Sunday, February 10, 2019

I plan to empty, dust, shine, and rearrange the contents of my display cases regularly. An intent that drags at the bottoms of my to-do lists. It’s tedious, cleaning units too cluttered and very dusty. All because of my fetish–or desire, wish, hoarding instinct, who knows?–to keep objects that generate fondness, interest, appreciation, or some other need to acquire. Items go into display cases with doors, to keep dogs from chewing and cats from breaking. When every case has become too packed for another item, I look closely, heave a sigh, and search for my glass- and wood-cleaning supplies. These days, while it’s snowy outside, I’m cleaning display cases.

As usual, it’s been too long since their last going-over. I’m finding some pieces that I’ve totally forgotten. And other objects, only periodically forgotten, that I can recall vividly. Like the unopened computer game, “No One Lives Forever”, reminding me of a very fun evening.

It seemed too late for visitors when my neighbor, Reiko, knocking on my front door called out, “I need your help!” As I stood surprised, he said, “I must do a shoot right away and need a subject. Could you come with me?” I nodded, stunned to silence, and he added, “You have an overcoat? Okay bring it.” I pulled from the back of my closet a heavy overcoat, useless in LA, but perfect in a snowy February that I spent in England. The next thing I remember is Reiko and me in his vintage El Camino thundering toward his studio in Hollywood.

A professional photographer, Reiko was well-known in motorcycle circles for his skills in shooting Harley-Davidson Motorcycles. He was in demand by owners proud of their shiny, chromed, ultra-adorned machines. Many of Raiko’s photos were published in motorcycle journals showing just super-sport Harleys. Others representing “guy stuff” showed beefcake models, nude or partially-dressed, on or beside machines. No surprise, if he needed someone in an overcoat, that it might be me.

In Raido’s studio, I watched him expertly set up a cardboard wall, cut a doorway, and arrange lights to achieve certain effects. He picked up a child’s cap gun and used duct tape to extend its nozzle before handing me the finished product. He instructed me to wear the coat, with collar up, and step firmly into the doorway while holding my gun threateningly. After we practiced several times, he took photos and finally decided, “That’s all!” We hustled into the El Camino and headed to an all-night photo developer. “What did we just do?” I asked.

“I’m creating what’s called scrap art,” he said. “I’m doing this bit for another photographer who’s creating a cover for some new computer game.

“Will we see his finished cover?”

“I’ll get a copy for my files and will make one for you.”

After weeks passed, Reiko said that the photographer who created the cover didn’t give him a copy, and I can’t recall why. Anyway, after another couple of years, one day while shopping in Target, my eye caught a game cover. On it, a character wearing an overcoat and throwing a menacing shadow, stood in a lit doorway brandishing a threatening pistol. I brought home that game and Reiko copied it for his files. The package in its display case has traveled with me from California. Even today, while peering into that case, a sight of that game makes me laugh, remembering that evening.

About twenty years ago, we created that photo. Now, the memory feels especially important. In those old days, that shoot was just one of many adventures; but it’s since become my unique trophy from a stand-out and unrepeatable event. It’s also great fun to imagine Reiko’s files, where alongside gorgeous babes and expensive motorcycles, there’s a fuzzy photo of me!

Memory and imagination make a picture worth 1,000 words!

Dear Readers, have a wonderful day. Diana

Saturday, February 09, 2019

As promised by the weatherperson, last night delivered more snow, not out of the blue, but heavier than the nearly invisible flakes that all day yesterday fell lightly and melted quickly. We’re into our second or third weeks of on-and-off snowing. By now, we’ve adjusted our routines accordingly, freeing a little time for reflecting. I did so yesterday by sinking into a deep comfortable chair near Peaches’ cage and with him staring out a picture window. There’s no telling what Peaches might be thinking, especially when he’s as quiet as he was. We simply vegged out together.

My horses visible down the slope were eating. Pimmy was on her way from Rosie’s pile where she’d been mooching, toward Sunni’s to see if the younger horse had anything more appealing. Suddenly, something began to bug me. Here, I’m sitting inside, while outside little snows have created good conditions for horseback riding. The warm weather between snows has melted earlier snows, freeing horse trails of icy-slick stretches. Meanwhile, this winter, I’ve been nursing a bum knee, am awaiting surgery, and can’t ride. I sighed and sank back into my chair letting my mind drift off toward snowy rides.

First to my mind, a huge white landscape with Conifer greens peeking from beneath whipped cream. Next, the unique soft-thuddings of hooves. And then, I remembered a sort of saddle sense, or the feeling of oneness between separate beings that are alive, co-dependent, mutually trusting. My horse sometimes snorting and high-stepping will at a touch trot or canter. Riding in this beautiful open and brisk landscape, is made safest by traveling on well-known paths. This avoids “dangers of the disappeared”, such as big holes, sudden drop-offs, large rocks, and vicious barbed wire.

I like how our brains interweave reality, fantasy, and dreams, making the experiences feel simultaneous. I have occasional uncertain moments about which world I’m in. Yesterday, for example, while beside the silent bird and our picture window, remembering with my eyes closed. My dreams were nearly as good as being in the Ochoco Mountains on Sunni or Rosie along our favorite well-trodden paths. These horses, full sisters, are very alike, so why ride both? I think on various terrains each may feel slightly different. Changeability, another beautiful element of dreaming, means that I may ride on all sorts of trails, in various terrains, whenever, and on any horse I wish.

Dear Readers, have a wonderful day. Diana

Friday, February 08, 2019

I’ve thought lots about this photograph which captures a view from my barn. The fog-hidden mountain that seemed interesting through my camera has become fascinating. I often consider it’s potential. Could I write to this image? Some easy writing options would be to speak of physical experiences in the mountain, or to collect and relate old time wisdom and superstitions about its presence, or to describe gasping in surprised upon spotting it from high above or even from the height of a barnyard trailer’s hitching apparatus.

Once I might simply have enjoyed this photo and set it aside, but nowadays I want to know what makes photos effective in blogs. Clearly, an image should draw interest, not used to decorate and be ignored. It should link directly or by implication to a theme. Many folks with the advantage of routinely climbing the Sisters Mountains could articulate related hardships and thrills. But me? I know little about the Three Sisters Mountains except that they’re nearby, visible from my backyard, and very beautiful.

One morning, I awoke trying to recall what dream had awakened me, and also had on my mind an image of this foggy North Sister. Instantly, I knew how to write to that picture. Those fog enshrouded mountains are reminiscent of nighttime brainwork! Dreaming is a topic that’s fascinating, but who remembers much of any dream beyond a first moment of awakening? A brain struggling to make sense of obscure images handles the problem by letting dreams slip away, at least for awhile.

Brainwork is a constant expense of varying energy that regulates bodily functions and powers thoughts. During awake hours, we’re planning, facing, handling, and learning. Tired brains need respite but as we sleep they continue working in another mode, this time using code to rework core daytime thoughts. The resting, coding brain shrouds reality and fogs recognition.

What dreams brought to my newly awakened mind this North Sister? What overnight codes let me comprehend how to blend the image and a blog? What added insight to elements that keep the image attractive? What’s it full potential? What initially made me feel drawn to point a camera? Does a good photograph reveal all the elements that contribute to its power?

If we were in a real time, multi-way discussion about complex images, our brains would offer unique responses to each photograph. We’d see many likely meanings. A great variety of possibilities elevates a photograph to art.

Dear Readers, have a fine day, with an open mind to awareness. Diana

Thursday, February 07, 2019

Everybody who hears her name wonders how she got it. My fault, for deciding to name my tiny eight-week-old puppy after Yellowstone Park’s arguably most famous alpha wolf. That wolf wore a radio collar and had an official number, but her birth date, June 2006, triggered a casual moniker. Park Rangers called her “O-Six”.

I wasn’t looking for a puppy, but a friend’s dog had produced an unexpected litter of unwanted puppies. She said the dad had been a working Border Collie and the mom a collie-mix. I already had two male dogs, but when I met the litter only one female remained. As she chased and tried to bully one of the boy pups, I figured she’d become a tough dog, decided to adopt, and knew exactly what to name her.

That cute puppy grew into a medium-sized adult with her mom’s beautiful sable coat and expressive eyes. To see her is to love her, to know her is a shake of the head, for she’s a kook, and not by a country mile. She’s nothing like her namesake, and usually, I apologize mentally to that O-Six while explaining my Osix’s odd name to a questioner.

My Osix, a barker, sounds-off for long stretches, is problematic, and also, the most alert of my dogs, often first to hear anything worth barking at. Nobody approaches my house without a lengthy announcement. Osix is super friendly, loves everybody, and she’s a devoted companion–unless she hears a gunshot. At a first loud crack, Osix disappears, sometimes hiding too well and too long. Once, while riding with my dogs in the mountains, upon hearing gunshots, Osix disappeared. I herded the other dogs forward looking for her, calling and calling, but to no avail. We turned back to the trailhead, with me hoping Osix would fall in, but we arrived without her. I saddled my spare horse, whistled for hound-dog Ranger, and started again up the mountain. After covering a couple of miles, I saw way up ahead that a dog had joined Ranger. After that, and to this day while we’re in the wilds, Osix wears a coat of shame, a bright-chartreuse, highly visible jacket.

The original, amazing O-Six had been the offspring of wolves transported from Canada to Yellowstone in the 1990s, during the Park’s wolf rehabilitation program. As she matured, O-Six became noticeable for her bravery, attractiveness to followers, and leadership skills. Over time, she produced several litters, was observed to be a good mother and teacher. And she was tough, watchers occasionally saw her down an elk all by herself. She and her pack were visible, tended to ignore watchers, and not known ever to bother domestic livestock. One day, when O-Six was (ironically) six years old, she and one of her half-mature male pups ventured just beyond Yellowstone’s border. A hunter-in-waiting shot them both dead. Along with O-Six’s many devoted followers, I felt heartsick. That happened as I was adopting my new puppy.

A name can seem magical. To me, it’s so with “O-Six” and “Osix”. Addressing my dog by her name revives my images of the fabulous wolf that once roamed Yellowstone. That wolf’s moniker, now belonging to a quirky, sometimes goofy, 30-pound Collie-mix, is a non-confusing reminder. My Osix is charming with unique charisma and I love her. That O-Six was unique and majestic and I miss her.

Dear Readers, wishing you a lovely day. Diana

Wednesday, February 06, 2019

Here’s a thing about the Scrub Jays that hang around my barn. They train me! Although alert and cautious, they seem relatively fearless in bravely swooping for prey and then flying straight up onto a tree branch. It’s easy to recognize their distinctive squawks and various other sounds from their huge vocabulary. When I’m working near the barn, upon hearing a nearby Jay, I grab a handful of the peanuts that I keep around and toss them over a wide area (unless my cat Maxwell is somewhere on the loose).

In seconds, the pair watching me starts working. Each bird swoops rapidly before springing up and away to hide its treasure. This pair that’s been around for several days has spotted a soft touch. Mornings and evenings, they visit, demanding eats. I’m trained to notice and respond. In return, they display energetic and fun-to-see food gathering antics.

It’s a two-way street because these and all other birds are fascinating. I’m awed by the sights birds offer, like beautiful feathers, flying strengths, spontaneous feats of agility, and evidence of close-bonding. Particularly interesting is their intelligence. It’s high and varies among species. Jays as members of the corvid family are among the most intelligent of birds.

Oregon Jays that visit my barn have been reclassified. They’re no longer Western Scrub Jays, but now, California Scrub Jays or Aphelocoma californica (Aphelocoa refers to the Greek, meaning feathers, and californica means California.) Scientists have found that Scrub Jays can plan ahead for the future and also remember 200+ of their food stashes. Their complex food hiding processes, and their group behaviors during “Jay funerals”, suggest the capacity of forethought.

While Corvids are worth appreciating for their high intelligence, wide vocabulary, and fascinating behaviors, we bird-watchers get good returns, too, from this quiet pastime that offers joy and respite.

Dear Readers, have a great day and take time for wild birds. Diana

Tuesday, February 05, 2019

The morning snow was light. Later that afternoon we got hit again with flakes bigger, fluffier, and falling longer. We’ve been through enough snows that we’re prepared to gear-up at a moment’s notice. My small entryway, looking like a war zone, has a heavy heated jacket, cleat-strapped boots, and snow goggles at the ready. I suit up and before stepping outside pick up a couple of old broomsticks. They support in case it’s slick, and are handy helpers for getting up after a fall.

Outside, clean, sharp air forces shallow breathing. There’s lots of snow, not deep, but everything’s clean, white, beautiful. Oh, silence! A special sense of stillness and quiet. I imagine myself in earlier times, way before environmental changes and carelessness in protecting our shrinking public lands. My chosen earlier time is the early 1900s and in this town, before the arrival of rail transportation and massive lumber industry. I want to be here when this still-dinky place was a mountain-isolated spot, smack in the middle of a huge forest of Ponderosa Trees, mature and beautiful, the likes of which humans will nevermore see.

I’m back in time, navigating through white silence, and ahead my horses wait. Rosie’s head hangs over the gate, her front foot impatiently banging against it. Oh, Rosie, someday you’ll kick that gate off its hinges. Behind Rosie, donkey Pimmy waits motionless. In the background, pony Sunni trots expectantly in circles. In these imagined old times, they fit perfectly.

I stuff piles of hay into a large sled, pick up a buggy whip (my space-maker), and start toward the horses. A wave of my whip moves the animals back, making room for the heavy sled to pass through the gate opening. They keep a safe distance while I move to stop number one and dump hay for Rosie and Pimmy. While I head for stop number two, Sunni tracks alongside at a safe distance, meets me exactly at her spot for the remaining hay.

I wish these animals had a decent barn with warm stalls and plenty of room to keep them comfortable and safe, but early on I didn’t know enough about horses to plan ahead efficiently. Fortunately, their large loafing shed shelters them from winds, rains, and snows. And their heavy coats are barriers to falling snow while they eat.

I start uphill to the house where my own dinner is nearly done steaming in an Insta-Pot, welcome heat emanates from a pellet stove’s flames, and already, my Cockatoo Peaches sees me from his perch beside a picture window, and screams, “Hello, hello!”. This episode of reliving the early 1900s is over.

Dear Readers, breathe deeply of freshness, let your minds roam. Diana.

If my hound dog could spend all his moments, not just with me but in my lap, he’d be incredibly happy. In general, anyway, he’s happy, a little quirky, sometimes unpredictable, and loyal to his core. During our years, traveling on horse trails, of all the dogs that have accompanied my horse, it’s Ranger who always turned back on finding himself too far ahead, to be sure my horse tracked along. During a lunch break, he’d snuggle against my legs as I sat on a log and chewed a sandwich.

Country life and dogs are inseparable. Shortly after I purchased a small property in Central Oregon outside the city limits, a young Labrador Retriever showed up, a stray, attracted to my fenced dogs. I couldn’t hold onto the Lab, it got away, and I’ve always hoped reached home or another safe place. Afterwards, I created a kennel specifically for strays, kept a handy leash and treats, and rescued occasional dogs that showed up to run the fence with my dogs. I found their owners, sent the dogs home, and hoped others would do the same for me if one of my dogs got loose and went exploring.

I figured that my next personal dog would turn up as a stray, and seven years later, Ranger appeared. While leaving my house, coincidentally to visit a veterinarian friend, I saw a distressed puppy, strange to the neighborhood and barking at a neighbor’s dogs who ignored him. I stopped my car, got out, called, and the little dog crawled to me on his belly. He had no collar and I put him in my car. He’d never been in a car, was all over my head while we traveled. My veterinarian friend estimated he was four months old, found he had no microchip, and put him in a holding cage. For the next hour, while she and I talked, that puppy didn’t take his eyes off me. I telephoned a “found ad” to the newspaper and planned to keep him a week to wait for an owner or decide what else to do.

Nobody claimed Ranger. He claimed me and I fell in love. One of the best things about this hound is his “cold nose”, or lack of an intense drive to track and hunt wild creatures. I once had a riding companion whose dog would take off after deer and disappear, for long periods while we waited and worried. Ranger always kept me in his vision whether we were out with the horses or on foot in a forested area.

This hound is a fast runner, with floppy ears catching the wind and flattening against his head, that skinny tail wagging. At home on the ranch, he’s a better mouser than my kitty, Maxwell. Ranger searches for sounds or scents of a mouse and becomes motionless before capturing. Unlike Max who plays with mice until he’s bored and lets most go, Ranger’s mice don’t see the light of another day.

Ranger, a constant clown, my shadow, and now an elder dog almost nine years old, has a couple of not-yet-very serious health issues. The little street-stray from long ago is one of my luckier finds. Long live you, Ranger!

Dear Readers, have a lovely day, and remember your loyal dogs. Diana

Sunday, February 03, 2019

I went for a late-morning walk in our unusually warm and moist weather without noticing the silence until suddenly a bird broke it with a noisy string of weird buzzes. I spotted only one bird in a distant tree, maybe warning others? I peered but the bird was very high and distant, so I walked on. Soon, I heard lots of bird-chatter and then saw a bunch of them, excited, noisy, and scrambling among the branches of a tall juniper. While watching through my camera, I saw one bird fly from the tree and wing overhead before coming to rest on a nearby wire that was too thin for support. The bird, a Robin, worked hard to balance on that swaying wire while trying to watch me. I laughed, those birds were drunk on juniper berries!

Warmer days in this early spring are ripening berries. My horses alerted me to such changes by appearing happier while grazing on my neighbor’s pasture. During freezing weather, the winter grass seemed to bore them. A few days ago, some friends mentioned seeing spots of new grass. At my place, the only greens are patches of damp moss adhering to craggy lava rocks.

I love watching Robins, bold birds that spend lots of time on the ground and don’t mind me nearby while they hunt. With acute eyesight and hearing, a Robin races on foot, suddenly stopping, rock-still and staring at the ground, before making a quick dive toward its prey. This hunting style reminds me of working dogs. So, to me, Robins are “the Border Collies of birds”. They reside here year-round, and in the summertime, their numbers increase.

Birds fascinate also because I live with two that I admire, appreciate, and respect. I learn from my domestic birds, and then, observe wild birds, and learn from wild birds, and then, observe my tame birds. Serendipity plays a part in learning. The other day, while cleaning a long-neglected bookcase, I found a book that recently popped into my mind, The Beak of the Finch (1995) by Jonathan Weiner. It details years-long studies of finches on the Galapagos archipelago, to identify physical attributes, that (aside from natural selection) alter from changes in climate, environment, and food availability.

I tried reading the book in 1995 but wasn’t informed enough to stay with it and learn. Now, I’m ready (speaking of evolvement). As we move toward summer, I’ll borrow enlightenment from this book to observe all my birds inside and outside.

Dear Readers, Enjoy some hours bird-watching. Diana.

Saturday, February 02, 2019

On first feeling knee pain, I figured that whatever might be wrong would self-heal. After two months of pain and with difficulty walking, I sought medical help. An orthopedic specialist diagnosed my knee as having a “meniscus tear”–a condition fixable by orthoscopic surgery, during a half-hour in which I’d be an outpatient, and afterward with a relatively brief healing period. This initial diagnosis needed confirmation by an MRI.

A few days later in Charles Hospital, I donned a hospital gown and padded from a dressing area to another room, chilly and with a giant machine hovering. The on-duty techs positioned me onto a guerney-like sliding bed and positioned my leg and knee for the imaging. They said, “For 27 minutes you’ll be inside a machine-tunnel and must remain still as possible.” They provided earplugs and an emergency button and promised that my head would be outside the tube. The deal was that my painful knee had to be at tunnel-center, and oh well, but too bad, I’m too short for my knee to be in the center and my entire head outside. So, I got slid-in up to my nose. It could have been worse.

I hoped to put myself into a zen mode before the machine noises began, but my earplugs slipped out exactly when early loud thumpings began. I reset the plugs which again slid, but oh well, I could squeeze the alarm device if racket became too terrible. Seconds ticked by and noises became louder, more vigorous. I wondered how to tolerate the 27 next clausterphobic minutes. Said to myself, “Keep trying to zen, zen, zen, and then, ZZZ.”

Suddenly, I remembered many years ago having worked with a fellow who described his experience of being forced to deal with a dreadful toothache while trapped on a long air flight. He said that his only recourse was to try “getting into the pain”. This he managed to do and it helped. Recalling his story, I decided to try “getting into the noise” of my machine. To start, I listened to identify The Big Punches–booms, slashes, poundings–and their Interspersed Patterns–stretches of rhythmic punches. Focusing on these, I imagined myself listening to a piece by Phillip Glass. (Had his inspirations arisen from experiences like this!) Soon, as a matter of fact, I began to compose my very own, “Rhythmic Ode For Jazz Percussion.

Friends, I got into the noise! Almost felt a little sad when a voice interrupted my musings, “It’s over.” The techs slid me out and sent me off to the dressing room. For a few moments, I simply sat in there feeling awed, and yet again, reflecting and marveling at the human brain’s efficiency, its ability to adjust to circumstances.

Dear Readers, have a wonderful day, and go with the flow. Diana

Friday, February 01, 2019

Yesterday, during my part-time job in Costco as a sample-server, I slogged through the boring process of handing out chips and salsa. On that slow day, while we pushed snacks for next Sunday’s Super Bowl, the outside temperature hovered around 70-degrees and fewer folks shopped. I yearned to go play with my horses.

Today’s photo is an old favorite from a sneak-click of my cell phone. Adorableness worth capturing! Occasionally, I’m in a lucky position and not caught using my cell phone, which strictly is disallowed for working servers. To us often-bored demo folks, happy kids like this little girl are sparks of delight.

During my years on and off of serving samples, I’ve learned to combat dull shifts by finding ways to keep my brain busy. My usual ways aren’t as risky as flashing a cell phone, but one musn’t be caught doing something beside pushing samples. Yesterday, a fairly new server paused at my table and sighed over the boredom of serving a less popular food item.

I shared some of my tricks and suggested planning for dull moments by carrrying a pencil. To move time along, rip off a bit of server instruction paper and keep it to the side. In quiet moments, create a shopping list, scribble a poem, outline a story or book idea, or jot random notes. While filling cups with samples and hawking a product, one can consider the scribbles and if they amount to anything slightly worthwhile.

One day, long ago, my coolest diversion occurred accidentally. Upon spotting a tiny ball bearing on the floor, I pocketed the shiny object. Soon, unnoticeable to casual observers, I arranged pieces of paper on my serving tray into a faux bowling alley. Shooting that little b-b was fun even if my slightly-warped tray dictated all its action.

This may speak to dull days and secret diversions but isn’t much different from my former working life in a large corporation. Even then, on busy days while burdened with tasks that challenged and preoccupied, I created temporary diversions to refocus and ease my brain.

As kids play, like little girls in princess costumes and little boys in Spiderman outfits, so do adults, sometimes openly, like next Sunday when football fans will cheer and dance while sporting a favorite team’s jersey. Other times, grownups secretely play, by creating diversions from the lackluster to energize their bains.

Dear Readers, have a wonderful day…and play! Diana