Little is actually known about Rosco Betunada and even less is factual. At the age of 15, Mr. B. incorporated a regimen of distance-running into his direction-less and futile life – and now, many years later, Mr. B’s life remains … Continue reading
Last Satyrday I went outsighed to feed the dogs and commence the daily “outside” chores. The dogs were really interested in signs and scents and such in the lawn to the north of the house, and … I noticed not … Continue reading
Below, not easy to discern, but an ARCH a few miles west of Glade Park. A way a lone a last a loved a long the Riverrun, past Eve and Adam’s, from swerve of shore to bend of bay (the … Continue reading
Doggzeneye ventured up past the (“Indiana Betunada & the Wombat CowSkull Shrine”), or whatever it is. We ventured further/furthur than weave ever weaved, uh, wander/endured before. I imbibed in a substance which (so I think) facilitates removal of filters which … Continue reading
O: hazy mesa !
The next in the ever-continuing (duzzat mean never-ending?) chapters of the journal of the vizzits to the urinal in the middull of the labyrinthine imaginary realm wherein reigns Al B. Eon Sunlight. Inna sense, between senses, that is the sort of thing lurking behind the inane constant commentary of my subconscious, the universal background buzz of the Big Bang remnants, seriously: could be weirder than that.
Usually it seems my life is beset by storms of intensities ranging from mild annoyance to the occasional major atmospheric conflaguration. The wind howls, tree branches creak, perhaps minor leaks thru’ the roof, the twitter of happy birds with the dawn’s bright light poking around the fleeing storm clouds the following morning.
Not this time. The “Perfect Storm”. No rest either for the benevolent nor the not-so-benign. I’ve been away from the routine and sometimes un-tiresome demands (and not necessarily ‘demands’ — some of the requests are just that, requests) of the Quotidian. Frequently I think I can lapse into that: adhering to the routine, there is a freedom to the weekly schedule, while the body goes through the motions, the mind can roam.
Oh heck. A modicum of quasi/pseudo/pantomine normal is around the corner, isn’t it?
We, “B” ‘n me, have reconciled ourselves
we won’t especially worry about the
zombie apocalypse, which will probably be concurrent with the robot rebellion, nor
the cataclysmic apocalyptic armageddonic whatever,
whenever it happens.
For all we know
(oh, heck, even if we don’t know, which is a subset of what we know, ’cause the null set is embedded and a component of any- and everything, ’cause, after all, it is inherently null, void, empty, and so, can contain … “things”, as, after all, it is, as) the LAW says:
NATURE ABHORS A VACUUM
and due to the null-ness, can readily envelope and immerse itself into anything, and
we had a little fun ~~
the kids came over
we rode bikes on the Mesa
i skinned my knees (doofussy toe-stub on a downhill portion of a trail run)
i am in the Capitol of Arcadia=ness as i type this
have been too busy? to do much of anything except hour-by-hour obeisance to the Demands of The Quotidian, but nevertheless
have slipped away, if only mentally (what mental i have left)
to, if not exactly worship, or grovel, though perhaps the groveling is, like shoveling,
inherent in just the simple “being” of
the passage through time
nah, there’s no worship there. i’ve become the glue
It’s hazy (another forest fire upwind hazifying everything) but Betty liked this patch of red above Cedaredge a few weeks back. Maybe she’ll make a quilt somewhat like this ! But more vibrant. Bolder. Distinct. The haze comes with time …
Gran-ma Betty and youngest grandson, Henry Alexander … a bright day, a bright weekend, the calm before the return to doldrums for her, and a few weeks of worky-worky heck for me.
We rode our bikes from Land’s End to above the Powderhorn Ski area. This is NOT a “clear day” — due to the aforementioned-burning forests upwind. Usually you could see out beyond the distant mesa, ten miles away and five-thousand-feet lower, to the valley floor where our town is. Out here, in the high desert, the fire(s) could be the next state away, but in this case I think the source was either California and/or Oregon/Idaho…
It is the end of October and I just might emerge, unscathed mostly, as usual, from the vagaries of The Perfect Storm of work-related intertwinedness. Not only is my present (field-work) abandoned (gas) well project possibly due to end later this week (after only 4 weeks which should have been just one week), I was the company representative at a forum addressing another somewhat bothersome environmental industry problem, and spent yet another week going through the motions of participation and instruction in what I should know anyway. And that wasn’t the final most-important task — which I’ll keep quiet about, for a while.
No, none of the above is a world-shaking mystery. And, I didn’t read Mr. Patchen’s opus, only skimmed through it. Sometimes, though, I think it may have made an impression.
After all, one way of looking at “it” is that what constitutes each of our identity and “is-ness” is but the accumulation of impressions made by everything we touch or touches us.
(original post title): no diss intended, but the thrill is gone … we’ll get to that.
Below: Venus & the Moon. Not too long ago.
The End of Time? hey! I needed a good post title, which I’ll try to bend and tweak and twist to make this latest chapter in the history of the Man Without a History … contiguous with the heading. (Yeah … right.)
Where did that (the title) come from?
— I used to read. A lot more than these past few years. And … not only did I read Brothers Karamazov (and many other ponderous tomes) I also read lots of light-weight tomes. Almost everything by Kurt Vonnegut. And, one of the two books by Mr. V’s son, Mark.
In The Eden Express (an autobiographical chronicle of his experiences with schizophrenia) Mark describes an imagined (hallucinated) conversation with Dad. They banter over the silliness, the un-profoundness of Kurt’s works, and Kurt suggests that Mark open the book he’s reading (Bros K-mazov) to any page, and read just any sentence. Mark holds the Dostoyevsky by the cover, the book flips open, a sentence part-way down an exposed page stands out. Hence the title of this essay. I don’t remember it from Bros K but have always remembered it from The Eden Express. I used that sentence, and attributed it (erroneously, though I didn’t know it at the time) to Dostoyevsky, as the introduction to a short story I wrote, Respite.
A few years ago, shortly after I penned Respite, I received an email from someone researching Kurt Vonnegut. The “someone” was, I think, writing a paper which tried to make a connection between KV and Dostoyevsky. After a few email exchanges, the other party and I concluded that the sentence was not in B K, and somehow materialized (“of it’s own accord”) in Mark V’s book. My co-correspondent may have been Donald M. Fiene. But then again, probably not. He (or whoever (s)he was) approached me initially due to a ‘hit’ from an internet-search for that phrase.
Every year, not only do Betty and I engage in playing music, we go to see other musicians. This (so far) hasn’t been much of an active year in regards listening to others — friends and acquaintances (and ourselves) at a club in Fruita (Colorado) — the Cavalcade (or Cavalcade Fruita); Big Head Todd & the Monsters; Poke Squid; the Grand Junction Symphony Orchestra; the Indigo Girls; and B B King.
The Girls were the bestest tightest intertwined interesting music we heard (so far) in 2014. BB King was not.
As a fellow hockey enthusiast also in attendance at the local BB King ‘concert’ summarized: “the thrill IS gone.”
This is not to say BB King is a (still, barely) living legend, but he should have retired already. Last year. Probably before that. On the one hand, if we had an opportunity for tickets to “meet and greet” Mr. King, with or without the guise or proximity of any music, that’d be one thing. But for an event to be billed as a musical performance? That, in my humble opinion, was mostly untrue.
I conducted an internet search of recent reviews and discussions of BB King concerts, and contributed to one:
having seen BBK in Grand Junxion (Aug 18) i agree with all the negative reviews, and stopped to let the positives affect me too. yeah, you’re right: not too many blues legends are “still alive” — but on the other hand it was like a hall full of people there to merely meet&greet. i left early because i did not want to be there when he keeled over and died, which seemed more than remotely possible, particularly when he almost strangled himself trying to get the guitar strap over his head.
There were people present of the same opinion as myself, but also many of which were apparently the hazy-eyed “blues afficionadoes” who shouted WE LUV YEW and applauded everything and maybe this particular evening was the (never-ending) zenith of their existence. you know, objectivity is probably over-rated. anyhow, a friend of mine had a 4-word summary: the thrill is gone. my summary: the emperor has no clothes.
he should have retired long before this, and according to prior reviews, maybe 10+ years ago. yes, it was “cute” seeing him bask in attention and beam and be charismatic, but we weren’t there for “cute”, were we? The charisma was un-mistakable but most of us thought we were going to A CONCERT! not so.
BB should show up first thing in the show, talk (hopefully less than a 15 minute banter), introduce the band, leave, and let them rip!
and what certainly didn’t help at this occasion was a somewhat surly lout in a baseball cap outside the doors to the venue. People were not exactly leaving in droves, but the early departures were increasing in frequency. Betty and I were at the top of the stairs heading down to the parking lot. This fellow was inquiring loudly to anyone nearby “what did you think? why are you leaving? Didn’t you enjoy the show?”
I knew better than to talk with him, but Betty apparently thought he wanted to engage in reasoned discourse. We can only presume that he was a “roadie”, someone employed by the band, and not at all capable of objectivity and lacking in P R skills as well. Trying to talk with such a person does nothing to undo whatever tarnish the evening’s experience already had. I can only hope that if he is, indeed, affiliated with “the outfit,” they either let him go or give him a good talking to.
I mean and meant no “diss” to a living legend. Remember him as he was …
While i/we’re on the subject of politikill un/in-corerectnous, i heard on the ray-dee-oh recently that NYC had more heroin overdose deaths last year than in several prior years. Which brings me to a solution to a problem …. We’ve also been subjected to several media accounts and hand-wringing about Executions by Lethal Injection gone awry this year. Wouldn’t you suppose that many (or most) police evidence and storage rooms have lots of heroin (and other fun stuff) seized from criminals? More than enough to over-dose a lot of people? Instead of trying to calculate just how much of whatever it is, and attempting precise combinations and mixtures of the former not-too-reliable killing potion — why not just a big old whallop of heroin?
Below, the view to the west across the northwest rim of The Mesa, with
and without a dog in the foreground.
there were two (‘death march runs’): one in an area which (many years ago) i had the only mtn-lyin-siting i’ve ever had. i ran a trail on the north side of the Uncompahgre Plateau, adjoining Unaweep Canyon, and with two dogs scoutin’ the trees as we ran/stumbled along, i thought about the big cat(s), and
A few weeks back I ran along north Fravert Rim. no, no mountain lyin’s, just millions of years of colorawdough river geologic history, peeled away beneath. Like many (most?) runners — it’s something we do: do the workout, but frequently go someplace where you can ponder whatcher runnin’ thru’. Geology, in this case. I could see across the Colorado River Valley, ten, a dozen miles perhaps, down to the ‘Wivver perhaps 600 or 700 feet below – many millions of years of cutting and swathing and bending and flooding and oxbows and back-and-forth, going ever deeper. Heck: a half-billion years or so, THIS will be THE Grand Canyawn.
Betty has a problem with the NO FIREWERX. “Let’s get lit up and RIDE”, she sez. We’re near Waterdog Reservoirs, the Grand Mesa.
and, stop reading now while you can, a poem …
when tedium might set up and entrench,
i still find time to be amazed.
Might? it does. the layer of overlying tedium over the AY-MAY’ZD thickens. but …
maybe i’ve seen it all before, but i don’t remember, and if that’s so, it still looks new.
the sun shines through a hole in what seems an impermeable wall of clouds, brightly illuminating just a patch of hillside to the west. there’s a cloud-bank within a cloud-bank of cumulus just over the horizon which has an off-white/grey/creamy color which at first is barely discernible from the rest but on a second look stands out.
what does that mean?
i do have to remember, that the body is separate from … the mind. the dharma. the continuum. if there really. is. a continuum. “it” (whuddever ‘it’ is) could itself be an illusion. it’s just now. continual now.
and thinkin’ about gittin’ older
oh yeah, that’s cheery, at my age, iddn’t it?
and the dawg pharts, a good solid full-bodied one, in answe(a)r.
A nite or two ago, out peeeng in the yarrd, cigar in the other hand, the warm nite breeze stirring what’s left of my ever-diminishing hair, clothes scattered somewhere in the house, dogs snuffling about in the bushez nearby, i … Continue reading
Cancíon de los Beatles por mì cumpleaños BEATLES SONG BIRTHDAY (with unrelated Gunnison River Escalante overlook mountain-bike sojourn accompanied by the dogs) Rosco’s cousin, Ricardo Cabeza, entered the seventh decade of, uh, I was gonna say decadence, but no! decade … Continue reading
Above: “the Mesa” last winter. For my two or three (ir)regular readers, it’s pretty much THE VIEW from our house to the east. In later September, ‘fall’ was hitting the high country at full peak, so …
Betty decided that a trip up dere wuzz a good idea, to ride our bikes, get the dawgz out, and take lotsa photos. B ‘n “Doolie” on the Mesa-Top Trail.
We drove up Land’s End Road which is not the way to get up there for anyone in a hurry. The Road is ‘serpentine’ — winding, switchbacking, gravel with a good crop of washboards a lot of the time. The upper five or so miles it’s barely wider than a vehicle, so special caution is recommended there. However, today, we stopped frequently to try to capture the changing of the seasons, and the few other people we encountered were of similar dispostion.
We slowly gained in altitude. Above, we approach being level with the Mesa rim. The Grand Mesa is often called “the world’s largest flat-topped mountain.” Could be true. Geologists say that umpteen (25?) million years ago, there was a volcano 15,000-some feet higher than the present 10,000-foot plateau. A combination of the volcano blowing up and an outpouring of lava down to the valley floor resulted in the somewhat impermeable difficult-to-erode basaltic layer comprising the Mesa top today.
Looking down at what we’ve just driven up. The Mesa top is over 5,000 feet higher than the Grand Valley floor, our house included. What isn’t characteristic in this photo is the HAZE. Usually things are a lot clearer. There was a big forest fire up north in Wyoming, and the winds ‘n breezes must have been prevailingly nor’easters. So, we were afflicted with a much-more-so-than usual diminishment of clarity.
However, we discovered that the haze also diminished as we gained in altitude. The sky became clearer, blue skies, long as we didn’t look down the mountain. Still, you can tell that off the foot of the mountain the landscape is the ‘high desert’ of west Colorado. Also — if not for the haze, we would be able to see the LaSal Mountains just east of Moab — about 100 miles to the west.
Not all the aspens change at the same time. Generally, however, this is a function of altitude, and the higher we went, the larger percentage of trees had experienced “the change.” There was more red than we expected. I hope that is reflected in later photos.
I’ve backtracked in sequence a little. More haze, a couple thousand feet in elevation down from the top.
We are on top, the top of the world, looking south at the Flowing Park / Indian Point arm of the Mesa.
Above, is the view adjoining the previous. Dropping off into the haze, down to the desert. You might be able to recognize that a pine tree (fir, I think) towards the left in the far foreground (in front of the golden wall of aspens) is also pictured in the previous shot, towards the right.
I jump out of and back in sequence — this is perhaps 1,000′ or less in climb to go, with another darned section of washboards in the road.
Dually hangs close to Betty. The other two dawgz were (as usual) off harassing small creatures and/or looking for mud bogs to roll in.
I don’t know about you, but the zenith of the Autumnal Peak practically is shouting here. And I didn’t notice the contrail ’til later.
A few more colors in the palette used here — reddish, orange, yellow, green, the grey of the brief pavement section in this section of the Mesa.
Note (and memorize) the profile of the distant hazy ridge. You should recognize it again, further away, in the next photo.
Yes, we’ve stepped back from the previous view.
Back home, this bizarre fellow was clinging to our door. Stick-bugs might be abundant where you live, but for us, this is a more-rare sight than the more-common praying (preying?) mantises out our way.
On the other side of the door … we also recently lost (so we fear, it’s been several days now since we last saw him) the H P A (one of Walter’s other nick-names, the “Humongus Pongus Among us”). He was our favorite.
A typical vista for the day — just a bit down from the Mesa rim — with the trees framing the typical basalt cliff-face which, in turn, frames the Mesa top. The exposed cliff-rock is the edge of the foundation, as it were, of what makes the Grand Mesa what it is.
¿Alguien quire saber que algunas personas con un nombre apellido español quienes en la clase media hacer un Sabado ordinario? Nada mucho. No somos ricos, no somos pobres. Pero, no nos gustamos los dos partidos polìtico mejor. ♪ Vote partido tercero! (Pero local, vote con su corazon y su cerebro).
Digo que no esta un vistazo significado — esta ordinario (o menos que ordinario).
La primera cosa esta mañana para me fue una carrera (de pie). Corrì bien. Entonces, a casa mi esposa quiere parame a ayudar ella en jardinerìa. Afuera, hace calor, por lo general. Entonces … tiempo por el piscina. Mejor …
Arriba: hay 22 fotos. Mas temprano, son de la piscina. “Betty” esta alado de, con un gato debajo su asiento. Mire los nublados sobre los “BookCliffs” al norte de nosotros.
Hay viente-dos; a la izquierda a derecho, arriba a debajo:
1. Sì. Bookcliffs, nublados, la piscina de Betty … El perro es “Koda.” Estamos cuidado el perro de nuestro hijo.
2. Bookcliffs, nublados … verano despacio y …
3. ¿ Ve el gato debajo el asiento?
4. El gato debajo el asiento …
5. Mas de mismo, y nalgas de RockSea …
6. Nublados sobre del “Book Cliffs”
7. El (la ?) inuk-thingy en frente del casa, y flores, y …
8. Vista al sur de la casa (cerro sin arboles)
9. Nuestro “lago” (estanque) y nuestro canoa esta listo para un viaje corto
10. Nosotros cuidar un niño, no … cuidar el perro de nuestro hijo. Pelota pelota — “ball ball.” (El gusta a traer la pelota).
11. Casa, nublado (sobre el “Grand Mesa”), arbol
12. Bruce dormiendo. Es verano, vd. sabe …
13. Inuk-thingy, Sleven, RockSea
14. Dos inuk-cosas en las afueras de nuestro lugar. Miriendo a sur …
15. Ooh … ¿ ve el rayo láser despues el camión y el buzón ?
16. ♪¿ No paso en la mierda de perro!
17. No caminar en las hormigas …
18. No se la palabra en español por –> inunnguaq — o — inuksuit — o — inukshuk, me llaman los “inukthingies” (inuk-cosas). Este es el inukthingy en frente de nuestro casa, al lado de la buzòn. Mire los nublados sobre de la Grand Mesa …
19. Dos perros (uno es de mi hijo — “Koda”) al norte de nuestro casa.
20. Dos perros negros …
21. Betty es “Wulf-Muthur” (la madre de los lobos) — porque ellos gusta a estar cerca de ella mucho del tiempo.
22. Cuatro perros (y la bicicleta de mi esposa) en el camiòn de ella — sobre el “Grand Mesa” el Domingo pasado — que divertido.