tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-58024339479094769952011-04-21T16:37:04.162-05:00memory, history, information, sites. Explorations of the interconnecting continua of time, place, people, ideas, and knowledge including visual art, cartography, history, neuroscience, information theory, urban planning, architecture, and storytelling. And occasional rantings thrown in for good measure.Moderatornoreply@blogger.comBlogger151100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5802433947909476995.post-31626069437265801382008-02-14T11:47:00.004-05:002008-02-14T11:54:55.113-05:00

Whenever I feel that my life is a struggle, I just think of my great-grandmother who married "down" for love (or desire). She married a scrappy, stubborn, philosopher/share-cropper and created and raised 5 children in a dusty one-room shack in East Texas... If she could survive that, what do I have to complain about? She is at the core of my (admittedly mythical) self-identity of a DIY Pioneer

Moderatornoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5802433947909476995.post-48347901448792510162008-02-14T11:45:00.002-05:002008-02-14T12:23:54.869-05:00

You heard me. Identity is an illusion. Put that in your pipe and smoke it.Power, however, is real. But it comes in many more forms than we typically recognize.So, ditch the identity, and find the power. That's my recommendation for 2008.

Moderatornoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5802433947909476995.post-70467051521056697692007-12-08T22:15:00.000-05:002007-12-15T17:23:10.251-05:00

You,Kingof my littleworld,your smile so wide,I wrap our home in it,your laugh so warmit could heat the houseall winter long.Your music so true,your eye so sharp, your kitchen improvisationsso deft I could createa million-hit internet cooking show featuring just you.I would cross an LA freeway on foot just to benear you,just to walk down an empty road or back alleyat your side.Your massive, gentle

Moderatornoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5802433947909476995.post-59304644244667170872007-12-08T22:13:00.001-05:002007-12-08T22:13:44.354-05:00

Stepping outinto the musty dark of rotting leavesI leave my objects within,searing embers, disappearing,their smoke-dust still coatingmy fingers and nostrilscaking my tongueI have eaten words, inhaling them,iron gall ink and parchment,mineral pigmentsand tooled leatherfor lifetimesevery syllable crumblingas I lift it to my mouthshifting ashsifting down drying my vision with an alkaline pale

Moderatornoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5802433947909476995.post-30028773505172027672007-12-08T22:01:00.000-05:002007-12-08T22:04:29.194-05:00

I was born parchedskin shrinkingon fragile skullan empty panin an electric ovenscorching airbillowing out of a black Chevroleton the fourth of JulyI've raised myself as sagebrushon dry self-denialtrue to the absenceof refreshmenttrue to the shrivelingof tongue and womband the burning of skinat noon~MH 1998/2007

Moderatornoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5802433947909476995.post-6344485682988234372007-12-08T21:24:00.000-05:002007-12-14T13:55:11.717-05:00

I drove by 1982last summerYour house was unkemptovergrown and neglectedin a suburban decaykind of wayNo pony-tailedTom-boytraining-braAtari-girlsNo imaginary intrigueno television fantasiesburied under I Hate Pretty PonymattressesNo chess or cello,or plank-walkingover ravinesNo sleuthing or storytellingNo trespassing mischiefNo BMX bikes over dirt hillsor making little brothers cryHard to imagine

Moderatornoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5802433947909476995.post-72128774713884003802007-11-19T01:11:00.000-05:002007-12-08T22:20:38.599-05:00

In the cool dustof the round room,I returnHome is the place that I am. That I am with the Grandmothersof ten thousand moons.We work with our handsand sit near the ground.We build firesand grind corn.We grab snakesand roast them.Our bricks, sun-dried,are strong and lasting,forming perfect circles,portals for smoky light shafts,ladders to the other World.Dust gathersand scatters,but I remain.My

Moderatornoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5802433947909476995.post-83584721459970792382007-11-19T01:04:00.000-05:002007-12-08T22:20:55.337-05:00

We are alone exceptfor snake eyes beaming byevery twenty minutes or hour.their wakes invisibly minglingwith ours, like molecularconversations Our cocoon floats,escorted by the moon,our private spotlight,as mountains,trees, and deserts fly byat varying quicknesses The sky opens wideLunar landscape beside us,and there: a Viking shipfrozen on sandy seas Stained luminousin moonlight, and dwarfedby

Moderatornoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5802433947909476995.post-7614375093779309252007-11-02T19:04:00.000-05:002007-11-02T19:36:32.229-05:00

hmmm... It's not easy being a blogger. People that say it's too easy don't know what they're talking about. There are all of these obstacles and intervening factors. My universe conspires to keep me from posting. Perhaps the only things working in my favor are being alone on a Friday night, friends and mate either far away or occupied. Good music helps. Perhaps that's why I haven't posted in so

Moderatornoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5802433947909476995.post-87327491153460681652007-04-19T23:36:00.000-05:002007-04-19T23:41:48.649-05:00

Thanks to agentmatr1x for posting this homage to librarians on YouTube:

Moderatornoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5802433947909476995.post-61600914053588230802007-03-21T09:33:00.000-05:002007-03-21T09:40:16.476-05:00

More on DH coming soon... Let this image to the left serve as a teaser. Yes, the file labels are:PurgatoryNamesEducationDiseasePossessionUnclesWitches

Moderatornoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5802433947909476995.post-61400456059028255202007-03-20T23:28:00.000-05:002007-03-21T00:14:39.864-05:00

So, I've found another soul mate to add to my small collection. I confess to having a thing for older men, but I've reached new heights... or depths would be more appropriate. His name is David Herlihy, and he's deceased. Actually, I'd probably fall in love with his wife, Patricia, as well, if only I knew as much about her as I do him. Where to start? It began in October 2006. The crisp autumn

Moderatornoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5802433947909476995.post-20383909430276727692006-11-13T22:42:00.000-05:002006-11-13T22:55:00.073-05:00

Somewhere there is a place for all of the people that think and operate "between" and "across" fields of specialization. Sometimes dogged (by others, or themselves) as "slackers" or "unfocused," I really do believe that the world would wither without them. Give them a crevice and they will build an entire eco-system. Give them a canyon they will build a bridge where others put up safety rails

Moderatornoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5802433947909476995.post-50054693608666275142006-11-09T02:10:00.000-05:002006-11-09T02:44:28.789-05:00

Despite the titles of my first two posts, this blog is not about politics. My friend Sarah (not her real name) called me last night from the victory party for governor-elect Deval Patrick of Massachusetts. I hadn't heard the results yet, and was elated to hear that he'd won after the recent curse of US politics. While driving home with my partner in the wee hours, we listened to Patrick's

Moderatornoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5802433947909476995.post-90325462890260040822006-11-06T02:34:00.000-05:002006-11-09T02:33:40.665-05:00

My friend Ann (not her real name) and I had a long discussion about blogs a couple of years ago. I think I can safely say that we were both fascinated by the blogosphere, and at different stages of acceptance of the how blogs change the boundary between private and public. There's a certain repulsion, for some, in the perceived confessional or vain nature of thinking that one's thoughts and words

Moderatornoreply@blogger.com0