SmokeSound

Self-mutilation:  that is what it is called.  Masochism. There is a rock slope on the north side of our house--you know, just dirt from when the site was leveled, decorated with a single layer of small river rock.  The javelinas--you might think of them as  porcine demolition experts--navigate up and down the slope, using the stones as traction.  They destroy the rock face. In addition, I have a bird feeder out there, in a palo verde tree, and it would be nice, I thought, to be able to walk down there, so I am putting in concrete stepping stones, after which I will rearrange the river rock. I believe that it might still be Spring, here, but it is hot, and I need hydration, and that is where the masochism comes in:  I am drinking non-alcoholic beer, because I have to go back out there.  When I was young and stupid and strong, able to do work like this, people called it, "Near Beer"; a name given by someone with bad eyesight.  It is not beer:...

I shall tell you how things dribble off into the Sonoran sand:  today is Syttende Mai--that is to say, May seventeenth--and Mari is listening to Pavarotti. On May 17th in 1814, Norwegians gained a Norwegian constitution.  The Danes relented, and have still not repented of it, allowing Norway to more-or-less govern themselves, at least until the Swedes took over.  That whole, dark period in Norwegian history did not end until the Norwegians discovered oil under the continental shelf, and the Swedes were reduced to selling Volvo to the Chinese, although some historians say independence happened in 1905. Mari and I--both detritus from Norwegian immigration into the United States--have lived in Norway, and in towns and cities in this country where the air in May still hints of cod fish and goat cheese. At our home in Decorah, Iowa, we almost always celebrated Syttende Mai, sometimes discovering that traveling Norwegians had heard it was so, and showed up at the door. ...

"Shabu Shabu" is said to be the swishing sound of things being swished, as heard by Japanese people.  As a food dish, it is vegetables and very thin-sliced meat cooked in a broth created by magic:  dried seaweed, anchovies, bonita, peppers, and other things with ancient names. Years ago, decades ago, half a century ago, when both the world and I were young, when I lived across the Bay from San Francisco, Margaret and I went several times to a "country" Japanese restaurant where we were served food from a pot on the floor with a fire underneath and a chimney up through the middle.  It was Shabu Shabu. Recently, Stan and Becky invited us to dinner, and it was Shabu Shabu!  It was as close to a resurrection as I am ever going to get! And now Mari and I have a Shabu Shabu pot.  It isn't necessary to have a special pot, but if you like theater, it is grand. I have to report that everybody else's Shabu Shabu tasted  better than mine, but I think I kno...

I was doing the dishes. That is the way it is in our house. I heard Mari shout, "Holy shit!" Then she said, "Incredible!' That is the way it is in our house. Stephen Curry had just made a shot from somewhere about seventy feet away. That happens all the time in our house.

This is what a bird's eye view is. This is what a third baseman looks like. This is what an inside the park home run looks like. This is where you go to meet Mari for lunch after the game is over, and she has picked up her computer for the third time in three days. She really needs lunch! This is lunch. 

I finally got smart. Instead of chasing birds from bush to bush, I decided to go where they were in captivity--at the Desert Museum--and where their feet were tied to the branches. So to speak. Speaking of speaking, this parrot was either really happy, or really pissed about something:  he never stopped saying something.