This was a day of photoing on
the way to New Hampshire

ripples on the Connecticut River
in Greenfield

Powerlines.  I often stop at this
easement off of Rt 2 in Erving to take
photos of the landscape.  
Many different seasons have I 
photoed at this spot.

Notice the amazing color.
I say it is the most intense
oranges that I have ever seen
and J.Barents says that is
rediculous, that I probably say
that everyyear.

Whatever passing thing
you say to make polite
conversation J.B. will neighsay
and take contrarian position
just to be devil's advocate (and
general buzz-kill).

Here we see (above) boats on the
Conn. River, yesterday (Oct 20, 2008)

This interface makes adding content a 
breeze.
There are issues with it, the inability
to edit after posting, which I am going
to change, and other usability
issues, (notably if you loose 
the post it is gone and there
is no way to get it back, no autosave
feature that is coveted by an automatic
typer such as myself.

Here is the moon yesterday afternoon
at the powerlines at the boat ramp
on Rt 2 in Greenfield near the 
boat club (the last picture).

The roads go on forever
in these United States

Yes, this was the color yesterday, 
hard to recognize it as awesome when
you are swimming in it like we are
this year, this Autumn has exploded
with a bleeding of orange, orange more
intense than I remember it ever
being before.  Here are some yellows and browns (above)

Here we see typical New England Americana, 
an old cart being used to support a
sign for an Coffee and Antique shop.

The Antique Cafe.

The name of a new novel? or short story?

She had a hankering for sugar and 
caffeene seeped dark water lightened
with local cream.  "There." she said.
Here husband duitfully pulled off of
Rt 2 and into the gravel parking lot of
The Antique Cafe.
And with each sip of the double capacino she
came to realize more and more
just how perfect the Art Deco couch will be
in her finished sitting room 
off from the main part of the house
that she was going to have her
husband get built for her.
And as they were leaving she had already 
arrainged delivery for the three piece set (you can't
break up such a classic collection is
what she would say to her husband) to
occur Thursday Next at Raspbery Farm.
"Darlene." her husband tells her as they are driving away
"You do realize that the stock market
crashed and we didn't suffer it well."
"I'm sure twenty thousand for fine
antique collectable furntiture
isn't going to break the bank."
There was no arguing with her.

Above we have the Miller River.  This 
is east of The French King Bridge.
If there are floods the sewage treatment
plant in Erving might have an outflow
(due to high water) and maybe then
it wouldn't be such a nice spot.  But
all in all the Miller River sparkles and seems clean enough
to hang around.  This is a pretty spot 
and has an easy place to park with
obvious river access.

Can you argue with the classics?
Classic power pole with classic 
cloud forms against a classic blue
sky, a hillside easement in 
Erving, MA, Oct 20, 2008

Above 'shadow portrait'
of the photographer and website
designer and author of these posts
and web pages.

This is the kind of orange we have
been seeing all Autumn.
Note the exceptional intensity
of this non-enhanced photo

Leaves on the concrete side of the
boat ramp, Oct 20, 2008, Greenfield, MA

"Welcome Hunters
Truckers and Motorcyclists"
advertising sign for a
soft-drink beverage,
Erving, MA, Oct 20, 2008

More of that amazing orange

  Sop up your drippy
runny meads of the far away sky
raining down
         like lights of heaven
   given over to you
     to do as you will
  not in an Alister Crowley
    kind of way sobbing looserly
  truths about morphine and
     tradgedy that you 
can only know on your way down,
  sorry for the falling
       and how you were ruined
   crying those glass eye ramblings
  that hurt to say it.

  I thought of the next poem first
     now I will write it.

  Nasturum skys like
   I'd been walking all day
   in those pollen dusted 
     road sides and hedgerows
   and wasteplaces of
   hell
     in bondage with the light
  angel of money coin
        saturday
    a sadder day
   which only rhymes here in my mind
  will follow those tunes of grace.
 

    My feet ache
   as every feat of dispair attacks
     it's illconception
   using words as nooses,
   that put-down artist
     Couldn't love David as himself
  but had to see him as a withered
  field weed, common, growing in the
    windy muddy.

     how uncommon
   to find a world
 in azure saphire saphartic bliss
   and every weed in 
     every forgotten space
  so holy . . . 
   so drippingly blessed and
                       loved
   that one is almost made to hush
      if you even think like that.

  These tiny poems
     with their tiny feet
   wrapped up in cylophane 
    skin wrapped bitmaps
   wrapped up into tables and        
          columns and charts . . . 
    user input required for the
full effect of this love ridden harvast
   of naught.

    When he enters the void
         he never remembers a thing
   He write a song
       but he's too overwhelmed to sing
    If he takes the bus
       he won't have any change left
      If you dance in rust
         you'd better not get your shoes wet

Why?  Why?  Just cause you can say it
doesn't mean that it isn't a lie . . .
Why? Why?  Looking for truth when
            you probably should die

And die in the way that is to sleep
   until the haunted hollow callings of the
         squack box fade into the
    rear-view as a dot distance
   like the smoke rising from a
     distant fire visible from the ridge
      as you drive up along
       the edge
      of Heaven

  You know I write thse poems
     for free and let you read
them here if you know where
   they are and I gotta tell you
    this is a lot of fun 
   cause I can be anywhere,
    anywhere buddy (but chained to
           this Internet)
    and bang out my poems
  all at once
    you think it as you type it
   and it is always right
       the very first time.

Tiny little leaves
   on a teensey-tiny maple tree
     growing in a forgotten pot, 
   left over from years before but
    still full of soil
  and fertile, this
    miniture garden first weeds,
   not tiny trees, tiny garden
   tiny overlooked world
 of light and splender right there
       burning bright in your life right
          now if
     only you look away from
         the luminations of marketting
            and tellers-like-it-is who really
       lie

    All day the lieing goes on
        and on mixed in with the holy
      truth that we all know is
 real . . . like that 3% cyanide
       mixed in with sugar.

   But these lies don't kill as much
       as try to be spells for wealth.
    And in the season of the witch
     one must be aware
   that evil spells never work, 
      but curses the speaker and intender 
       of harm.

   So worry not because holy
        spells are prayers so
    pray well for better futures
   and forgive in the same manner
      as the forgiver.

      bare no ill to other souls
        fluttering their wings
    which they know as truth but you
      see as a thing to pluck, you
       put-down-artist.

     The put-down artist 
      places his book of punny
     crummdgen sayings on
   his dust crusted night table.
      He has let the aeons of dust
   collect on his heart and mind
      so that just breathing 
    creates a layer of fine dispair
  that descends upon the fractured
                valleys of his consciousness
      and seeks to wreak the dreams
            of any who love him
      enough to dare
             come
              near.

Davey boy
  with your beautiful eye for 
        light
     and your spreading open
       the shades of your bright
      winter songs sung in June to
          the moon of night.

Seems right, Davey, and
    if I could know you more
than just reading your books
   or singing your songs
 or rapping along to your flute
   who would I see and know?

     I seek to see and know myself
        and that always involves
      finding a friend in someone
     who you don't yet know, 
   and come to learn to love
      as you are mentored to
    sing 
      and joy
     and greet with
    loving, unjudging passion

   It's so hard to do,
     and I am trying to learn
   putdown artist that I am
   self-putdown is my greatest talent
  and the hardest to unlearn

  Manner of saying how I can fail:
     here's a song I used to sing to myself
  <secret word, secret word> means anything
    I want it to.

   See how silly the mind of a child
     swingset facing Lowell
   October 1969, dancing
     with the angels of light
   a sunset.

  Speak and sing of your success
    silly boy who knows not
   that failure of ambition
     is not failure at all but
    a kind form of success.

   If I unlearn the skill of
     pulling myself back to earth
  then do I fly up to the upper reaches
                    of the sky
     And unbridle fears that make the
             sun burn off the waxes 
      of life that place the wings together?

   Of birds that fly too high,
     I've seen them way over Mt. Ascutney
  which is clearly the tallest mountain for many
            miles
  Those birds go higher and higher,
    giant flocks of Canada Geese
   which you will find in these pictures
     if you look, way up
   in the air.

   And there is no putting them down
     They land in mass, all on their own
    right by you as you photo by the pond.

Flocks of Canada Geese way above Mt. Ascutney

  When the science show
  turns into a movie promotion
    and grubby shirt guy, doesn't shave
  is there with his monitor
    it proves how much
money will buy if you have all the
   envy 
    is money
    envy.

If I go to the mountain top
   before you
     and carve my name
  the ego that carves the name
  on the mountain,
    some Emerson on Mount Monadnock,
  does that ego go on the lecture
 circuit
    in his doterage?

Envy
   and I put my self above the fray
  like the fray can't come or
the fray can't stay  one
way or
  another 

and I'll say it
  every man is my 
    brother
  but only my brother
  is really my brother
 and there is really no other
   who is more deserving of my
  deathless affections.

So you say then, Mr. Marx
  that I'll be the nepotistic
a-ho who doesn't know and
cant grow so now must let go
all that he held
and every weld shall
   be insured by Mr. Farwaay 
  
  Lucky trouble Tuesday guys, on  
    a Tuesday not a Saturday . . .
  Mr. Orthodox guy doesn't ever
   post on a Friday Night, you
  can't read his blog till Sunday night
because he's been writing it all
that day as it's a new week and
there are
 important things
    to say.

   If you take away the rights
 of those with whom you disagree
   and disallow them their Liberty
  and you call that 'fairness'
     what kind of equality
  have you made?

   Is anyone equal
      when everyone is treated like
             a slave?

  Or are there obscene wealths being
           stolen and held under
                       the water where
         shark tank thoughts, some
   British hero guy (James) stepping out
 of his luxourious plot 

Complication not just 
  out to save his own nation
    but all of them
   and he doesn't shoot anyone
 unless they are going to harm him.

   And rest at night sleep doe,
     the good always win.

  But good buys with good buy
    eyes and those therible rants
  against unrightous wrongs . . .
    what song ? ? 
    and no one sings along.
   No body even read this blog
     but I am blogging on .  .  .

   He's got that Bob Dylan thing
        going on and on and on
    He's got that Bob Dylan thing
        going on and on and on 

   Some days when
the oights not right
  and I had too much
  water in my basement cellar
  down where lonli abandoned things
 soon to be thrown away
     without further affection
  because things aren't held forever
      and collections are meant for the
   assumption . . . of what older people
    tell you
  and they are never wrong . . . 
   
     and you always did what they said
   imagining that they must have your best
           interests at heart
   and unsure that they are not immune
           to jelousy and that they
    might 
      envy
   you
     and
   trip you up
  because they don't love you . . . .

  That was in a trainstation
 when pidgeons flocked in the parking lot
   and a mother brought her whole group 
      of 12 children in there to beg
 you had nothing
 sleeping in the corner
   to give but a shrug,
  you turn over
    the train will arive
 at 5:45
  and you are still alive.

 Then later your dream of some madonna
    and a purple flock of doves hovering and cooing
   over the streetlight's blare of 
  lookie over here,
  lookie over there,
 lookie I am not a crookie,
    I didn't steal your
 chocholate cookie,
I'm not looking for my bookie . . .

I'm not running from bookie.
  I think you have mistook me
    I am not playing hookie.
  I went to the Library, I've got a book, see?

  And he shows you the book
          you take another look
    it is a portfolio of Kurt Cobain
  and in a tortured way that eases pain.

    Love
  where the dark places have left a void
    and the rain splatter sculptures get augmented
  the snow-plow scrungey ice splatterings
  dribbled on the side of the meat truck
    baby-doll legs made into a multi-legged beast
  fear and loathing released
      and fond thoughts of the disceased.

Post Post before it is gone for good and
   you lost your post.  Post the most.
  Lost Most, they are spelled the same
  but they don't rhyme. 
 
  Not even a little.

Kurt:  God Rest your Blessed Soul!

Are we ready for Commrade President?

The avowcation
      of equivocation
   on a loom of lies
     like poison pies
   eat fresh,
 eat hearty
    it's free . . . 

  If I just had a dollar
    and I gave it to you
 then I wouldn't have anything
      would you feed me too?

 My way of managing a crisis
is to design systems that don't
break hard.

I am a very good system-admin
however I need rest in the proper
cycle of life.

I am an excellent design
engineer.

For a sys admin job it
is like a fireman job.
That kind of a guy really
does work at the factory,
that is a good thing.

I think guys like that should
be given a living space like a
fireman.  They really are similar
positions.

For any job that I have
if a fireman is needed
I am there for it, and I am
good at putting out fires.

But even better am I at
making systems that don't burn.

In the real world systems are
crafted by many different
manners and some of these
are flamable.  I am also good
at accessing a system and
pointing out places where
it may or will break.

I look at it a lot like automobile
repair.
There is a point when a new
car is due and no fix can
do anything about it.

My way of managing a crisis
is to design systems that don't
break hard.

I am a very good system-admin
however I need rest in the proper
cycle of life.

I am an excellent design
engineer.

For a sys admin job it
is like a fireman job.
That kind of a guy really
does work at the factory,
that is a good thing.

I think guys like that should
be given a living space like a
fireman.  They really are similar
positions.

For any job that I have
if a fire happens and a  fireman is needed
I am there for it, and I am
good at putting out fires.
I will burn the midnight oil in
a crisis but I don't like
to work in crisis jobs.

But even better am I at
making systems that don't burn.

In the real world systems are
crafted by many different
manners and some of these systems are
thus flamable.  I am also good
at accessing a system and
pointing out places where
it may or will break.  And I can provice a series of
options as to what to do
for repair or retrofitting.

I believe that most software
has salvagable parts.
I am good at port good concepts
forward to a more modern idiom as
well

Thank You.

I am a very good system-admin
and if in a development postion
at a company or with a client
and something 'big' comes up
where the midnight oil is
needing to be burned (a crunch time)
I am there for that, putting in extra
effort.

Development breathes with
the cycle of marketting and sales.
Any engineer needs to know this.

But you are right to say that
on-call is not for me. 


I am an excellent design
engineer.  I also can maintain and
augement any legacy system.


For a sys admin job it
is like a fireman job.
That kind of a guy really
does work at the factory,
that is a good thing.

I think guys like that should
be given a living space like a
fireman.  They really are similar
positions.

For any job that I have
if a fire happens and a  fireman is needed
I am there for it, and I am
good at putting out fires.
I will burn the midnight oil in
a crisis but I don't like
to work in crisis jobs.

But even better am I at
making systems that don't burn.

In the real world systems are
crafted by many different
manners and some of these systems are
thus flamable.  I am also good
at accessing a system and
pointing out places where
it may or will break.  And I can provice a series of
options as to what to do
for repair or retrofitting.

I believe that most software
has salvagable parts.
I am good at portting good concepts
forward to a more modern idiom as needed
  It is often my roll to come in to a company,
review and acess the quality which management
knows they have paid to create, and
tell management what they have both
pluses and minuses.

Thanks for your interest

I raked up leaves today
  and thought of plots to make
 inside the yard of what
    goes on in this great
  political world of ours
     made of candle wax welds
  and feathers that fly away into the wind
     if we get too close to the sun.

  Of course we all know that real science
    says that we can't even get anywhere
                   near the sun
   so what worry of the wax melting
  because the higher you go,
     the thinner the air,
  the colder it is.

   And those out on the mountain side
      in the fall facing the cloud mass
   from the West and
  dealing with the coming blizzard
      that burries the heart
    of lonely seekers
      after truth
    flies away
   flies away towards the higher places
  following a path upward to
     himillaian heights (a spell checker would be nice)
   a spell broken from the cold
     a window shuttered from the peril
         of living well beyond
   the fringe of reciprocity
  not understanding the meaning of 
           common words
        or why they show up in these
            random posts
      like fence posts up in the
    high hide-away hidey-hole places
        of the inner sanctum of
    your thoughts, 
  blizzard's coming so
      bolt down the cellar doors.

  Bolt down your cellar doors
   secure the stores from the coming storm
  dust off your shovels and brooms
   that dust away the blizzard drops,
 frosty wind of covered land and mountainside
      far along the ridgeline ruins of times
  lost packages of rightgousness to take the sanity from the
     side of the barn that 
   you think this automatica
  could retain a coherent line . . .
   which just might come from
      editing or
   reposting
   which is the same thing really
  except that it gets there
by different paths.

  an edit is a repost where you delete the
first post after editing it.

      I tried to not sell out
  which I guess is as good an attempt
              at being a real-person as
       anyone else has been able to
      or at least that is how I thought about it
           back in the day when I was worrying
                 about such things
   but none of that bothers me now
       from my cell
   that I made for myself
    like a boy with a giant cardboard
         box
       for a refrigerator
   or large size HEPA air filtration system
    suitable for living in
  if you were Lenny in 
       Las Cruces
     some time in the 1980's
  and run away from home
       to make a new life for yourself
   that isn't me . . .

  And ya so
    I tried to not sell out
   so I talked the real truth as I saw it
   and learned to do this with
         conviction
   and say it like it is 
 on those Friday Night's drunk
   and then driving away . .  .
   Hidden in my little box world
  even when the sun beat down

Upon my sorrowful 'woes is meeeee'-isms
   and my mueling and puking
  points of view
    that I can only now just
  put down
    on paper?  On this website?

  Put this down:  "go to all the churches
       in your mind and tell them
  that the Lord of the morning and
   the Lord of the night
  didn't tell you to do anything
    except free the churches and
        synogoguges and mosques and
  holy places of your own soul
    and stop busy-bodying in everybody else's lives
   and problems
  cause you really don't know, do you,
      what'd be good for those souls,       
          do you?"

So I put down
   what he said
   in red
     with my red red pen
   and ink of blood and inside my little
    box truck
   minded boy thoughts
     of lost yesterdays
  concruent with opposites
    that weren't good for me
  but tasted sweet and happy
   and with the scent of roses
  and citrus of an unknown kind,
     and scented begonias placed before
 fans in your country living 
   victrollian home

  Victorian? home?
    victrollian home.

  so lost within the happy thoughts 
 of my loserly life and convinced
that success is failure (which I can't see
      now)
     and inside
  my tonka truck life, with
      the tabs pulled open
  and the toy all disassembled
    and the swingset
  broken over from rusting and
       being used too much
  and no one gonna buy me another one
     little weepster brat lit walk
 off into forests of ivy
   immune from the rabbits and 
       the poisons and the
     ticks 
  and mosquitoes (my first friends?)
    speaking to me in their sudden
   buzzes telling me
      worry not but
   catch this cure:  All life is here right
      now what you need to know so why
              all this worry child?

    So you get the bite and then the fever
         and stop listening to the world
     but some other world
   that you just made up and then
   it strikes you that you are lonely
        and there isn't anything left to
     do but
     wonder homeward
   where there is a room and a floor
 and warm air that comes out of a
       vent in the wall
   with dust that settles around you 
       when the light comes through
      the window in the morning
   dusty drapes and dust-laden window sill
        cause you heard somewhere about some
       place called the nuclear test
    facility located in the
       upper winds of a dessert somewhere
             far far away
       and this atmospheric
    test of limitless
     creation of dust from something
    else and 

   . . .
  you loose this train, it gets 
      washed away from some 
   outside force that's 
     rockin' the box that you're in
   so you scream out
     some indignation
   about what you imagine is going 
       on outside
  the box that you
     made yourself live in
  outside the box
     on the inside of which
  you painted your murals of your
       imaginary worlds
    that you live in
  and you can not escape
    you painted blue at the top
  of the box, and
   a septic drain
    at the bottom of the box
   and sculptures of rooms for living
     that with your extreme power of mind
   you actually use
  to do what you need to do,
     go where you will, right in the box
   soiling yourself?
     you can't imagine that this
               is dirt or filth?
            it's all you?
          It's all good?
       why not take this hit of crack?
      why not have unsafe thoughts?


Your higher standard
      is lower than truth so
     does that mean climbing
   or making other attempts to
     make it holy?
   So you draw religious simbols on
      the shaking box, the rocking box,
     who's outside?  who's making
  the world shake
      reminding you
   on this infinte hillside
      of memoried youth (we
      really do have these grand hill
          in New England, Broad Hill,
       Breeds Hill,

       Mt Wachusett)
  some one is shaking and rocking your box
      and it puts you in that place 
   of fear and trembling and sickness
      unto 

OK, that was a long interlude
And during that, getting
   away from the rocking box 
   who's rocking the damn box?
  Who do you think?

    Is it You?

   Could it just be You?

    You're the one who's rocking your
  own box, dummy.
   Now the drain is on the ceiling
  and the sky is on the ceiling.
    and the box has ripped open
  and you see the real sky
    it's not a real drain
   so it isn't dripping
  is that sunlight you're sipping?
   A cloud-bank unzipping?
  And the smell of the rain
   blowing grasses of late afternoon
           magic times on the 
     big-hill meadow (in full view
       of the far away mountains
     embossed above with giant clouds
       larger than all of the mountains
  taller than the thoughts of how high they might go . . . 
    regions of the far away air,
  magnificantos of light and shade
   your dear quierro- ocscuro
 

   What box was that?
    Was there fear?
   the far away sky?
  how far away?
   the farest thing I can
     see?  a far away gallaxy.
   now that's really far.

       These ripples
     of thought
   flow out of me
  in these incomprehensible
     typings
  unedited typings
    because the editor doesn't work.

   The editor doesn't work
   he was laid off from his job
  and now all he can do is blog.

    He blogs all day
   he blogs all night
     and he never reads anything
   anyone else might write.

  he never rereads
     what he illconcieves
       and posts to the wind
   for the world to begin again
  (those almost ryhmes that aren't)

  Dearest son of day and night awake all the 
                   time reading
     those things that other people write
        awake not sleeping
   and unaware of the end of light
     or the start of night
    or when it is well
      or when it is right.
  Young son of these windy lakes and 
        highland hills
   where upland spruces grow stunted
     in the winter moonlight
    how did you happen upon these
     highland poems that I put way up
                here at this height?  This night?

  Do you always complaign
     when everything is right?
   Do you often have fear
      and shake at the sight
    of . . . 

  Automatica must end, must end, I say.
No one cares to read what I have written today
 and self awareness is like the sand
        of a river
  or arrows all shot that were once in 
      their quiver
    lost and gone
 and down below the stream.
  Paddle on, son, into this dream.

   OK, so when we left our
  lost poet hero he was
     on a canoe trip paddeling down
   that sacred Curso mountain
  and not aware yet of his
   goals in life and maybe still
  thinking that he has a purpose
 beyond . . . what? . . . nihilism?

  I have not these high and holy
 aspirations but I do have a purpose
     beyond nihilism.


  At what point does it suffer,
   those novels I would be writing if I
      weren't writing this?
   if I weren't writing this?

  If I weren't sitting here doing this
   I would be sitting here doing something
 elese
 I could write my secret elevator,
so maybe, ya, I'll catch ya later.


  a fragment from a dig-recording:
If you go to Delaware
 you can play the chello there
  you can breath the jello air
    you can only stop and stare.

   etcettera and on and into the night.

Two signs way up high on a mountain side