2022

 

Oh Montana

 

Holiday Wishes All Year Long

 

Christmas Bells

                                                           Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 

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I heard the bells on Christmas Day
Their old, familiar carols play,
    And wild and sweet
    The words repeat 
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

And thought how, as the day had come,
The belfries of all Christendom
    Had rolled along
    The unbroken song
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

Till ringing, singing on its way,
The world revolved from night to day,
    A voice, a chime,
    A chant sublime 
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

Then from each black, accursed mouth
The cannon thundered in the South,
    And with the sound 
    The carols drowned
Of peace on earth, good-will to men! 

It was as if an earthquake rent
The hearth-stones of a continent,
    And made forlorn
    The households born
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

And in despair I bowed my head;
"There is no peace on earth," I said;
    "For hate is strong,
    And mocks the song 
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!"

Then pealed the bells more loud and deep:
"God is not dead, nor doth He sleep;
    The Wrong shall fail,
    The Right prevail,
With peace on earth, good-will to men."

Holiday Flowers

 In the vein that things are taking a decidedly sci-fi-ish look around my house - here is the Christmas Amaryllis.

Cthulhu Rising

 

The Devil's Backyard

 

Cherish the Winter

Not Ready for Winter

Winter's coming but one little house rose is still with me.

 

All That Space

Photo by Casey Horner on Unsplash

 I'm watching Invasion on Apple TV and it is boring. Looked promising. Had Sam Neill. Nice setup. But as a space alien invasion movie it has character development like nobody's business and ... yeah, that's it.

Where are the monsters? I mean, the space aliens? I watched three episodes, I think, saw one peek.

So far most of the show are people behaving badly. Duh. Sorry, but currently we've got more than enough of that in real life.

I'm watching and start thinking, what if * aliens did land on or accost Earth in some way? What would we do? Would we get along with our freaked out neighbors. Do we get along with them now? Would we continue to hide out in the mountains of Montana or make a run for -- who knows where?

Would the disparate personalities of my family manage to meld into a cohesive survivor unit or would we drive each other crazy in new and disastrous ways?

And, I got scared. 

Really.

Photo by Brian McMahon on Unsplash

We'd have some time to adjust because, apparently space aliens always start with New York. Might take them a while to get to Montana. 

 So, I'm sitting there with Invasion playing in front of my face, trying to figure out how to keep the family together in the event of space invaders, scaring myself, and it finally occurs to me.

 

Photo by Guillermo Ferla on Unsplash

The odds of alien space explorers ever finding us in the expanse of space are long. Dare I say astronomical? 

 We're a small planet overrun with with delusions of grandeur. One in billions and billions as Carl Sagan used to say. Those odds are a sucker bet.

Then I felt better. 

 Glad to know I can continue to ignore the neighbors. Cherish the charming personalities of my family. And be content in the fact that we're hiding out in the the embrace of the Milky Way.

Photo by William Zhang on Unsplash

* Those are the magic words. 

I have my own invader from space script. It's called, George Clooney Saves the Universe, and my space alien is nice. Still causes trouble, but a nice being. That script was the most fun I ever had writing a screenplay. Space is weird.

The Very Best Camera in the World

This is a picture of a bald eagle. 

 

  

Not that you could tell by looking.

 

Does this help?

 

 

The reason for this excellent photography is the only camera I had with me was the one I call the fu*kin phone.

 

I live up a canyon in the mountains of Montana. I saw the bald eagle flying down the canyon, fairly low over the creek. Couldn’t keep up with him, but coming around the corner, there he was perched in a tree. I stopped. I usually at least have an action cam with me, but not today. Plus they have no telephoto.

 

Now, the fact that I had the phone sitting in its holder beside me encouraged me to stop and shoot stills then video so that credit goes to the phone. Also, the 365 day project I did a year ago has me more attuned to what I see.

 

Driving down the mountain to get to town, I’ve seen wolves, bears, mule deer, whitetail deer and mountain goats. Just a week ago I made this picture -- Once again with the camera at hand -- phone.

 

  

A better picture could have been made with the Nikon or Olympus that stayed home. My bad.

 

At a craft fair a couple of weekends ago, I visited with a photographer with art to sell (I bought this one.) 

 

Used with permission. Tom Pallach Photography.

 

We commiserated about how everyone was a photographer now. Yay. But what was most often used was a cell phone. Bummer. He mentioned how he advocated for a camera vs phone to people but cells are just too damn convenient.

 

Feeling guilty, I built a small, so-easy-to-take-along camera bag.

 

  

Small - really small - sling bag from Timbuk2, Olympus camera no longer available (benefit of being old) pen, pencil and notebook.

 

Today’s trip down the mountain, did I see any of my varied multiple wildlife neighbors?

 

Nope. 

 

Saw where the bear got into one of my human neighbors garbage can. Didn’t inspire any art.

 

So, the best camera is not a contest between Nikon, Canon, Sony or Lumix.  

 

The very best camera in the world is the one you have in your hand when a picture making opportunity presents itself. 

 

I guess I have to say, even if it’s just the fu*kin’ phone.

 

Through the Looking Glass

 

Journal Musings

A commonplace book is a type of journal/scrapbook meant to contain ideas, notes, sayings – whatever struck the writer to remember. Less coherent than morning pages or Dear Diary, a compendium of wisdom as one makes their way through the day.

 But what if your commonplace book was a photo journal.

 

I started a little photo journal – made it myself – using a business card printer – and found I was collecting odd stuff that struck my fancy with no rhyme or reason.

The line at the vaccination clinic. The time the neighbors rode by on mules. Rocky and his sweater. Drones at the lake. It became a photographic random access memory file and is quite fun to browse.

 

The business card printers only work with smart phones, but when I use a regular camera, I email or message it to myself to get it in the phone.

 

I started with a polaroid printer which was nothing but fun. However, they kept updating the app until it was virtually impossible to use and absolutely no fun at all. I finally threw the stupid thing away. 

 

Then I tried Fuji Instax – which works well – never a problem with its bluetooth, but it uses actual photo paper and sometimes I like to cut the pictures up and that is a messy no go with that paper. Also a glue stick is required to post with this system.

 

Finally settled on Canon Ivy which uses Zink paper with a sticky backing. No glue stick. Trim however. This one also connects with no problem. The battery life is not spectacular however.

 

A journal with no words (mostly.) 

Music by https://www.bensound.com

 

 

 

Happy Thanksgiving

 About this time every year, the wild turkeys waddle off the mountain and cruise the neighborhood.

 You might think this is the time of the year they would run and hide since most of the humans have their eyes on one big dinner.

I wonder if that's how turkey got to be Thanksgiving dinner? Pilgrims said, "Oh look there! I bet that would be good with cornbread stuffing and mashed potatoes."

Well no, according to the Old Farmer's Almanac.

But venison and oysters don't sound all that yummy.

I wonder if that's how oyster dressing got started?

Morning Mountain Goat

 Pardon the dirty windshield. Who knows what one might see first trip down the mountain in the morning.

 

Actors, Directors and Writers. Oh My.

Photo by Paolo Chiabrando on Unsplash

A local theater recently staged my three scene, one act play for an eight night run. 

This play previously had a staged reading of the first scene, a performance of the first scene, been a selected project at two playwright conferences and won 2nd place in the Writer’s Digest Writing Competition, Play Division. This full production was its first full bore go.

Over a year ago, we were cast and in first rehearsal when everything closed down because of the pandemic. For a while, we thought, we’d be back on in a month, or by summer or … whenever.

Then came relief. Businesses reopened. We unmasked (for a bit anyway.) Recast and were in rehearsal.

And here’s where it gets weird.

I’ve watched staged readings of this play and a couple of my screenplays. I’ve won prizes and awards. Been published in newspapers and the Congressional Record. But one afternoon I had the strangest reaction as I watched the actors run lines. They repeated words I wrote, words that lived in my brain for years, words that evolved on paper.

My secret, silent writer’s heart yelled, “Mine!” 

I actually caught myself reaching one hand toward the closest actor as if to bring my words back home.

Luckily, I sat back and listened. Watched. Saw that these words meant something else to those people.

Then there were lessons the theater had to teach me.

Some might say, once feet hit the stage, the playwright's job is over. 

Some directors and actors would like no less than to see the back of writer if they must see her at all. Not considering that their first impression of the work, no matter how talented they are, will not be as rich as that of the person who created the work and lived with it for however long it took to bring it to the stage. 

We’re told to respect the director’s vision and the actor’s choices, but how about some respect for the text. Not using the playwright as a resource is a mistake. A short-sighted, egocentric mistake.

Now I know there are writers who do not know how to behave. Who disavow the fact that the characters they created now belong to the creative person who will walk them into real life. Those writers disrupt and make everyone’s job more difficult. They should be stowed in the broom closet or out on the street. Not every writer is like that.

I knew if my work moved an actor to create, that made the work richer. I was okay with that which is how I kept my secret, silent writer’s heart quiet while she yelled, “Mine mine mine.”

So, I gave one note to the director out of sight and hearing of the actors, as requested. When she told the actors, “We usually cross out all the stage directions,” and my brain exploded like a mushroom cloud over Nevada and my secret, silent writer’s heart yelled, “It ain’t radio, bitch,” I just sat there.

Oh my.

What did we do before Google?

I looked up playwright/director relationships and found out, it wasn’t just me. HALLELUJAH. But gee. Not everybody, but enough that Google had no trouble spewing multiple hits.

I’ll say this about that.

It is a misguided, mediocre director who advises actors to ignore the playwright’s stage directions. Here are three reasons.

1. It ain’t radio.

2. Stage directions are where the subtext hides.

3. If we’re speaking of playwrights like Tennessee Williams or Arthur Miller, stage directions are where the literature lives. They are how we know Stanley is going to rape Blanche and Willy Loman’s a dick. That literature is the art that inspires the art the actor creates. Why go without it?

So, I skipped the rest of the rehearsals and concentrated on my premiere night outfit aiming for writer cool not old lady-going-to-town.

I remember how nervous I was waiting out the first night of the first time Driver’s Ed was performed in the old home town. I wrote about it here.

This time was different. There were contracts. Everybody got paid. People had to buy tickets and commit to a night at the theater. Ads and posters appeared around town.

Would they laugh? Would they walk out? Would we be a Covid super spreader event?

They laughed. They enthusiastically applauded between each scene. It was cool. It was weird. It was not what I’m used to. The script that played a million times in my mind was out in the world.

During the second night’s performance I sat in a hallway, out of sight of the stage in the dark and listened to where the laughs were. 

Listened to the audience. 

First line gets the biggest laugh. Midway through the play a line gets a sustained laugh that bubbled on past the next three lines. Listened to when the language quieted the audience. Heard when they came back. It was one of my best writer experiences.

That night sitting on the floor in the dark, hearing an audience brim with laughter and applause, my secret, silent writer’s heart whispered, “Mine.”

 

 

 

 

Autumn

 

Still At It

 

Playing with Fire

Still experimenting with the LENSBALL.

Had a poppet climb a tree.

 Set the tree on fire in the time it took to focus the camera.

Little more adventure than I expected.

Like We Already Didn't Have Enough Bad News

 Some spoil sport who wants to destroy the 4th of July, summertime and childhood announced on CNN that every hot dog a person eats takes 36 minutes off their life.

Couldn't I make some of the time back if say, I drank kombucha with the dog or is it just like the wind?

Playing with Glass

I received a LENSBALL for my birthday. Which I had never heard of.  

Here are my first attempts with this thing. 

Kinda had a hard time getting camera to focus THROUGH the glass not on the glass. 

And they are NOT kidding about this thing can burn you if you're playing in direct sunlight. 

Luckily, I was standing in the creek.

Cell phone.

Not the best photoshop, but 1st try.

Better luck focusing with little Olympus than Nikon. !!

Round Two

 We're back on.

After being postponed for a year waiting for the venue. Scheduled, cast, rehearsed and then postponed for over a year due to a pandemic. A pandemic. Production of my one act play has recommenced. 

Auditions have happened. The play is almost cast. Rehearsals start in August with the premier to be in September. 

My poster in the lobby of the theater has been up for a year.

 It is a strange situation to experience. A unique and odd community to have joined. Artists whose projects matured just as Covid 19 hit.

There's an article on npr today about a writer whose novel published the same day they shut down the country. Book Published During Pandemic

I've seen numerous articles in the New York Times about Broadway playwrights whose shows closed over night. Artists who first shows in New York art galleries didn't open. A lot of creative expression that suddenly had no place to go.

Of course, the human cost of the pandemic supersedes any artist angst. People died. Often alone. Families lost loved ones unexpectedly. The economy stuttered and staggered along. Heartless politicians fear-mongered distrust and hate between us. But, finally, thank goodness and all those who worked to make it happen, we're coming out of this disaster.

Hopefully, we can all regroup and forge ahead.

I do wonder, though, what first night will feel like after all this time and trauma.

Reentry

As we inch toward the end of the pandemic, we have new rules.

Begging the question, how much do I trust my co-shoppers. Are we all doing our best in trying times? Looking out for ourselves and our at-risk neighbors? Or do I suspect some might be right-leaning, pandemic-deniers since I’ve had so many conversations that veered into that territory?

The first time I saw that sign, I didn’t know what to do. Did I trust my neighbors? Well, not really. I ended up walking around carrying my mask. I guess in case a suspicious looking person appeared. 

We’ve been running scared for over a year. It might take some time to calm down.

 

On the other hand, I kinda liked going around town anonymous as an old West bandit. Now I have to remember make-up and to smile and to stop murmuring to myself behind my mask.

Fully vaccinated means we can come out of hiding. But are we ready?

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sláinte!

 

On the day everyone is Irish --

Hoist a few for the Old Sod. 

 

Sláinte chuig na fir agus go maire na mná go deo!  

 

Health to the men and may the women live forever!