Miss me

We are stardust, we are golden, we are billion-year-old carbon...

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Super blood wolf moon

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A view from a room…

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“ Chato’s Land “ by Michael Winner (1972) Charles Bronson taking revenge in Rambla Lanujar (Barranco Bandido), Tabernas desert, Almeria.

[npr]

First Listen: Bombino, 'Deran'

The wildly talented Tuareg guitarist returns to his North African roots on his latest album.

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When the bees go, we all go

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Sioux Falls, SD

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Desert Hot Springs, CA

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Moon over Desert Hot Springs, CA

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The Bee Carol... (and if you turn up the volume you can hear my dog drinking from her bowl LoL)

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Morning moon over Venice, CA

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To Paradise, the Arabs say, Satan could never find the way Until the peacock led him in.  -Charles Godfrey Leland

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View of the great wide open, from Tombstone, AZ

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Lavender Pit copper mine in Bisbee, AZ, which first opened 100 years ago.

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“One can no more approach people without love than one can approach bees without care. Such is the quality of bees...” ―Tolstoy

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“Hum” by Mary Oliver

What is this dark hum among the roses? The bees have gone simple, sipping, that’s all. What did you expect? Sophistication? They’re small creatures and they are filling their bodies with sweetness, how could they not moan in happiness? The little worker bee lives, I have read, about three weeks. Is that long? Long enough, I suppose, to understand that life is a blessing. I have found them-haven’t you?— stopped in the very cups of the flowers, their wings a little tattered-so much flying about, to the hive, then out into the world, then back, and perhaps dancing, should the task be to be a scout-sweet, dancing bee. I think there isn’t anything in this world I don’t admire. If there is, I don’t know what it is. I haven’t met it yet. Nor expect to. The bee is small, and since I wear glasses, so I can see the traffic and read books, I have to take them off and bend close to study and understand what is happening. It’s not hard, it’s in fact as instructive as anything I have ever studied. Plus, too, it’s love almost too fierce to endure, the bee nuzzling like that into the blouse of the rose. And the fragrance, and the honey, and of course the sun, the purely pure sun, shining, all the while, over all of us.

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Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,  Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun; Conspiring with him how to load and bless  With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run; To bend with apples the moss’d cottage-trees,  And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;     To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells  With a sweet kernel; to set budding more, And still more, later flowers for the bees, Until they think warm days will never cease,     For summer has o'er-brimm’d their clammy cells.