Share some stuff that interests me

http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-1219762/Guns-roses-The-photographer-literally-shoots-subjects.html?ITO=1490

next year, assuming that the project will be continued…. smile

http://www.greatsunflower.org/

http://www.greatsunflower.org/files/images/Garden_Description.pdf

http://www.greatsunflower.org/files/images/How_to_tell_a_Bee.pdf

“Bees: Responsible for Every Third Bite of Food”! wow

[Image from: http://www.greatsunflower.org/en/guide-sunflower-bees]

—a really neat (& unexpected) effect!

http://bellflower.elfle.com/mind-blowing-images-can-be-made.html

The guy (Simon Schubert) creates these using nothing but folds in the paper!

‘waycool

Photo from:

http://www.telegraph.co.uk/culture/art/5382316/Artist-creates-pictures-by-folding-paper.html

Maybe you will, too?

http://www.google.com/doodle4google/vote.html

smile

Although I would never impugn the motives
Of the friends who so sincerely recommended
This honeymoon package, this beach, this hotel,
I’m acutely aware
Of algae growth choking the briny green pool,
A tarantula at home in the tiny shower stall,
And those better-left-unimagined stains
On the linens and the carpet and the drapes.

Granting our friends the benefit of the doubt,
I’ll believe this property must’ve changed hands,
Since their love was new, when their visit was bliss,
And I’ll focus instead
On sugar sand, umbrella drinks, the salt-smelling air,
Terrycloth towels, coconut oil, your hands in my hair,
Short sunsets, long nights, your mouth and my kisses,
On the joyous singularity of our jubilant love.

(c) 2009 Colleen_C_C

[NaPoWriMo #13: “A Tumble of Words”]

“Where you from?” they’d ask, and I’d answer
Using one spread hand for an outline – impromptu map -
Pointing with the other one, since nobody,
Not even back when, was all that good at geography.

“So here’s where I live, Anchorage, our biggest city;
Got a quarter million now – a sixth a’that when I got there -
Mountains on three sides, ocean on the fourth.
We get snow but mild winters; South Central’s pretty temperate.”

“There, my thumb’s South East Alaska – that part
Hanging down by Canada, yeah – here’s Juneau,
State capitol, with three hundred inches a’rain a year,
Closer to Seattle, Washington than to Anchorage.”

“Way up there, the flat side of my hand’s the North Slope;
Here’s the Haul Road – parallels the Pipeline, ends in the oil fields -
Whole thing’s gravel. From here, the web between my thumb
And finger, up to there, Alaska’s ‘bout eight hundred miles tall.”

“Out here, the tip of my third finger’s our furthest point west;
Alaska’s four time zones wide, like the whole continental U.S.,
But they collapsed ‘em into two – not too long back – redrew
The lines, made it easier to reach Juneau, and to call Outside.”

“And there, the pointer finger? That’s where the islands take off;
The Aleutian chain begins – site of The Thousand-Mile War
(Great book, by the way) – though few Americans know it, we got
Invaded in World War II….” An interruption, with more questions:

“Are you an Eskimo?” They ask in all seriousness.
“Did you live in an igloo? Did you drive a dog team?”
“No, I’m not Native – no igloo, no dog team – nothing really unusual;
I grew up pretty much like you did down in the Lower Forty-Eight.”

No igloo? No dog team? Neither Eskimo nor exotic?
There’s no interest anymore: no audience, either.
Leaning back, I fold my hands – put the map away -
Sit quietly. No more stories today.

Ah, but the land – this great land,
Our last frontier – which was and is
And forever more shall be, Amen!
Alaska’s mine: I own it all in memory.

(c) 2009 Colleen_C_C

[NaPoWriMo #12: "Where You Come From"]

If we cannot do
what we have promised
in this Agreement
because of something
beyond our reasonable control

such as failure of electronic or mechanical equipment
or communication lines, telephone or other interconnection problems,
computer viruses, ‘hacking’, unauthorised access, theft, operator error,
earthquakes, lightning, flood, or exceptionally severe weather,
fire or explosion, civil disorder, war, or military operations,
national or local emergency, anything done by government
or other competent authority or industrial disputes of any kind
(including those involving our employees),
or information lost due to malfunction or loss of any electronic systems,

we will not be liable
for this.

[Quoted verbatim – only line divisions added – from “Terms and Conditions,” Paragraph 14, as posted at http:// company-name-suppressed. html, as accessed April 12, 2009.]

Editing (c) 2009 Colleen_C_C

[NaPoWriMo #10: "Found Poetry"]

First Boyfriend, I learned betrayal from you
(Though not the banal proverbial sexual kind),
When you told me you’d decided to
Break up with me. You’d made up your mind.
Yes, you said, it was over. We were through.
Based on the counsel of a teacher you
Trusted, and against the advice of an old family friend.
Yes, you were sure. This was the end.

And I stormed, inside,
Thinking “What the hell is that!
Ask a teacher? Ask a friend?
Why not ask your heart?”

(c) 2009 Colleen_C_C

[NaPoWriMo #8: “Old Flames”]

This is not the Frisbee beach of summer,
Swimsuits, gentle breezes, hot sun.
This is wind stinging rain into your face
Layers of clothing soaked to the skin;
This is up past midnight or rise at dawn,
Following the imperious cycle of the tides.
You see, the best rock hunting comes when
Winter storms have scoured the sand offshore.

For twenty-some years, before cancer foreclosed on him,
Through our last outing, the year that he died,
We spent hours on the beach together,
Walking in tandem, rarely speaking
(“Parallel play,” a psychologist might say),
Occasionally finding, always seeking.

He did not stroll or amble, but walked purposefully
At tideline, head down, intent on what he might see.
I’d sometimes wander up and down the beach,
But mostly tagged along, fairly close behind,
Watching to see him stoop and pick and toss,
Waiting to hear him say “Ah! Here’s a find,”
His voice sometimes carrying, clear as a ship’s bell,
Other times, wind shifting, lost entirely in the surf.

When I was young, I had a penchant for
Olive snail shells, sea-carved cedar wood,
Nacreous blue mussel mother of pearl,
Tiny translucent jellyfish, and
Giant kelp bulbs you could pop like balloons.
Rarely he’d discover a Japanese fishing float,
Vitreous wonder, amazingly whole on the sand,
But mostly he found agates, boxes and boxes of rocks.

We found the most best agates in the sea-sifted sands
At the apex where the rocks met the cliff met the waves.
Raw stones didn’t seem like much to me then, but he
Had insight for their polished and perfected future forms.
We were not interested in smooth color-treated Mexican agate
Sold at roadside stands making a quick buck off tourists.
If we did not find treasure ourselves,
Would it still be treasure? Would it still be ours?

He probably seemed a cantankerous old character,
Daunting eyebrows, mudboots, flannel shirts, and Mackinaw;
Sometimes, high and dry on driftwood, a Thermos waiting.
Tramping up and down the beach in the chill air,
Appearing through drifting fog or squalling rain,
He’d announce that the tide was coming in again
And “Anyway, it’s well past time for lunch.”

Back at the camper, stamping sand into the mat at our feet,
We’d empty our burlap bags into buckets of water
To get a good look at what we’d hauled in.
She’d always ask, “Did you bring home every agate on the beach?”
“Nope,” he’d always reply, “Gotta leave some for the next guy.”
What we salvaged, what we cherished,
What we found, what we brought home:
Memories ossify like bone, polish up like agate stone.

He’d deduce the turn of the tide long before I’d notice;
I’d recognize it only when the surging waves came swirling
Around dry-docked rocks once marooned in sand,
Gurgling into potholes and tidepools, marine life waiting.
He was as patient as they: as patient as tides; as patient as
Hard rock, clay beds, soil matrix, agate seams, all wearing away.

Spring bulbs still peek through stones by the coffee shop’s porch,
An owl still hoots from its perch on the hill above the beach,
The waves still maul the rocks, the gulls still cry,
The wind still thrums the lines of storm-warning flags.
Through vicissitudes of sun and storm, though battered by rain and tide,
I still wear a polished agate pendant,
And my face in the window, midnight-mirrored,
Still resembles his, somewhat.

(c) 2009 Colleen_C_C

[NaPoWriMo #5: “50 Words”]