Steal This Meme: Roomy

A smiling lens

As Clay Shirky, author of Here Comes Everybody, puts it, “The stupidest possible creative act is still a creative act.” Words to live by in the latter days of the Internet Age. I made this meme. Steal it.

Random Photo

blind shade

A photo a day keeps the Doctor in play.


Happy is the One Who Repays

By the rivers of Babylon,
there we sat down,
yea, we wept
when we remembered—

The harper knows forgiveness
as the roaring music
of the river at flood
that owns the speed and speech
of his blood

as he sings down the rain
standing in the dry riverbed.

The god gives the harper a holy chord

his right hand
remembers its cunning,
takes the harp down from the willow.

The harper stands in the opened vein
of an unveiled threat.

Vengeance is mine,

god whispers,
and the harper hears the whisper:

Walk here, this is the way home.
All is forgiven.

The harper sings,
the ghosts dance,
the rain begins,

little craters plopping
in the riverbottom sand,
little drops dashing against the stones.

rain begins 1 top crop

Note: Opening lines are from Psalm 137. “Vengeance is Mine”–Romans 12:19.

The happy weatherman says our local drought will end soon. Happy is the rain that dashes itself against the rock.

Random Photo

eden shadow puppets 3

A photo a day keeps the Doctor in play.

Waiting for the school bus one morning last week, my granddaughter made shadow puppets on the sidewalk, passing time. “Woodpeckers,” she said. In the cant of morning sun, her woodpeckers made her whole shadow look like a praying mantis to me.

The shadowplay, in the fruitful decay of my aging brain, threw shade on the Euthyphro dilemma.  Standing in the sunshine by a beautiful child, my mind wanders in its own shadows. “Is the pious (τὸ ὅσιον) loved by the gods because it is pious, or is it pious because it is loved by the gods?” asks Socrates. The piety of the praying mantis is pious to the gods. Gods love the mantis.

Bonus mantis:

mantis bw

Museum of Joy


Multiple exposure of Edith Sitwell, by Cecil Beaton

The Web of Eros

Within your magic web of hair, lies furled
The fire and splendour of the ancient world;
The dire gold of the comet’s wind-blown hair;
The songs that turned to gold the evening air
When all the stars of heaven sang for joy.

The flames that burnt the cloud-high city Troy.
The mænad fire of spring on the cold earth;
The myrrh-lit flame that gave both death and birth
To the soul Phoenix; and the star-bright shower
That came to Danaë in her brazen tower…

Within your magic web of hair lies furled
The fire and splendour of the ancient world.

Edith Sitwell, from The Wooden Pegusus

Chaos in Chalk

chalk face liege and dairy tcrop

The I only sees as the line draws.

I used to draw freehand sketches in ink I call chaos drawings. Since I acquired live-in grandchildren, I have de facto transferred to a new medium: chalk. I say used to because I haven’t drawn a chaos sketch in ink for some time, but I’ve done a lot of sketching using big fat sticks of colored chalk I buy by the bucket for me and the gkids, usually on the sidewalk in front of the house. I take dpics of the ones I like, and people walk on them; rain eventually washes them away. The chaos face above I drew on the blackboard wall at a local super-premium-makes-your-ass-want-a-pinch-of-snuff ice creamery called Liege & Dairy, with the chalk provided. My grandson drew a body to my head, it looks something like a scarf.

chalk face ice cream shop w ollie luck

Ollie likes his finely branded, crafted and curated, totally non-ironically ironic ice scream with gummi worms, thank you:

ollie liege and dairy gummi worms

Hymning to Myself, Letting You Listen

crow puddle tcrop

Some Vedic hymns or chants may possibly have preceded language, originating as something like the human equivalent of birdsong. We sang hymns before we had words. We worshiped before we had God. Worship as a behavior preceded the language and concepts our gods are made of, and may be prehuman.

God, the voice of, heard as form of pareidolia, in the chant, like the phantom phone heard ringing in the running water of the shower.

Per Kepler, we think God’s thoughts for him. Divine apophenia.

Saint Francis preached to the birds, not because men would not listen, but to incite the birds themselves as his fellow creatures to praise.

I know which to prefer:
The terror
of silent innuendo
just after
the blackbird stops whistling.

I rang sonorities on the soft bell
of yelps, sang hosannas
haunted by the glad pains
we took to erase all the psalters
of cacophony, bred crows
under green light
as a sacrifice
to my one bawd of euphony.

Caw, caw.