Zagaroth

Maria

Jeanne

The Barbershop Mystery

The Royalty of the Castle

Palettes of the Masters

Gauguin:

Prussian Blue-Cobalt Blue
Emerald Green-Viridian
Cadmium Yellow-Chrome Yellow
Red Ochre, Cobalt Violet
Lead or Zinc White

Halcyon

The Brave Camping Trip

Taken from a July 2007 Poem

If you were here we'd be lost
Avoiding high tide
In the black jungle of our room.

We would heave the night off our backs
in our tent filled with doves.

You would lick my words by candlelight
Growing drunk off the fistfuls of honey I'd throw at you.

I would rise from a scallop shell to become your treasure
in a very still and stainless night.

Together we would spill every unwritten word.

July 10, 2007

Mill Creek

Mill Creek, down the cliffs on Hyw 1 just past Gorda going north on the way to Big Sur, California is a near miss, a collection of unrestrained booms and crashes, wayward and whimsical, a simmering and hissing. Mill Creek is an ordinary creek in an extraordinary place, of vivid hues, expansive vistas, and abandoned landscapes.

In the green:

I am finding that the eye, untrained, unprepared.. is not readily able to absorb such saturation. Variations in green run up and down the fret board of my mind. I am in amazement of the melody "green" begins to come. Blue-green, deep emerald and back to the palest yellow-green. One could not record nor contain the way the light reflects off and what is absorbed of what must be undiscovered variants of plant life. A giant fragrant fennel, thick as an infant's wrist running nine feet tall. I brake it, crisp, in the middle and lick the warm pungent juice. This prehistoric grass is taller than me. I sink in green until I am green.......I inhale. I am drinking in this color until I understand it's song.


Sitting very quietly at the creek:

It has been a few moments. I nestle into the arm of a tall grass strong enough to hold my frame. I could sleep here for a while to the music of the creek that whistles, shimmies, bubbles, and splits before me. Behind this is an amazing ocean song. Power booms and crashes each wave pounds harder into the next. One by one the creek dancers arrive, flying up from their rocky havens. along a deserted shore. A natural act, an everyday occurence that I deem a miracle.

Undefined:

What is not seen is seen. What is heard becomes a feeling. What is whorling around emanating from the aura of all of this life here in this place. I am picking up on it... and it goes something like this.... I am the voice of this place. I am a breather. I shimmer. I am the sun off the rocks and the water evaporating from the ground. Ommma caa. I have a spirit and a soul.