Zen i 4 pie

In the sun, still,
like a rock, the turtle,
passes me by.

Walking, along the creek were turtles, a symbol of  longevity and later Janney made this painting. 


Along Alameda Creek, seeing Coyote Hills in the shorter distance, fortunately it runs right by my door like Highway 62 ran right by another door.


I could like ordinary things, whether they happened or not, I can make them up in my  mind or I can remember them however  I want or at least while I am sleeping, listen to podcasts where random pieces of the broadcasts infiltrate my dreams.


Would that be a violation of copyright law? Or appropriate misculturalization? Maybe just general disinformation.

Often I dream I am leaving somewhere by plane to return home, I am late, madly driving down streets I partially remember and sometimes just barely making  it to the plane—Only once did the plane actually land.


Or I am late for my final exam, while walking up the street to the junior high I get lost, even though I remember clearly there were only two streets with one turn to navigate and if I do make it  to the school  I can not find the class room . . .


Or I am on time but I do not know the answers because I did not attend a single class or read a single book.

Someone keeps reminding me that in a photograph the details are important, Who is it? What is it? why is it? When is it? and Where will the end begin? Without answers there is no reason for questions.


And without questions there is no reason for answers—because Eve did not learn this basic lesson  or maybe she willfully refused to do as she was ordered, unable to control her personal desire for knowledge, we all have to suffer life?

Maybe the “suffering part” is just for the “True Believers.” The rest of us are thankful to for Eve getting us out of that place.


“Did you ever buy “boughten” bread or was it always baked your own?”
“Yes, on Saturday. We baked bread everyday because there was six of us. Six children,  Mother and Dad made eight, and the hired man made nine.  . . .


. . . But on Saturday Mother made butter to take to town and she always went with butter and she had customers that she delivered around to in different places.

And she’s say “Now we won’t make bread today, because I might not have time to get it all done before I had to leave.”

So she’d go to Gross’ Bakery, and at that time you could get six loaves all backed together. They weren’t separated: it was a one portion. It was a nickel a loaf  if you took just one loaf , but if you took all six of them they’d let you have them six loaves for a quarter.””

Feeding Our Families     Memories  of Hoosier Homemakers    from Hoosier Homemakers Through the Years , an oral history


Transamerica building  in morning sunlight reflected off the Maritime Building windows.


One of the problems with the abstract quality of words is when people stumble across  a group of words which create they confuse them as a reality.


And while  words are the best we have for interpersonal practical communication,  Art is the best we have for  intrapersonal communication.


Walking in my neighborhood  neither one seeks me out ..


“The first three years we lived with my husband’s mother. She baked three pies every morning before breakfast. Just as regular as the morning came, she baked three pies. One for breakfast, one for dinner and one for supper, I threw out more pie when she was living than I baked after she was gone.”

Feeding Our Families     Memories  of Hoosier Homemakers    from Hoosier Homemakers Through the Years , an oral history


“And you will marry a gunner good
And a proud gunner I’m sure he’ll be.
And the very first shot that e’er he’ll shoot
Will kill both my young son and me.”
The Great Selchie of Sule Skerry

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