The Changing Life….

( Man Ray~Louise Brooks…. Screen Beauty of Early Cinema…)

Today being the 4th of September, dear to Hermes…

On the Menu:

The Links

On The Personal Side of Things…

Poetry: Robert Graves

Photography: Louise Brooks As Subject…


The Links:

Stolen dinosaur fossils recovered

Stone by stone, craftsmen build medieval-style castle

Absolve Me!

Scientists pinpoint polar catastrophe



On The Personal Side Of Things…

PK Graduates!

Our dear friend PK graduated from Oriental Medical School… Cramming 4 years into 3, while maintaining a job. I don’t know how he did it. He is now known as ‘Doctor Needles’ due to his drive to start up his practice with Acupuncture…

It was an amazing graduation, excellent speakers, wonderfully presented and heartfelt.

We got to hang with him through the evening afterwards, and watch the celebration at the graduating party. Though we left early, we heard PK ended up dancing with some 20 young ladies at the same time… Must of been his Indian charm, or maybe his imitation of Krishna which drove the young ladies wild!

Anyways… a big congratulations to Dr. Needles, and may he ever find the right meridian…. 8o)

Visiting The Folks….

We got to visit with Rowan’s Grandfather and Grandmother (my Dad n’ Step Mum) up in Washington. It was a quick visit, but we will be back there soon.

They recently moved into their new house…. ever the gypsies, they have moved some 3 times over the last 2 years! Now, my Father isn’t a spring chicken, but he is up for anything it seems. He is starting to slow down, and he has problems with his hips. I think he finds this a bit much at times, seeing as he jogged until he was 72 and skiied until he was 74. He ran 5 – 10 miles daily from his 50th birthday on. I should be so determined!

He keeps active with his religious studies, and taking care around the house, and my Step-Mum Gloria, really is a fantastic cook, having studied in Italy. She is also an accomplished artist in several areas. She still amazes me after all these years.

They are celebrating their 42nd year of marriage today, which coincidentially happens to be my birthday. It is an odd, conjunction, but somehow it works fine for us.

This is kind of a banner year, I am now on the slippery slope to sixty. I know it is an artifice, but it is fascinating (at least for yours truly) the changes wrought by another year of being exposed to the cosmic winds. Irridated from above, honed by the atmosphere, drenched in the industrial chemical stew we call the modern world, it is always a surprise to make it another year.

When younger, I honestly didn’t expect to make it to 30. At times, that seemed a real possibility with some of the stuff I got into, but I am happy to say that affectation passed when September 4th passed in 1981, accompanied with an earthquake just for good measure at our morning breakfast with champagne, and mushrooms over toast… 80)

My sister Rebecca, who is a few years older sent a message this morning: “At 55 your are at the beginning of a new cycle. May this year be gentle with you, full of fun and creativity, and may you move with your deepest purpose.”

One would hope so!

Much Love,



Poetry: Robert Graves…


Pale at first and cold,

Like wizard’s lily-bloom

Conjured from the gloom,

Like torch of glow-worm seen

Through grasses shining green

By children half in fright,

Or Christmas candelelight

Flung on the outer snow,

Or tinsel stars that show

Their evening glory

With sheen of fairy story–

Now with his blaze

Love dries the cobweb maze

Dew-sagged upon the corn,

He brings the flowering thorn,

Mayfly and butterfly,

And pigeons in the sky,

Robin and thrush,

And the long bulrush,

The cherry under the leaf,

Earth in a silken dress,

With end to grief,

With joy in steadfastness.


To Be Called a Bear

Bears gash the forest trees

To mark the bounds

Of their own hunting grounds;

They follow the wild bees

Point by point home

For love of honeycomb;

They browse on blueberries.

Then should I stare

If I am called a bear,

And is it not the truth?

Unkept and surly with a sweet tooth

I tilt my muzzle toward the stary hub

Where Queen Callisto guards her cub,

But envy those that here

All winter breathing slow

Sleep warm under the snow,

That yawn awake when the skies clear,

And lank with longing grow

No more than one brief month a year.


The Eremites

We may well wonder at those bearded hermits

Who like the scorpion and the basilisk

Couched in the desert sands, to undo

Their scrufy flesh with tortures.

They drank from pools fouled by the ass and the camel,

Chewed uncooked millet pounded between stones,

Wore but a shame-rag, dusk or dawn,

And rolled in thorny places.

In the wilderness there are no women;

Yet hermits harbour in their shrunken loins

A penitential paradise,

A leaping-house of glory.

Solomons of a thousand lusty love-chants,

These goatish men, burned Aethiopian black,

Kept vigil till the angelic whores

Should lift the latch of pleasure.

And what Atellan orgies of the soul

Were celebrated then among they rocks

They testify themselves in books

That rouse Atellan laughter.

Haled back at last to wear the ring and mitre,

They clipped their beards and, for their stomachs’ sake,

Drank now and then a little wine,

And tasted cakes and honey.

Observe then how they disciplined the daughters

Of noble widows, who must fast and thirst,

Abjure down-pillows, rouge and curls,

Deform their delicate bodies:

Whose dreams were curiously beset by visions

Of stinking hermits in a wilderness

Pressing unnatural lusts on them

Until they wakened screaming.

Such was the virtue of our pious fathers:

To refine pleasure in the hungry dream.

Pity for them, but pity too for us –

Our beds by their leave lain in.


The Siren’s Welcome to Cronos

Cronos the Ruddy, steer your boat

Toward Silver Island whence we sing;

Here you shall pass your days.

Through a thick-growing alder-wood

We clearly see, but are not seen,

Hid in a golden haze.

Our hair the hue of barley sheaf,

Our eyes the hue of blackbird’s egg,

Our cheeks like asphodel.

Here the wild apple blossoms yet;

Wrens in the silver branches play

And prophesy you well.

Here nothing ill or harsh is found.

Cronos the Ruddy, steer your boat

Across these placid straits,

With each of us in turn to lie

Taking your pleasure on young grass

That for your coming waits.

No grief nor gloom, sickness nor death.

Disturbs our long tranquility;

No treachery, no greed.

Compared with this, what are the plains

Of Elis, where you ruled as king?

A wilderness indeed.

A starry crown awaits your head,

A hero feast is spread for you:

Swineflesh, milk and mead.


Have a great day!

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