Friday, August 29, 2008
Monday, August 25, 2008
A nice alliteration for zapnin outside the back door at raccoon headquarters. A cool 50 degrees upon awakening, and the first of the season morning glory blossom opened near the top of the “dead” tamarack tree, in spite of the chill. We've been patiently waiting for the heavenly blue ranks.
There was a Mexican pottery & etc. import shop called The Market Place in the 70’s through the ‘90’s (approx - maybe even the 60's) where we could go to find bargain-priced pieces brought back from their central American buying trips by the couple that owned and ran the store. It was situated in a former floral shop with greenhouse attached, at East North Ave near Prospect and the water tower.
The urn with the cosmos presently in it once stood for some years holding water for the flower gardens here at the raccoon tip-toeing district. The natural color characteristic of this style of crude hand-made pottery is such that there are random blurbs of gray, black and greens in the clay, and that has made it highly desirable here and elsewhere throughout the world. Another scampering squirrel recently knocked a piece of this pottery off the deck, breaking it. [see: http://raccoonnews.blogspot.com/2008/08/all-hidden.html]
A Buddha sits elsewhere in the raccoon-frequented yard, holding a gourd we’d painted gold and attached with epoxy as a finial at the top of the flagpole. Time and UV rays finally loosened the globe - it fell off - so there’s another repair job, of which there are many lined up around here.
Sunday, August 24, 2008
Friday, August 22, 2008
Restaurant ‘just part of downtown’
By SHELLY JANKE Freeman Staff (Shelly Janke can be reached at firstname.lastname@example.org)
Let's get behind Dave's. We're going back down there again.
In by-gone days when we would travel through foreign towns we would always look for the intimate downtown cafes to catch a good breakfast and drink in some of the true local atmosphere.
Not mcdonalds, not black swannery; places like Dave's Restaurant.
Thursday, August 21, 2008
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
Arising at 517 Arcadian Ave
Sameness and accustomedness
Illumine my closed-eyes and waking mind:
A sitting up, involving the same
Counterweighted move with my left heel
Using the box spring for purchase
An allowing of pooled blood
To re-arrange itself as I open the
Blinds near me for a peer at the weather
And a look, if it’s light out,
At the thermometer on the garage
Then a standing up
And a U-path around the bed
Letting my hand trace the edge
Of the footboard I’ve had since 1950
To the bedroom doorknob
On which one must pull down a bit
To ease the sticking of the door on top
- that could be fixed but I never have -
The squeaking hinge, ibid
And then to the stairs with the big railing
Put there in 1914 when the house was built
My hand links with the railing’s fancy curvature
That would cost a lot to shape these days
And this sliding connection
To a piece of wood that has guided
And supported so many children and grown-ups
On their way up and on their way down
Taken for granted in its unique feel
To a human hand
And its never-loosened
Attachment to the wall;
All the many occupants at this address
Over all these years
Including the roomers my grandma
Took in when times were tough
We all grasped for this railing
And it has always been there
To firmly but graciously serve
And it has never loosened from the wall!
What tree gave it to us?
Was it the only artful member of it
That made a mark as trustworthy as this?
This railing so touched
By so many, in just a single-family residence
Not as though it were a court house railing
But only in this one private location,
Where it never will be famous;
Except now, after all the years
I’ve briefly tried to make it so
[David Dix 11-9-2002]
Saturday, August 16, 2008
Utilizing his girlfriend's van and his own car just back from a summer book-selling stint in Pennsylvania, Dee takes Lee back to Madison for his junior year at UW. Lee is feeling rather tough in his new frosted hairy visor from Dad and has a bit of trouble containing himself.
A recent completion of a parachute jump from 2.5 miles up adds to his debonair............... air.
Friday, August 15, 2008
Thursday, August 14, 2008
Like the raccoons of the sewer, we must go automobile-less, but we will come up safely on the other side of the Arcadian crossing at Caroline St. and likewise at the several other ham-strung be-tracked streets via the underpasses in place. No waiting for the endless railroad commerce to pass.
The King suggested that the raccoon district might want to charge for parking cars on lawns, as people do at the state fair in West Allis. The sewer raccoons will clean up the sewers in appropriate sections for a lawn parking surcharge of 25% of all parking revenue.
This win-win is being looked into. It may also be a way of providing spectators traveling to the city with adequate parking when the Bullfrog baseball league takes over Frame Park.
That mis-use of the tranquil park is a travesty, by the way. And although such an entertainment with its resulting concession debris would please ditched hotdog- munching coons, the raccoon population opts instead for the peaceful use of the park as it was. Like is was w-a-y back, when camping hobos shared their meager fare.
That was the other part of the King's message. A certain and only right streak of Conservatism obtains, apparently, even among Waukesha raccoons.
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
As to now:
[Right about Now]
Now being what it is -
Time rolls around
Like a droplet of mercury
And it is never where it was
It rolls around
Trying to catch it is
To level the playing field
And make it stay where it is or was
Is or was
What happens when
You start something
But darn-near instantly
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
Monday, August 11, 2008
Meditation at Oyster River
Over the low, barnacled, elephant-coloured rocks
Come the first tide ripples, moving, almost without sound, toward me,
Running along the narrow furrows of the shore, the rows of dead
Then a runnel behind me, creeping closer,
Alive with tiny striped fish, and young crabs climbing in and out of the
No sound from the bay. No violence.
Even the gulls quiet on the far rocks,
Silent, in the deepening light,
Their cat-mewing over,
At last one long undulant ripple,
Blue black from where I am sitting,
Makes almost a wave over a barrier of small stones,
Slapping lightly against a sunken log.
I dabble my toes in the brackish foam sliding forward,
Then retire to a rock higher up on the cliffside.
The wind slackens, light as a moth fanning a stone —
A twilight wind, light as a child’s breath,
Turning not a leaf, not a ripple.
The dew revives on the beach grass;
The salt-soaked wood of a fire crackles;
A fish raven turns on its perch (a dead tree in the river mouth),
Its wings catching a last glint of the reflected sunlight.
The self persists like a dying star,
In sleep, afraid. Death’s face rises afresh,
Among the shy beasts — the deer at the salt lick,
The doe, with its sloped shoulders, loping across the highway,
The young snake, poised in green leaves, waiting for its fly,
The hummingbird, whirring from quince blossom to morning-glory —
With these I would be.
And with water: the waves coming forward without cessation,
The waves, altered by sandbars, beds of kelp, miscellaneous driftwood,
Topped by cross-winds, tugged at by sinuous undercurrents,
The tide rustling in, sliding between the ridges of stone,
The tongues of water creeping in quietly.
In this hour,
In this first heaven of knowing,
The flesh takes on the pure poise of the spirit,
Acquires, for a time, the sandpiper’s insouciance,
The hummingbird’s surety, the kingfisher’s cunning.
I shift on my rock, and I think:
Of the first trembling of a Michigan brook in April.
Over a lip of stone, the tiny rivulet;
And the wrist-thick cascade tumbling from a cleft rock,
Its spray holding a double rainbow in the early morning,
Small enough to be taken in, embraced, by two arms;
Or the Tittabawasee, in the time between winter and spring,
When the ice melts along the edges in early afternoon
And the mid-channel begins cracking and heaving from the pressure beneath,
The ice piling high against the ironbound spiles,
Gleaming, freezing hard again, creaking at midnight,
And I long for the blast of dynamite,
The sudden sucking roar as the culvert loosens its debris of branches and
Welter of tin cans, pails, old birds’ nests, a child’s shoe riding a log—
As the piled ice breaks away from the battered spiles
And the whole river begins to move forward, its bridges shaking.
Now, in this waning of light,
I rock with the motion of morning;
In the cradle of all that is,
I’m lulled into half sleep
By the lapping of waves,
The cries of the sandpiper.
Water’s my will and my way,
And the spirit runs, intermittently,
In and out of the small waves,
Runs with the intrepid shore birds —
How graceful the small before danger!
In the first of the moon,
All’s a scattering,
Sunday, August 10, 2008
By PAUL KRUGMAN
Published: August 7, 2008
So the G.O.P. has found its issue for the 2008 election. For the next three months the party plans to keep chanting: “Drill here! Drill now! Drill here! Drill now! Four legs good, two legs bad!” O.K., I added that last part.
Now, I don’t mean that G.O.P. politicians are, on average, any dumber than their Democratic counterparts. And I certainly don’t mean to question the often frightening smarts of Republican political operatives.
What I mean, instead, is that know-nothingism — the insistence that there are simple, brute-force, instant-gratification answers to every problem, and that there’s something effeminate and weak about anyone who suggests otherwise — has become the core of Republican policy and political strategy. The party’s de facto slogan has become: “Real men don’t think things through.”
In the case of oil, this takes the form of pretending that more drilling would produce fast relief at the gas pump. In fact, earlier this week Republicans in Congress actually claimed credit for the recent fall in oil prices: “The market is responding to the fact that we are here talking,” said Representative John Shadegg.
What about the experts at the Department of Energy who say that it would take years before offshore drilling would yield any oil at all, and that even then the effect on prices at the pump would be “insignificant”? Presumably they’re just a bunch of wimps, probably Democrats. And the Democrats, as Representative Michele Bachmann assures us, “want Americans to move to the urban core, live in tenements, take light rail to their government jobs.”
Is this political pitch too dumb to succeed? Don’t count on it.
Remember how the Iraq war was sold. The stuff about aluminum tubes and mushroom clouds was just window dressing. The main political argument was, “They attacked us, and we’re going to strike back” — and anyone who tried to point out that Saddam and Osama weren’t the same person was an effete snob who hated America, and probably looked French.
Let’s also not forget that for years President Bush was the center of a cult of personality that lionized him as a real-world Forrest Gump, a simple man who prevails through his gut instincts and moral superiority. “Mr. Bush is the triumph of the seemingly average American man,” declared Peggy Noonan, writing in The Wall Street Journal in 2004. “He’s not an intellectual. Intellectuals start all the trouble in the world.”
It wasn’t until Hurricane Katrina — when the heckuva job done by the man of whom Ms. Noonan said, “if there’s a fire on the block, he’ll run out and help” revealed the true costs of obliviousness — that the cult began to fade.
What’s more, the politics of stupidity didn’t just appeal to the poorly informed. Bear in mind that members of the political and media elites were more pro-war than the public at large in the fall of 2002, even though the flimsiness of the case for invading Iraq should have been even more obvious to those paying close attention to the issue than it was to the average voter.
Why were the elite so hawkish? Well, I heard a number of people express privately the argument that some influential commentators made publicly — that the war was a good idea, not because Iraq posed a real threat, but because beating up someone in the Middle East, never mind who, would show Muslims that we mean business. In other words, even alleged wise men bought into the idea of macho posturing as policy.
All this is in the past. But the state of the energy debate shows that Republicans, despite Mr. Bush’s plunge into record unpopularity and their defeat in 2006, still think that know-nothing politics works. And they may be right.
Sad to say, the current drill-and-burn campaign is getting some political traction. According to one recent poll, 69 percent of Americans now favor expanded offshore drilling — and 51 percent of them believe that removing restrictions on drilling would reduce gas prices within a year.
The headway Republicans are making on this issue won’t prevent Democrats from expanding their majority in Congress, but it might limit their gains — and could conceivably swing the presidential election, where the polls show a much closer race.
In any case, remember this the next time someone calls for an end to partisanship, for working together to solve the country’s problems. It’s not going to happen — not as long as one of America’s two great parties believes that when it comes to politics, stupidity is the best policy.
Saturday, August 9, 2008
By standing up, we can look down on all the raccoon comings and goings, call to them, toss treats to them, and avoid rabies.
Friday, August 8, 2008
Wednesday, August 6, 2008
Tuesday, August 5, 2008
We don’t think about it very much anymore
but the ghosts of native Indians might
We walk, or alas, drive their ancient trading trails
paved many times over;
even our later inter-urban streetcar tracks
are now out of sight,
buried like their lightly-beaten paths
by time and poured concrete
and newcomers can’t get the gist of traveling downtown
can’t figure these streets out because so many diagonals
cut through strangely, they say
But it was all so simple then
for the woodland people
to follow their spoke-like paths
to the five points trading posts
going through thick woods
from their outlying settlements,
intending to live forever in their homeland
upon which they trod so gently
Pioneers built great improvements
upon their sacred burial grounds
and cannons stand in our library park
passing time’s additions, tentatively
muddying the purer water of days
dim to us, unknown
But not to the ghosts
who watched flowing streams
clear away many other silty stirrings
only for a moment hiding customary clarity
We are being watched by these patient spirits
these spector ‘savages’ who knew so much
their way to our downtown
Monday, August 4, 2008
A bat I thought was you
Fluttered around my head
Last night after the lights
were turned off
I opened the door
To let you find your way out
But you stayed
Would not go
Winging around my sought repose
Nibbling my ear lobes
The way you used to do
I went out myself
And you followed me
Joining another bat
Zig-zagging in the darkness
Both of you exchanged squeaks
I lay awake a long time
Wondering if you’d be back
The only way to keep you
Is to set you free