TUCSON'S DESERT SKY

Today at 11:46 A.M. I espied a diminutive cousin of Mr. Wordsworth's lonely wandering cloud; it hung there all all by itself in solitude above the mountain tops, a single billowy cotton-ball alone aloft in a blue, blue Arizona sky, a cloud that first was--and then was not. At 11:47 A.M. the sky was a deep, deep blue...and cloudless. That little white cloud had melted away right before my watching eyes.

All things are transitory, it seems.

Something like that.

Madly Milking The Mundane

A couple afternoons ago I walked two miles, from home down Conestoga Avenue to just past Sundance Drive and back.

At Sundance Drive there were two antique cars parked in front of a garage, an old Plymouth and another old car with a name I didn't recognize-- a Graham. The picture of the Plymouth strangely did not appear on the camera's memory disc so it is lost. But the other one is posted below. Perhaps the next time I walk that route I will snap another shot of the Plymouth.


A few days ago, on a whim, I took an experimental ride on JoAnn's bicycle and surprised myself that I managed as well as I did. It had been more than fifty years since I'd ridden one. With some serious practice, a whole new mode of transportation could be opening up for me.

Another day, while we were out for an evening walk along a desert path Mike noticed a cactus bedecked with flowers of a color he'd never seen on a cactus before. I took a picture of it but the web-colors do not accurately reproduce the richness of the strangely lavender-hued pinks. The flowers were quite beautiful.


A cynic is a man who,
when he smells flowers,
looks around for a coffin
--H.L. Mencken

Meditation, Yellow Balloons, etc.

It has been nearly a full month since I arrived here in Arizona.

This morning early just as the sun had topped the peaks of the surrounding mountains I wandered repetitively around and around the pool's fenced perimeter sipping sustenance from a cup of hot black bitter tea while Eva snarled and growled and barked in canine joy as she energetically leapt about snapping at startled flies and instinctively chased the scurrying and obviously terrified lizards into patches of protective cactus plants.

A pair of faded turquoise sweat pants and a thin pullover white shirt labeled BUBBA Burgers with my feet encased within a pair of 20-year-old Florida deck shoes was sufficient for comfort in the warmth of the beginning day.

Above, an Air Force fighter jet arrowed through the upper atmosphere leaving behind a mere whisper of wartime warning. And then I saw in the distance a completely silent high-floating yellow balloon.


The silent balloon traversed the city of Tucson and I wondered if it was the same yellow balloon I'd seen previously when it landed at the base of one of the Santa Catalina mountains a short distance from where I stood among the landscaped cactus garden near the swimming pool.


I think that if someone were to offer me a free ride in the hurtling jet-plane or even in that huge meandering hot-air balloon I would with a painted-on smile graciously decline the invitation. Why would any thinking human being choose to drift above the relative safety of the surface of the Earth? To escape from what dreadful land-based threatening event or situation?

Additionally...

Why would a human being force one's self to exist within a narrow cone of safety to daily munch organic raisins and 100 percent natural pecans after a breakfast of a single Fresh California Navel Orange in place of Crispy Bacon and Sunny-Side-Up Butter-Fried Eggs and Hash Browns and Creamy-Golden-Slathered-Toast rather than face ALONE a hypothetically hostile and frighteningly unknown environment?

Why do we human animals do any of the curious things we do?

One could meditate endlessly on the various ramifications of such a conundrum without ever having reached a satisfactory conclusion


"They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude."
--William Wordsworth

Yesterday I blogged, "Nothing to say . . ." and left it at that. Somewhat akin to the wealthy society lady that opens her closet door, scans the abundant array of silken finery and sighs, then bewails, "Nothing to wear..."

More accurate would be to say that out of the jumbled abundance of thoughts, ideas, and topics crowding my conscious mind, I choose to not reveal them to the public. At this time. For various reasons. Personal reasons.

What ruminations of some numbered kind might dwell within the below pictured desert resident? -- potential revelations as yet unrevealed?


While a gathering of laughing and chattering humans, family and friends, congregate in the late evening around an outdoor fire and a talented grandson strums his guitar, the barrel cactus seems to take no notice of the adults toasting marshmallows, assembling 'smores' and laughing merrily on the fringe of the desert. The cactus, once secure in its solitude, seems outwardly aloof, appears to have no appreciation of the happy celebration, no sense of sociability.

Imagine that.

No Title

Nothing to say . . .

Photos

I've added some new photos to my Arizona Pictures web page, and have twelve of them posted now. There are four pics to a page with a MORE link at the bottom of each page.

The original link is Arizona Pics for those who might be interested.

And that's about all I have for now.

Oh well, I've always heard that "less is more" or something like that.

My 2010 Easter Parade

Easter Sunday I went out again for a long walk in the Arizona sunshine; following a beaten-sand pathway along a low traffic road. On a previous day there had been a lady leading a white horse down that path.

I saw no horseback riders this time though, along the path to the

Agua Caliente Wash

Two rabbits were foraging among the desert scrub and a large hawk was patrolling the area in the blue sky overhead. It took no notice of the bunnies, though. Not at that moment, anyway. Nor did I. Who would want to see a photo of wild rabbits in the desert? And that hawk circling in the sky was much too high for my little Nikon.

Although I've been in Arizona for two full weeks now, I've still seen no wild coyotes yet. Sure have heard lots of them though, howling in the night and stirring up all the dogs in region. I am constantly on the lookout.

Even though I saw no horses or riders that Easter day, I had suspicions that they had been there recently.

.

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Happy Easter to all . . .

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A Question of Truth

I have read that an author of serious fiction should always tell the truth in stories. But I don't know what that means. And the practice of embellishing a character in a story so as to present a 'larger truth' is ludicrous. I'm laughing at the thought.

The ancient question, "What is truth?" remains always unanswered satisfactorily, and the notion that Truth is a synonym for Beauty is as meaningless as saying "Religion is Crap, Crap Religion."

It would seem that my former cynicism has returned.

Portraying a 'fictional' story character truthfully is oxymoronic and can only be accomplished when the character is the author. And even then, recognizing and understanding the 'truth' in one's self is probably impossible due to instinctive narcissistic bias. We are not what we subjectively believe ourselves to be.

You are not.

I am not.

Yet, good fiction is so wonderfully true to life.

Right?

Is That A Threat Or...

I am sitting here at the keyboard quaking in my boots in fear of the AVT gang headed Tucson way. In fact, I am so fearful that I am unable to blog today. And my half-read novel is beckoning from the bedside table. And it's late. And I'm too sleepy.

Oh well.

More another day... if the universe so wills it.