Fallen From Trees


Oh, it is wonderful to have this machine to type on and go back and delete or rearrange — unlike the mess of paper with scratch-outs and arrows and white paint and sometimes illegible handwriting.

It seems to be a thinking machine.

Some machines think too much. Sometimes we don’t use the k’noggins or k’noodles we are blessed with.

Isn’t it a pity. Isn’t it a shame, that we so seldom play with sticks anymore, along the way? It was so fun in those days we did.

Come to think of it, I do still play with sticks. I sometime hold them in my hands and break them up into little bits when putting them into compost heaps or hugelkultur beds. I like the texture that they are and their colors and all the animals living upon and in them. Those are usually the ones that have fallen from trees. Little limbs too old to hold their own weight anymore, dried beyond repair — a little too much like me. It’s nice that they can crackle.

It’s a joy to play with sticks.

Sticks and stones. Sticks don’t last as long as stones. Stones can wait for another day. Play with sticks today.

Isn’t it a pity
Isn’t it a shame
How we break each other’s hearts
And cause each other pain
How we take each other’s love
Without thinking anymore
Forgetting to give back
Now, isn’t it a pity

~ George Harrison

header image credit: Patrick Dougherty; stickwork.net


Disappeared The Wall

There was a certain way the sun came in through the blinds from the east in the earlier hours of the morning — more exposure like one was on display in a cage — the light disappeared the wall — not that anyone was outside looking in but the room was lit like it was waiting for a performer — and all the colors seemed to be imported from Cuba.


Remembering how the beach would change throughout a day and by the time the day’s play was completed, the beach no longer held its charm — it was a better time for going home.

Earlier light is better on a beach for playing.

Inside the living room, where the big window is that gets the earlier east, stage-like lighting at this low-lying light stage of winter season, it is better after the sun goes, or the earth moves so that the beam is on the roof. But it was still a stillness that was beautiful — watching waking — it just seemed like the sun could see something it might not ought to — her soul perhaps.

Then the birds came for scratching dirt and then after them a stray to leave his mark where others had been before him. Thank goodness the birds were gone by then.

The exposure went too quickly even though its ability to see was disconcerting. It was like a new friend — someone different — someone with new words to hear. She would have made a record except that whatever words there were went by before a record could be made except for this.

She’ll try again tomorrow if too much hasn’t changed or it wasn’t just a fleeting thing or she gets up too late.

Cats Can’t Fly

It must be nice to wake up and know that there is someone still in the bed that will wake up soon too and you will have a daytime friend. Just them lying in the warm covers still sleeping is enough for company. I’ve never known that as a consistent occurrence but I have an imagination — it’s happened a little enough to know and remember.

It must be horrible to wake up knowing that fighting will ensue and go on instead of play and that the lying there together was, all night troubled. That hasn’t ever happen even a little but I can imagine and it seems that it would break a soul. There has been tension but it was sweet because of love and not unsavory or maybe I’ve forgotten.

Dogs can move out lonely. Cats too. They usually wake up first though and require playing sooner than later and sleeping in becomes rather out of the question. But they often go back to sleeping and lying there reminding you of a friend to play with later and because they don’t speak the exact same language — it’s hard to know if they’re saying something incongruent.

The steadfast place of trees and plants with critters in their midst is not a substitute but can be some to complete empty spots with color and fragrance that allow forgetting holes were made that still might need a little mending. They die too or get disease and need more care but they can’t take up roots and leave. They honor their commitment never flinching.

Who flinched. More often than not, both did. Humans have a way of having trouble staying or if they stay, not cheating — somehow. Selfish little brats we all are — wanting everything we want. And it isn’t a matter of not speaking the same language — or is it.

The cat’s crying and meandering around consistently meowing like I should just know exactly what he is saying and I want him to quit it or learn my language. I want. Selfish little brat me. He has some need he’s trying to express and I’m busy. It’s my way or the highway except that cats don’t allow for that.

Now I see three little birds on the rim of a glass dish taking turns dipping but apparently there is too little water in it so I must quit this and go out and fill it for them. I filled three dishes just in case they each want one or so that there will be plenty for others but they aren’t selfish — they were happy taking turns. I filled all the water features everywhere. The birds fill holes too like cats and dogs but cats and dogs are softer and fit better in arms and mold to the arms that hold them. Birds don’t seem to like to do that. But they sing pretty and fly around so nicely.

Now the big stray cat is waiting at the bowl just filled with water. I suppose he wants the birds back and a little snack. I always find it hard to reason how any bird gets caught — they fly — cats can’t fly.

It’s another day to get things done and there is no one that might want things to go a different way or play. The march is on but it’s like playing all alone as I have always known just as well as others have known how nice it must be to wake up with someone still in the bed sleeping.


Room on the Broom


Mother May I

“Whatever can we do about it”, she asked as if someone might have an answer. Everyone was offering alarm but no one seemed to have a solution to the problem they were displaying.

“The sky is falling,” again, they were saying. “Duck and cover and run for your life. Leave your freedom far behind you because it won’t be of any value once you get to where you are going and be sure to go where you won’t have any enemies but be sure to take a gun in case some bad guys follow.”

They might want your food or toilet paper.

It was a somewhat rhetorical question in that she also was aware that alarm is a tool for herding and asking the question was a method of her own to use as a way of redirecting and an attempt to encourage critical thinking in lieu of flight or fighting.

Watch a herd of yaks respond to the suspicion of human presence and the value of such a tool can be made evident. Some other animals might not be afraid of humans, yet, because they haven’t gotten to know of said’s capacity for destruction and only want to ferret things out and get to know — and maybe have someone to have some fun with and play.

Humans used to be like that, able to enjoin and enjoy simple getting along and gaming.

Mother May I?

Now games are mostly digital and about escaping or running away from a reality that seems too imposing.

The herd of yak found out that running to the desert was where they were the safest because their predators wouldn’t follow that far or to those extremes of living.

She thinks, “Maybe I’ll just stay put in this nice little desert where not very many humans think it a good place for living or trying to secure what they’re eating.”

But that was fearful thinking and another place might be cooler and more conventional kinds of plants for eating could be grown.

“It does look awfully dry there. Don’t you think more ground cover would be advisable? Wouldn’t a few trees help with shading? Why won’t you bring in any outside inputs like wood chips or animal excrement? Do you think you could give up that one small issue?” her friend was asking gently, trying not to ruffle her feathers.

“Trees? Of course they would if they would grow, but I haven’t had much luck with growing them anymore than anything else and besides which, the best advice that I can find says that shade should not be depended on and plants that don’t need it are the ones that are found in the desert mostly and should be the ones that are sought out.”

Of course she was aware of the nursing strategy the desert fully engages and how some plants specifically grow under other ones but for the most part, experts in the field of desert dwelling say that trying to grow foods that otherwise can’t take the heat and dryness need to be left to area that don’t have heat and dryness — cucumbers aren’t the kind of plants that nursing kinds of desert plants are interested in to mother.

She looks out the living room window and sees several birds hopping around finding their food and hopes the stray cat misses seeing them.


The more committed we are to this view of the world, the more we come to see human beings as the problem and technology as the solution. The very essence of what it means to be human is treated less as a feature than bug. No matter their embedded biases, technologies are declared neutral. Any bad behaviors they induce in us are just a reflection of our own corrupted core. It’s as if some innate human savagery is to blame for our troubles. Just as the inefficiency of a local taxi market can be “solved” with an app that bankrupts human drivers, the vexing inconsistencies of the human psyche can be corrected with a digital or genetic upgrade.

Humans do seem to be the problem but more because of how they think and what they think and that they don’t think very much at all it seems and if they do they think in herds.

Everyone seems to want to be rid of bugs but the birdies love to eat them. And the cat’s love to eat the birds and so on. But cats aren’t a native species — they’re another human invasion.

Are humans just bugs in the up and coming new and improved digital downloadable hologram-of-a future? Who really wants to live there and if they are a bug, couldn’t they be looked at like a good bug? As if there are good and bad ones.

“Elon Musk,” she thinks he wants to live there. “And he seems like a kind of bad bug.”

Most non-thinking kinds of people want to spray all bugs with pesticides — every kind of bug, good and bad ones — should Elon Musk be sprayed?

“September 11 is just around the corner and the herd will be throwing out meme after meme about how the herd should be thinking,” she thinks “so maybe I’ll throw this out there as a strategy to distract from conventional kinds of thinking – like trying to grow cucumbers in a desert.”

…and finally the illusion of a caring politician or a voting booth appear to now act as theatrical props like a corporate suggestion box. political actions in every country around the world after 911 attacking human rights and our ability to protect them speak for themselves…

“Mother may I, think another way?”