that every family had some kind of furry housemate and some of some kids were so totally lucky that they even had tiny creatures that they kept in their bedrooms.  Malcolm was always wishing out loud for a four legged, one tailed companion.  At first their parents had explained that their mother had had a tragic experience with a pet dog during her childhood.

“It ran away”, their Dad would say.
“Right through the fence” their mother would conclude.

Neither of the two children had ever imagined having anything so incredible living in their house as a dog.  For one thing the apartment was unbelievably small.  At the time, Daphne still slept in her parent’s room, on a narrow chase lounge mattress between her Mom’s side of the bed and the wall.  Malcolm slept on the living room convertible couch, which doubled as a seat for his sister and him at the family table. After meals the table and the bed were folded and neatly the former was stowed next to the wall behind the latter.  There would also be serious concerns about the safety of a pet dog when sent outdoors since the family did not have a yard or any of the accompanying benefits that came with such a space.  No, they had imagined a gerbil or even a mouse.  “Its cage could hang from the ceiling,” they suggested.

“The answer is no,” repeated father looking nervously over at mother who gave a little sniff and dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief.

But now, now that they had moved south to where the world and indeed their home seemed enormous the kids had tried to entertain the notion of a furry friend, once again.  They had always thought it was the size of their quarters that prevented pet ownership.  However, they realized that, as often was the case, they hadn’t really been listening.  Due to some unimaginable trauma their mother was incapable of the emotional burdens of having a pet and therefore their father would not permit it.

“It ran away”, their Dad would say.
“Right through the fence” their mother would conclude.

After a while Daphne just gave up on the whole thing.  Besides it was beginning to bother her that her mother always seemed so sad and the whole issue would always intensify her solemn mood.  Malcolm on the other hand was tireless if not, as Daphne put it,
“Somewhat callous”

to the feelings of others.

He continued to make regular requests followed by storms of temper and misbehavior.  His parents ignored him.

“What’s up?” Malcolm complained. “Why can’t we have a dog or something?
If I had my way we could get a whole lot of fur beings in this place.  Forget the dog idea. Let’s get some really unusual ones.”

“No,” said Dad from behind the evening paper.

Malcolm turned an exasperated look to Daphne. She shrugged and rolled her eyes as if to say,

“Why Malcolm, do you bother?”

Malcolm considered this and then toning down his plea, put in a smaller bid.

“Just one ferret for me and a cat for Daphne?” he offered.

“No.  There won’t be any critters in this house,” insisted Dad.

Holding a small space between her thumb and forefinger in a dramatic attempt to look reasonable, Daphne used her special “good girl” voice.

“Just one…?  A very small one…?  …We could share?” And then she added, “Perhaps, it could live outdoors.”  Between her fingers she imagined an inch high poodle with delicate curling pink hair in a white snowsuit.

“I’m losing it,” she thought.

”Sorry Daphne” Mom tried to sound comforting.

“We can’t even have a small one, Dear.  That’s really not the problem.”

Malcolm and Daphne had not yet connected with friends even though it had been a year since they had arrived.  They rode a bus to school, which stopped just for them and then drove 15 minutes before pulling up to a house where two first graders lived.

Sometimes Malcolm and Daphne would just pretend they had a tailed friend.  Other times they pretended they, themselves, were folks with tails.  And sometimes they imagined that other people they knew were folks with tails.  Like, Ms. Bertie, the math teacher who clearly descended from a reptilian species.  Daphne imagined each one of her friends with a luxurious tail of some exotic species.  Malcolm liked to imagine what kind of tail bearing animal random people, like the grocer, might have.  He found it hard not to laugh when he got a particularly good visual and got in to trouble fairly often.

Then one day they made a very unusual friend.  Malcolm and Daphne were outside in the warm spring sun sitting at their family’s beat up, old picnic table having a snack. Mom had given them a huge bowl of walnuts.  Daphne was wielding a hammer and Malcolm was dangerously employing a pair of pliers. The afternoon air was oddly still and not even one bird was singing.

“Snap, crack, crunch, crunch, crunch!” The kids were totally absorbed in their activity. Not one word passed between them, and on the table, before each maniacal-tooth-cracking dentist, a pile of shells grew to a larger pile of shells.

Then suddenly,
“Swish, scamper, patter, patter.”
A squirrel jumped out of the big tree near by and ran along the fence to the patio.

They looked up at it.  It stared back.  They waited with their mouths half full of bits and their jaws hanging slack beneath their startled faces. It had a beautiful grey-brown coat and large black shiny eyes.  It didn’t move, frozen in its stance, but looking ready to leap at any moment.  Its big tan and rust colored tail waved back and forth in short swings reminding Malcolm of a batter waiting for a pitch.
“Can I have a nut?” it enquired.  The kids blinked and Malcolm rubbed his ear, sticking his finger inside and giving it a sharp wiggle.
“May I have a nut?”  It corrected itself, sounding hopeful.
Daphne slowly extended a cracked piece of nutmeat held unnoticed, until this moment, in the palm of her hand.
“Thanks!”  It leapt onto the table, grabbed the offering in its paws and took a nibble.  It looked up at its audience, took another nibble and then looked up again.
“Well, how’ve you been?”  It muttered between mouthfuls.
“Uh, great… I guess”, Malcolm spoke almost in a whisper.
“That’s good, may I have another?”
“Be our guest” Malcolm’s voice restored with irony.
“Oh. No! No! The squirrel replied, “My folks won’t let me stay with people.  For one thing they are very crude and for another the doors to their cages are very hard to open.”
“You speak.” Malcolm said
“Uh, huh”
“Hey, wow,” exclaimed Daphne, slowly coming back to her senses.  “Sorry we are acting so strained but we have never met anyone like you before.  You are so, so, unusual.
“Oh. No! No! I am very common,” answered the squirrel taking another nut.
Crunch.
“There are a lot of folks just like me.  Ground squirrels live everywhere.  They live in the city, they live in the country and they live in the mountains.
You’re a ground squirrel?”
“Yep, and there are other types of squirrels too, and there are lots of mice, rats and chipmunks around here.”
“You don’t say?” said Daphne trying to act normal.
“There are also ferrets, skunks and moles.”
“Moles?”
“Yes but they are very timid.  It’s not likely a mole would have much to do with you.  Nothing at all for them to say to strangers.”
“Really?”
“But skunks, now their good people.  Very outgoing, friendly sorts, skunks are.  A skunk could tell you quite a lot if she wished to.”
“Sweet!”  Malcolm exclaimed. “I would love to talk to a skunk.”
“Tell you what.  Why don’t you fill your pockets up with some of those nuts and come with me.  My grandfather can tell you all about skunks and the rest of us folks with tails.”
The Kids grabbed large fistfuls of walnuts and stuffed them into their pockets.
“You got it!” exclaimed Malcolm as they both jumped to their feet.

“My name is Anis” their fuzzy friend called over her shoulder as she whizzed away toward the fence. They ran too, but slowed to a stop toward the middle of the yard as they watched her through the fence. She was gone. In a moment she peeked back over and encouraged them.
“Well come along.”
Suddenly, to the children’s utter amazement a fluttering mirage appeared within the sun bleached planks of their backyard barricade.
“Let’s go”, Daphne beamed at Malcolm and grabbed his hand as she began to lunge forward.  Laughing and stumbling they ran through the space where a solid wooden fence had once enclosed them, feeling only the slightest snag as they entered into an unfamiliar field of waving grass.

The Krestyanin

Napoleonic Bayonnet, 1874 / Egyptian Model

For David Jay O’Neal on his 19^th Birthday

Dmitry had a sense of himself even as a small child. His babushka would look at his square palms and sturdy fingers every evening by the fireside. Strong thick paws cradled in her hands she would inspect them for omens that foretold the future. Then she would pat them like blinchik* and rub them until they were vibrating with the heat of their joined energy.

“These are krestyanin’s, farmer’s hands”, she would state proudly as she returned them to him, as if she were releasing a well-guarded family possession.

Dmitry thought, “No, net”. He would definitely not be a farmer.

It was thought amongst the yazychestvo, the pagan spiritualists in their community that Dmitry would meet with distinction in life. He had been born a week before Zemplya-Matushka, Mother Earth, also gave birth to a child, emblematically heralding a new era for all the people. An earthquake had leveled the buildings for miles around, causing all to rebuild and start afresh.  The seismic upheaval took place exactly seven day after Dmitry had been born, it was an omen, and it was believed that his future would be not be ordinary.

 

When it struck he was tucked safely amongst soft blankets in a korzina, a small wooden hand built basket used for carrying bundles of wild herbs and flowers from babushka’s garden to the town market place. She was taking him out for his first taste of fresh air and sunshine since he’d been pushed from his mother’s womb.  His large size had caused her labor to be long and harsh, she had bled considerably during the birth and she was still in bed. It had begun to pour rain just before he had crowned and then took his first breath. It had rained for days, washing away leaves and dirt from the gutters, filling the creek and preparing for spring and then on his seventh day of life it stopped as suddenly as it had begun. This was the first glorious day of bright sun and warm wind from the south.

 

After the earth’s first unexpected shake, his babushka had turned back for home, leaving the country path where a mud and stone shelter, cracked and shattered close by.  She chose to cut through a section of open grazing land away from any structures and trees. She had carried her precious burden close to the middle of the meadow when the second tremor hit, stronger and more persuasive than the first. Dmitry had spent the suspended moment experiencing grasshoppers jumping wildly in a grand ballet above him. Babushka focused on the rolling dirt and waving grass from where they came. It looked as if the pregnant belly of the earth was contracting and expanding to push forth a fearsome ‘novorozhdennyi’**, a powerful ‘Malysh’***, from the heart of the earth, to join Dmitry on his life’s journey.

Dmitry grew like a sturdy weed and it wasn’t long before he was carrying a bundle to market beside babushka and her basket that had cradled him that remarkable day. He adored their visits to the town and marveled over the bustle of the townsfolk, automobiles and industry that pushed and tugged at all creation. In particular he loved the frequent parades of military troops that stomped through the streets in rhythmic time.  The surge of pressed uniforms in disciplined rows flowing against the chaotic movement of the crowds excited him. He would try to spot and identify the various pins and medals that distinguished the finest members of their ranks.  Dmitry sensed their solid kinship, their mutual, pride and distinct honor as they pulsed through the narrow dusty streets and across the open squares.

At the end of each day when the women would gather to sew and the men would fix their tools and speak of the upcoming harvest, Dmitry would pull down the small box that held the medals and ribbons that his grandfather had won during the first World War.  He never tired of looking at them. He would finger each one and imagine the stories he had been told, running them through his head as if he had been there. The extreme hardship, the comrades thrown together by fate, and the shared love for their Rodina – the motherland, their far off families and each other that drove them to confront their worst fears and act out amazing feats of heroism.

In the stolen hours between his assigned chores Dmitry would venture into the nearby woods and build sturdy bridges from fallen trees and branches, across the small creek that ran there.  He would arm each side with a heavy pile of round stones and run back and forth between them playing both sides, pitching rocks and dodging the ones sent his way from his imagination. As he grew older he created catapults that would fling broken bricks and dung high into the air, scattering it across the fallowed fields like felled pigeons.

When he went to school he drew pictures of tanks and artillery from books that he borrowed from the library.  His teacher had spoken to his parents about her apprehension over his choice of books.

“Dmitry, only selects nonfiction for his personal reading. I would like him to occasionally choose a fiction. He was such a good boy, why did war obsess him?”

His parents thought, “Books were books” and could not fathom her concern. In the scheme of life and work why should anyone take notice of such things? Reading was helpful in many ways and they encouraged Dmitry to learn as much as he could. Someday the sober responsibility of reading almanacs to determine the planting and keeping a constant record of their profits for government fees would be his. No doubt the boy was smart and an education was not wasted on him, it would pay off in the long run. The sacrifice of his labor in the fields was a worthy one, but why should it matter to an adult what a youth read?

In High School the boys had machine shop and were taught to work with wood and metal. Dmitry shaped several rifle bodies and armed them with sharpened bayonets. It was unnatural for a farmer’s boy to choose such endeavors and it was decided that he needed redirection.  His instructor had required Dmitry to build something, “more practical, something more useful for a krestyanin”. He waved his hand at the other boys had already moved on from tool crafting. “Do you see what your brothers have made?” Dmitry stared upon rows of hoes and rakes, the daily tools to their family trades.  He showed the boy patterns for a “solid” chair and a ”useful” plough. 

Dmitry built a small but accurate model of a Maxim M1910 machine gun. He had found a picture of it in a newspaper. It was wonderful what prizes were left on top of rubbish piles in the town square. He reasoned that it could be functional, given the right situation. Many of the youth at their small school had taken interest in his efforts and had come by to see it when it was finished. It was a marvel of detail and craftsmanship. Dmitry’s babushka viewing the work on open school night clasped her hands together and cried out, “My vnuk, my Grandson, he will be a builder. Every farm needs a good builder.”

*pancakes, ** infant, *** younger brother 

D.Jay,

Happy 19^th birthday! I hope you like this story I wrote for you.  I has bits and pieces of my memories of you as a child and the events of your birth woven into a fictional Russian setting. My intent in this story is to say that all people must find their own way and their own personal meaning in life because those who they have sprung forth from will never be able to truly know anything other than themselves.

Love,

Mom

Drawing Portfolio

I am trying to get a drawing tutor job online for AIO.  I put a new drawing portfolio page up on spirit-mind.com http://spirit-mind.com/abydrawing.htm

Nude Descending a Staircase

Nude Descending a Staircase – Marcel Duchamp, Oil on Canvas 1912 – Philadelphia Museum of Art

X. J. Kennedy

Toe upon toe, a snowing flesh,
A gold of lemon, root and rind,
She sifts in sunlight down the stairs
With nothing on. Nor on her mind.

We spy beneath the banister
A constant thresh of thigh on thigh–
Her lips imprint the swinging air
That parts to let her parts go by.

One-woman waterfall, she wears
Her slow descent like a long cape
And pausing, on the final stair
Collects her motions into shape.

Multiple Exposures

This work is copyrighted and may not be exhibited, republished, copied or used in anyway; in either whole or in part, without the expressed, written, permission of the artist.

The Cat’s Pajamas

This Photograph was taken by Howard S. Barrows It is copyrighted and may not be exhibited, republished, copied or used in anyway; in either whole or in part, without the expressed, written, permission of the artist.

Can you guess what this is a photograph of?

HSB Writes : “I was sitting in my desk chair reviewing manuscripts with my legs crossed and wearing blue and white striped pajamas. My Olympus 550UV happened to be on my desk. The resulting photo was converted to B&W. All extraneous elements such as the chair edge and floor were converted to solid black or removed with some cropping. The image darkened and enhanced in Threshold removing the fabric pattern. The resulting black lines smoothed with a carefully adjusted Gaussian Blur, and then the image Spiraled until the effect was what I wanted.”

DAD

So in my humble opinion my Dad is the coolest thing since cracked ice. Here is a Photograph he took last year. Photography has always been an interest of his. You can see more of his excellent photographs by clicking here.

Besides being the father of me and my three sisters (which is quite an accomplishment in and of itself) he is also the father of the “Clinical Track” in Medical Education and the creator of aPBL which has totally made education in many fields, around the globe, more exciting and far more relevant to the learner. Basically he made it possible for students to study and practice clinical skills and be appropriately evaluated for their clinical performance prior to graduating from Medical School. 45 years ago they used to just teach the academic research part of medicine and then let the newly graduated physicians effectively “experiment” and develop their bedside skills, after recieving their dipolma, through trial and error . It was pretty scary.

He has written 19 books and published over 400 articles. He also co-founded “Teaching and Leaning in Medicine: An International Journal”. For his article, “Use of Standardized Patients in Clinical Assessment,” he received the Award for Outstanding Research Publication from the American Education Research Association. He has received several honorary degrees and has been the recipient of a number of honors and awards. He was granted the first annual John P. Hubbard Award by the National Board of Medical Examiners and The Abraham Flexner Award for Distinguished Service to Medical Education.

This is his site on aPBL

Okay I’m done bragging. No doubt, I love and admire my Dad.

Here he is with my Mom on their 52 Wedding Anniversary. She is amazing too. They are Soul Mates.

This Polaroid is a  portrait taken by my sister Rebecca Barrows. It is copyrighted and may not be exhibited, republished, copied or used in anyway; in either whole or in part, without the expressed, written, permission of the artist.

Six Feet Under

My husband Daniel and I just finished the entire Six-Feet-Under, HBO TV series last night. In the end the family plays out the overwhelming grief of mortal loss that an endless stream of clients, over the five-year series, had only hinted at in the comfort of the death clan’s solemn intake room.

When we are first introduced to this family of quirky misfits, all self imprisoned by societal strains, they are in this same grief stricken state over their father Nathaniel’s untimely death. At that moment in time, however, we have only just met them and our empathy is purely voyeuristic and abstract in nature. However, after all these many performances we have grown to know them intimately and have taken them into our hearts and minds as we so often do in our favorite TV affairs. This time, as the Fisher family stumbles their way through the consciousness altering experience of having a central family member die, we stagger too. Together we are tortured by anxiety, numbness and disbelief. The ceiling-eye vision of Claire curled up in an ocean of unmade sheets has been indelibly burned into my psyche.

In this way the familial cast spends most of the final episode groping through the clay of their existence. Remarkably in less than an hour they begin to emerge with Claire’s symbolic relocation to New York and independence. In the last remaining minutes of the show, the Fisher family is rolled out into the future in short order. Each member grows old and gray, under the expert hands of Hollywood’s most talented, fades and passes. All of the rest of their combined lives and deaths were dealt to us with the deftness of cards spinning in the hands of a seasoned gambler.

I can’t even begin to imagine what it must have taken to envision all of those scenarios and to bring together not only the creative vision but also the filmed reality. I am haunted by it in the same way that I have been haunted since childhood by the fluid passage of initial growth, to full bloom and inevitable decay of flowers captured on film. They showed this many times on their opening trailer, so much so that I had grown accustomed to something that in the past had always been so compelling to me. But to be confronted with the same time-lapse process of my own species; rising forward and crumbling into the sand was disturbing to say the least.

I find myself today running through the memories of this fictional tribe as if they were my own. I feel as though I have lived through at least seven reincarnated life times in a single breath.  By the second season I began to feel as though “I”, the viewer, was God screening her creation. As I sat behind the window to their lives I experienced with them joy, sorrow, judgment and humility. I disliked characters, then felt compassion for them and then disliked them again. Watching this show has been an amazing experience.

My Friend Jim

12, originally uploaded by jjagogo. This work is a self portrait taken by Jim Johnson. It is copyrighted and may not be exhibited, republished, copied or used in anyway; in either whole or in part, without the expressed, written, permission of the artist.

Jim has just returned from a business trip to Japan.  It is at least his umpteenth time over there and whatever intrigue it once had for him, to be in the land of the rising sun, is now way gone. They are thieving his creative mind and slowly pilfering his free spirit. They got him up early and kept him up all night, revisiting small details and columns of numbers under florescent lights, over flowing glasses of Sake and behind unending platters of Sushi. When he passed out in the wee hours of the morn, they did secret alien surgery on his brain and filled his veins with ground up business suits.

Dream Space

The photographs of this artist are so beautiful to me. I, like many photographers are drawn to dreaming, and specifically, the dream space as an idea for my photography.  I have been inspired for many years by the Nature Photography of Bien-U BAE from Yosu, South Korea, circa 1950. In particular I love his Pine Tree Series. His photographs speak of an in-between place; a venue that our Earth consciousness and our Spirit consciousness share in a tangible, almost atmospheric realm.  In the Pine Series, he reveals/captures the filtered light within an almost haunted, forested preserve in South Korea to show this. I think you will love his work. http://bbuart.com/nature.htm