Garden Pests

My friend from Kenya and I. Survey my garden. He’s giving me great advice. On organic techniques and ways to maximize a small space. We’re pulling weeds. And talking about pests. We look at some beetles. And I tell him about 13-stripe ground squirrels burrowing in my yard.

And then. He says. “Hippos like yams.” He lives on the shore of Lake Victoria. Where hippos heave their massive bodies out of the water. A fence between them and the yams. Will do the trick. But the monkeys are another story.

Conversation on the Bus

There are some conversations. That shouldn’t happen. On a bus.

Because only one side is heard. By those nearby. It seems private. But it isn’t.

He started the call when I got on. And ended it when I got off. I only heard his half. But it was too much.

Here is his side of the conversation. Boiled down. To the core.

Hi. Did you go?

Planned Parenthood?

You should have asked me. You would have saved a lot of cab fare if you had gone to Planned Parenthood.

Listen to me. Make a photocopy of the bill. This one and the next one. And mail them to him at home or work or whatever. He’s a jerk. Tell him you expect him to pay half. It’s costing you a lot, you know.

You need to learn to be tough Clarise.

When I stepped off the bus. And into the park. Green all around. The conversation. On the bus. Hung in the air. Over the lake. Even after. It ended.

Four Days in Panama

Geckos and frogs sing me to sleep at night. A herpetologist’s paradise. And a herpetologist it is that has invited us to stay. In her home. If we don’t mind the snakes. Next to the ice cream. In the freezer.

The house is set off the road. In the village. Down a grass path between fences. Concrete. Rented for $40 a month. A couple of bedrooms. An outhouse and a shower several yards away. Water comes in from the stream. Clean and clear. Above the point. Where it will get contaminated.

We sit into the night. Listening to stories of snakes. And the venomous ones. That have taken lives. Because of the distance. To the hospital. Snakes are her life’s work.

I shake the bugs from my bag and shower looking over the concrete wall. At the mountains. Showering outdoors. Is wonderful. I wish the little black and white monkeys. That she’s told us about. Around the house. Would sit on the edge of the shower. So I could see them up close.

The real world of snakes. And the mystical world. Collide in the national park. There was a severed finger. At the site of the plane crash. On the top of the mountain. Where Omar “If I fall, pick up the flag, kiss it, and keep on going” Torrijos died in 1981. Locals living near Omar Torrijos National Park believe. That their populist leader still lives in the jungle. He’d be 80 now. And they defend his land. It’s likely that they’ll continue to do so, with faith in the unseen. Long after he would be 111. Omar vive.

Life. And Art.

I love how the subconscious. Breaks through the cracks. Like a seed splitting the earth. To make itself known.

It’s already been 10 days. Since I took a found art class. At Shake Rag Alley. With Michael Donovan. Since then, I’ve been away. And now. I’m back.

I chose an industrial, metal, rigid base. Regular. Heavy. I was thinking the circle of life. The key to life. And without realizing it. I created something harsh. A blade. Cutting. And in the middle, a metal zero.

Something missing. Michael suggested something with color. Light and whimsical. I perched a blue bird. On the barbed wire.

The next day. When I woke. The very best of times. For my subconscious to surface. I understood. That this. Is about the obligations and heaviness. I often feel about life. The series of endless lists.

What is so important. About the whimsical part. Is that THAT is the key to life. Not the harsh. Metal. Industrial. Regularity. Which can result. In zero.

It’s not done yet. Artists on an assemblage listserv. And others. Have offered ideas. My favorite? To embrace it.

Mexico: Abbreviated Escape

Traveling. I try to stay in the zen zone. Where the crowds don’t exist. And having been bumped up to first class. And having those flights on time. Makes the zen zone. Easy.

The marido and I. Took the bus from Tucson. To Los Mochis. And from there. Took the train to the Copper Canyon. To Creel. Endless hours of bent legged travel.

We took a short tour. With a boy. Of no more than 16. Whose voice was right in the middle of changing. He squeaked. A few facts. About the area. And we bumped along in a big, shiny, red pickup. Which was probably. Purchased with drug money. Since that’s a big source of income. In Creel. We went to a waterfall. With a sign. Of a woman looking more like a Playboy bunny. Than a round Tarahuamara woman. And we ate lunch. At a lake. Sitting on a rock. Eating oranges. Surrounded by pine needles. Which was nearly. Perfection.