spider, Argiope, resident in the back deck garden. This morning I watched her repair the damage to her web from last nights' storm. The pics were hazy because of condensation from the humidity on the lens, incredible none the less.
macroday entry Insect
macroday entry Holiday
excerpt from ' Untrampled Footsteps' ~Jim Morrison
Occasion for sinners
alive if it seems
given to wander
alone at the shore
wanton to whisper
I am no more
Am as my heart beats
live as I can
wanton to whisper
his toys have grown in size as an adult ...still no Harley Davidson though
Has Anyone Seen The Boy?
Has anyone seen the boy who used to come here? Round-faced trouble-maker, quick to find a joke, slow to be serious, red shirt, perfect coordination,sly, strong muscled, with things always in his pocket: reed flute, worn pick, polished and ready for his Talent you know that one. Have you heard stories about him? Pharoah and the whole Egyptian world collapsed for such a Joseph. I'd gladly spend years getting word of him, even third or fourth hand. ~Rumi
macro-day entry Toys
odd to see my hands in this... to know they have lost the callouses from the base of my fingers... the days of training 17-24 people and handling weights all day...are gone, along with the roughness, on all levels... what has taken it's place is infinately more fulfilling .. the grace of working individually and in pairs ...seeing the progression and changes ..and having the time to notice and see my hands as pink and soft
macro-day entry Pink
I love morning glories...specifically Blue Heaven ones, and the focus of this shot is supposed to be stones... but the glories are growing into the bird bath..and so, my stones are framed by them..love this blue
live according to spiritual principles
macro-day entry Stones
on making a difference... every day, make something...with your hands, heart or spirit, offer it up as a prayer, or a gift in silence...make something to add to the beauty and comfort and peace of another
excerpt from ' Integrity' ~Adrienne Rich
A wild patience has taken me this far
as if I had to bring to shore a boat with a spasmodic outboard motor old sweaters, nets, spray-mottled books tossed in the prow some kind of sun burning my shoulder-blades. Splashing the oarlocks. Burning through. Your forearms can get scalded, licked with pain in a sun blotted like unspoken anger behind a casual mist.
The length of the day this far north, in this forty-ninth year of my life is critical.
The light is critical: of me, of this long-dreamed, involuntary landing on the arm of the inland sea. The glitter of the shoal depleting into shadow I recognize: the stand of pines violet-black really, green in the old postcard but really I have nothing but myself to go by; nothing stands in the realm of pure necessity except what my hands can hold.
macro-day entry Mechanical
stanza from Baudelaire's 'Death and the Artists'
How often must I shake my bells and kiss Your forehead, gloomy and grotesque: for ever? How many arrows must I shoot and miss, Aiming at Nature's mystery, you my Quiver?
macro-day entry Scary