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“Quality of Life, Spirit of Place”

 

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New Features, Articles & Columns


SCREENplay

Café Society

Lawrence Klepp


An A-musing Life

A Snow Bunny in Summer

Nanci Bern


Meanderings

The mountain was soft

Charles Monette


Archetypal Hippie Speaks

Malaise

Jeri Rose


Special Feature

A Review of an Aboriginal Cosmoscape

Ken Masters

&

Jack Whitehead


Meanderings

Black Mountain

Charles Monette


Vermont Diary

Out of time


The First Glass

Who Art In : Moment : Youth

Vincent Panella


Urban Naturalist

THE HOGLE PANORAMA

Lloyd Graf


Love In Action

The Pony Man

Elizabeth Hill


Guest Article

Simon’s Trip

Simon Clarke


Vermont Diary

Lots of words to it


Monkey’s Cloak

Beyond the pale

Charles Monette


Chess

World Chess Championship to take place in New York

Phil Innes


Monkey’s Cloak

North York Moods

A series of observations and poems by Alan Rayner, part 7

‘Bridestones’


Love In Action

“The Missionary of Water”

Dr. Masaru Emoto

Elizabeth Hill


Selected Letters

Marbles

Offie Wortham


Old Lady Blog

from a forthcoming work...

Toni Ortner


in between

A QUIET RAIN FALLS

Julia Ferarri


STORY PAGE

Rose’s Spring

A graphic novel in slide show format by MM Kizi


World & US Energy News

Just one day’s energy news, July 2016 “Setbacks

George Harvey


Open Mind

The power of “Instant” News in producing stress and anxiety

Offie Wortham


An A-musing Life

Frost in the Summer

Nanci Bern


Returning To Place

Emblem

an essay and 5 images

Brian D. Cohen


Vermont Diary

Birthday boy


Unlikely Tales

A True Tale of Revolution

Or Why We Struggle


Love In Action

Neptune and Jupiter

Elizabeth Hill


Monkey’s Cloak

North York Moods

A series of poems

by Alan Rayner, part 5

Howard’s Castle


Selected Letters

In Memoriam

Dorothy M. Rice, 1919 - 2016


Open Mind

Malcolm and Ali

Offie Wortham


Vermont Diary

SHOCK of the Present


Open Mind

Can we bite the bullet until after November?

Offie Wortham


Returning To Place

Interlude, New Book & Kickstarter

Brian D. Cohen


Monkey’s Cloak

SHAVUOT

Nanci Bern


Monkey’s Cloak

five directions, five fingers, five roots

Charles Monette


Vermont Diary

US Politics for Forns from Yurp [part deux]


Monkey’s Cloak

UP NORTH

Phil Innes


Write On!

Women of the Mounds

Charles Monette


Open Mind

Colleges where your child can earn a Degree for Free

Offie Wortham


Love In Action

SEND IN THE CLOWNS

Elizabeth Hill


Vermont Diary

Ticks and Tourism


Special Feature

Jigsaw Puzzles


World & US Energy News

Just one day’s news

in early May

George Harvey


Untitled Work

Hitler’s Secret Diaries, Or, Some Bullshit Happening Somewhere

Mac Gander


Old Lady Blog

Lights out or the weather of the apocalypse

Toni Ortner


Write On!

Daniel Berrigan

Charles Monette


Vermont Diary

Over the Mountain


Love In Action

The First Lady of the World

Elizabeth Hill


Monkey’s Cloak

May I

Charles Monette


Vermont Diary

Is the experiment with republics now over?


Post Oil Solutions

Tipping Point

Tim Stevenson


Archetypal Hippie Speaks

“How Drumpf wins”

Jeri Rose


The Great Adventure

The Fairer Sex

Terri Kneipp


Vermont Diary

WEIRD WYOMING — A LETTER TO ENGLAND


OVERHEARD

O say can you see...

A test severe of on-line language translators


Returning to Place

Angel

Brian D. Cohen


Vermont Diary

QUINTISH


Love In Action

THE DANCING FOOLS

Elizabeth Hill


REAL FOOD !

Parsnip Soup


Vermont Diary

PC, Euphemisms, including death and toilets


Urban Naturalist

AMPHIBIANS AND OTHER CRITTERS COPE WITH EQUINOCTAL CONFUSION

Lloyd Graf


Selected Letters

Tennessee Tensions

Rob Mitchell


Vermont Diary

Couple pointers

for President Trump


Old Lady Blog

Call from a Scientologist friend

Toni Ortner


Archetypal Hippie Speaks

The Hinge of Perception

Jeri Rose


Returning to Place

Adam and Eve’s Lament. Etching and letterpress,

11” x 15”, 1997

Brian D. Cohen


Monkey’s Cloak

Bird of transcendence

Matti Salminen


Vermont Diary

FLIGHT PATH OPTIONS


Monkey’s Cloak

Tibetan dream song

Charles Monette


in between

One hundred and twenty six years

Julia Ferarri


CURIOUS TOPICS

Gull Summit — Prime Minister concerned over Hitchcockian behavior


View From A Bridge

Golgonooza

Brian D. Cohen


Love In Action

SUMMER, 1947

Elizabeth Hill


Weekly Feature

In conversation with

Archer Mayor


Overheard

“REVENANT”

Which turns out to be very old


Returning to Place

Tree Trunk (Douglas fir)

Brian D. Cohen


If You Lived Here

Tour de Heifer


If You Lived Here

Stroll, technology group plan "Tech Salad"


Wondering Tales

The Cat’s Whiskers

a feline alphabet

MM Kizi


Overheard

Honkie Dilemma

A quiz


100 Years Ago

Major Literary Events


Monkey’s Cloak

Einstein’s Eyes

Charles Monette


Chess

The Silence of the Pawns

Paul Truong


100 Years Ago

A chronological overview of the year 1916


Returning to Place

The Wood

Brian D. Cohen


Natural Inclusivity

A new understanding of the evolutionary kinship of all life on Earth.

Alan Rayner


Vermont Diary

Featuring the numbers 7, 40, 911, 12, respectively


Write On!

Faery Stories 6,000 years old


World & US Energy News

Just one day’s news

in early February

George Harvey


Vermont Diary

Paint, peeling; plus more news of White Men


Monkey’s Cloak

Momentarily

Charles Monette


O Citoyen!

Meet the Selectboard candidates

Robert Oeser


Love In Action

HOME

Elizabeth Hill


Urban Naturalist

Season of the Fox [part 3 of 3]

Lloyd Graf


in between

“There comes a moment in life when the dead outnumber the living.”

Julia Ferarri


CURIOUS TOPICS

No screaming — we are the police!


Open Mind

“Who would Dr. King support in 2016?”

Offie Wortham


Monkey’s Cloak

Entering a moonlit forest

Charles Monette


Chess

Saudi’s, Satan and so on


Vermont Diary

The British Aren’t Coming


World & US Energy News

Just one days news in the life of the planet

George Harvey


CURIOUS TOPICS

We shouldn’t laugh


Selected Letters

Robert Oeser with Fire Chief Mike Bucossi


Archetypal Hippie Speaks

Attempts at Transport

Jeri Rose


Monkey’s Cloak

What Do We Want?

Jeri Rose


O Citoyen!

Community survey on future fire and police buildings

Robert Oeser


Vermont Diary

Weeding out the truth about “It”


Monkey’s Cloak

Awoke in the starless hour

Charles Monette


CURIOUS TOPICS

All washed up — Global trash


Monkey’s Cloak

Okay, we’ve looked there

Charles Monette


Love In Action

Reflections on Grandpa Ross Turning The House

Elizabeth Hill


Vermont Diary

A strange accounting


Archetypal Hippie Speaks

Inklings of Immortality

Jeri Rose


Curious Topics

Raining Cats and Dogs

& Jack the Psycho Rabbit


Monkey’s Cloak

Broken Promise

Alan Rayner


Vermont Diary

Come to think of it


100 Years Ago

November & December

From nude cinema to Einstein, to sinking of hospital ships in WWI


Vermont Diary

Notes from underground


An A-musing Life

The Hebrew Month of Kislev and Chanukah

Nanci Bern


Old Lady Blog

Omyra Sanchez

Toni Ortner


REAL FOOD !

Secret History of the Pasty


Monkey’s Cloak

Looking back dark

Charles Monette


Love In Action

Dear England, Please Send Me A Redheaded Boy

Elizabeth Hill


Write On!

Castle Freeman, Jr. 

The Devil in the Valley.

A review by Laura C. Stevenson


Studio 4

Now Showing

December Works at

Mitchell • Giddings Fine Arts


Vermont Diary

Hunger’s Ground-Zero

in Our Town


Monkey’s Cloak

The Back-up Bird

Charles Monette


Guest Article

The Angels of Reinca

A Compleat Graphic Novel Story

M.M. Kizi


Monkey’s Cloak

Snake

D. H. Lawrence


Chess

Madonna vs. Julia Roberts

and other matches


Post Oil Solutions

Climate Change Café Hosts Carbon Pollution Tax Presentation

Tim Stevenson


ART & SOUL

See article on this page

TIME AND THE RITUAL ACT OF ART


Vermont Diary

On Aggression


Write On!

Singing with Bobby Fischer

Patti Smith


Monkey’s Cloak

CARACOL OF SOULS

Terry Hauptman


World & US Energy News

Just one days news

in mid-November

George Harvey


Urban Naturalist

Introducing...

Lloyd Graf


Selected Letters

Qi Gong on Black Mountain

Ken Masters


Old Lady Blog

Strike out

Toni Ortner


Love in Action

“All is Very, Very Well.” ~Eileen Caddy

Elizabeth Hill


StudioTWO

Featuring Cai Xi

November Paintings at Vermont Artisan Designs


Monkey’s Cloak

Five Haiku

Andrea Wallens Powell


An A-musing Life

Draped in Time

Nanci Bern


Open Mind

The New Israel

Offie Wortham


If You Lived Here

Brattleboro Winter Farmers’ Market


O Citoyen!

Restorative Justice

Robert Oeser


Monthly Feature

Picasso sculpture at MoMA

Marnie Innes


Love In Action

Boy With Many Hats

Elizabeth Hill


APPRECIATING ART

In the eye of beholder

Terri Kneipp


OVERHEARD

Have no truck with


An A-musing Life

A Penne for your thoughts

Nanci Bern


Vermont Diary

Something wonderful just happened


Archetypal Hippie Speaks

The Incense of magic

Jeri Rose


100 Years Ago

Edith Louisa Cavell

Pioneering nurse executed October 1915


Weekly Feature

In conversation with Kathy Leo


Chess

Review of The Immortal Game: A history of chess

Lawrence Klepp


in between

Developing trust

Julia Ferarri


REAL FOOD !

Tomatoes galore

Phil Innes


APPRECIATING ART

In the eye of beholder

Terri Kneipp


Love In Action

The Language of Form

Elizabeth Hill


Studio3

Strolling with Bernie

Photographic Essay


Consolation of History

A hundred things to hide

Martha M Moravec


The Great Adventure

What will your daughters see?

Terri Kneipp


StudioOne

The Plains Indians, America’s Early Artists, at the Met

Marnie Innes






Vermont Views Magazine


A unique community supported cultural magazine exploring Quality of Life and Spirit of Place in our bio-region, with extraordinary photographs, 22 regular columnists plus feature articles, galleries & essays, new articles and photos every day. 100s more articles in the Archive.






Contact the magazine HERE


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In Passing

publisher’s notes

on current contributions

with extracts





Lawrence Klepp’s new column SCREENplay

leads off with a review of Café Society, by Woody Allen





The signature theme in what has become Woody Allen’s signature form, the rueful or wistful comedy, is that life never lives up to our expectations and ideals, and we often trip ourselves up pursuing them, but then if we didn’t pursue them, life would be so redundant and dull that it would hardly be worth living. In other words, we need our illusions, but we also need to choose them carefully.


His latest movie, Café Society, revisits the 1930s, the decade he was born in the middle of and keeps returning to, as if in search of something lost. And in fact we have lost all the elegance and half the wit of the period, both of which clearly appeal to Allen. And by setting it amid the glittering surfaces of Thirties Hollywood and Manhattan, he makes sure there are plenty of pursuable illusions available.


The result is something less than his best work, even his best recent work like Midnight in Paris and Blue Jasmine, but it’s still a lightly engaging, very watchable mix of nostalgia and irony. As usual in his recent films, he gets his laughs more through schematically contrasted characters bordering on stereotypes than through the jokes and wisecracks of his earlier work—though there are still some good, epigrammatic one-liners.


Bobby Dorfman (Jesse Eisenberg), a quiet, awkward 20-something, flees Brooklyn and his raucous parents (played with perfect Jewish-comic timing by Jeannie Berlin and Ken Stott) for Hollywood, where his uncle, Phil Stern (Steve Carell) is a cynical, high-powered agent who lives his life in the brief intervals between urgent phone calls from studio executives and stars.


Bobby finally gets Phil’s reluctant attention, but by then he’s giving his own attention mainly to Phil’s beautiful secretary, Veronica, or Vonnie (Kristen Stewart), who came to L.A. from the Midwest with acting ambitions but has grown tired of all the ego and money and name-dropping. She seems to see in Bobby’s naïve earnestness some echo of her own original innocence, and they start spending time together. Bobby talks about taking her back to New York, getting married, finding an apartment in Greenwich Village.

Read on>>>>


A warm welcome to another new column SCREENplay

a series of dramatic reviews but first an introduction to the columnist

Lawrence Klepp





Lawrence Klepp moved to Vermont last year from Manhattan, where he lived for more than 30 years, working as an editor and writing  about books, history, philosophy, and film for numerous publications including:—


The Village Voice,

Entertainment Weekly,

the New York Times,

the New York Daily News,

Newsday,

New York Magazine,

and Esquire



Nanci Bern writes about A Snow Bunny in Summer in her column An A-musing Life and somewhat burying the lead, gets around to mentioning her encounter with a bear half way up Wantastiquet Mountain.




As Summer begins to wane, but birds still beckon us outside with their flights of fancy through the sky, as the mountain that my inner snow bunny snow shoed up (well it was more like ‘upish’) winters ago….(you see where this is going?)

 

It's time for the girl from the city dark with soot to try her hand, or rather her feet, at a summertime sport:

 

It's time to climb the mountain on foot, sans snowshoes.


So Rabbit donned her hiking boots-(okay, so who am I kidding, I don't own hiking boots. I have a pair of sneakers that might be 10 years old)....whatever. So off Rabbit went to climb that there mountain.


          Snow Bunny Journal-Entry Two-"Hopping with Summer"

 

Upon awakening that morning, our Rabbit dejour demurred to the pull of summer madness and packed her bag for her foray up Wantastequet Mountain, or Rattlesnake Mountain, so named centuries ago. Rabbit had heard that the only snakes left there are the non-lethal ones, though since they were asleep during the winter she didn't see any of them when last there in the snow.

 

So into her bag went water, rabbit snacks, journal, pen, cell phone for its music and camera, not to call for assistance; although she did inform some other rabbits of her upcoming foray, earphones and a few sundries.


On her walk through town and across the bridge to the foot of the mountain, Rabbit met some other folk who were out and about enjoying their own summer play. As Rabbit had spent the winter and spring being sick and mostly isolated, a story for another chapter perhaps, she was also enjoying the many sandaled feet whose attendant arms waved ‘hello’ and ‘glad you are looking better.’

Read on >>>>



A second column in Meanderings by Charles Monette is titled “The mountain was soft.”




<extract> Just as the fuzzed silence was becoming unbearable, I heard something drop behind me, roll down the trunk of a tree, then along the forest floor before coming to rest after a bump with a twig.  This little acorn startled me with its gentle drop to rest.  The small twig did not break. That’s all there is out here?  Charles and a falling acorn?   Strange…


I scanned the woods around me, scanned again.  I saw a large outcrop of granite grey just off trail to my left.  There was a low-arced embankment.  Other large flat stones were glacierly strewn about.  I stepped, skip-hopped down to the edge of the drop off.  Nothing.  Nothing extraordinary in this increasingly ordinary forest.   Still, soft and quiet.


Walked back up to the trail.  Looking down, I was stunned to see a foot long triangular pointed stone.  Painted on top in white was a disquieting message.  It read, “This is the sign you’ve been waiting for.”  What?  Was my life about to change?  A hoax?  Perhaps a prank by some bioluminescent goddess of the 60’s?  I wondered.  Certainly something stirringly surreal, white paint eerily puzzling.


nothing became something writ by a nymph

words in white painting a direction

with 9 million answers


Stone stepping up, I tweaked my knee, a slight snap of pain, grimaced, decided to head back up mountain nursing a bum.


Read On Here>>>>



Jeri Rose shares her political experiences recently in her column  Archetypal Hippie Speaks  in an article titled “Malaise”. I should point out that the image is from a Native American legend of the black snake mentioned in the article.




          Have you missed me? Have you been kinda missing yourselves? Everywhere I go, everyone I speak to seems to be having a problem that is like when we are “off our feed”. Our appetite for life is in abeyance. My last post here ended with me having signed up for being a delegate for Bernie at the state convention. I, and my partner, Michael, of forty four blessed years went. We got to see how the sausage is made. You have to be of a particular frame of mind to enjoy, flourish, succeed in that environment. For us it was a greater stretch than for most. We live in the country on three acres and have a farm for our sustenance and we read and write and do art and simply do not engage in what seems to take up most of the time of the population. We are not often in places with crowds, or places with canned air and chemicals, or where the expectation is of what passes as cultural agreement about so many things, little things that we simply do not factor into our lives about buying and behavior, and these little things add up to a general perception and expectation that we know is out there, but which rarely impact our lives. Read on here.



Lloyd Graf offers us 3 essays on The Hogle Panorama in his Column Urban Naturalist here is an extract from part 3 which, really, should be read on the Vermont Public Radio by a man with a good baritone speaking voice.




After multiple visits to this trail,  a furry miscreant took me in hand (in paw?) in early May '16,and steered me to what the late syndicated radio raconteur Paul Harvey might have called “The rest of Hogle”.  I was passing by the Retreat pool when I nearly collided with a gigantic groundhog emerging from beneath a maintenance shed-or the adjacent port-a potty (near a Retreat garden patch, of course).  The hefty gopher scuttled east/northeast with me in pursuit- bringing us to the north edge of a playing field, AND to the unmarked head of what I would soon learn was the other main segment of Hogle Sanctuary trail.  Turning north, this trail hugs cliffs beneath Putney Road's B and B's** and prosperous homes, meandering up and down for perhaps half a mile through deciduous and evergreen woods, crossing gullies on wooden bridges, skirting logs and boulders and spinning off rustic tangential paths en route to a remarkable northern terminus.  It provides a genuine feeling of seclusion, remarkable considering the proximity of bustling Putney/Rte5.   Its ups and downs and rockier terrain make it a more challenging hike than the western leg, though I've met fitness mavens jog its length as part of aerobic workouts.   It has provided my only other “vulture tree” sighting in the Retreat Pond area – right by one of the wooden bridges- but this and the woodchuck have been my main  creature encounters during several spring and early summer traversals. The density of foliage screens out much overhead bird life and partially obscures views of the Pond and surrounding scenery, that is, until the trail reaches its remarkable northern end.   Read on>>>>



A Review of an Aboriginal Cosmoscape

by Ken Masters & Jack Whitehead

Special Feature




Review: ‘There can be a really good ending in Imulun in Australia’, (heading, p.201)

This book does not fall readily into any single genre (or other)-category, which is part of its very real interest. There is something significant and appealing here for anyone, based on Four Circles’ deep humanity and spirituality; however it is especially for those with an interest in, and concern for the immediate and long-term future of ‘Two-Worlds’ Aboriginal and other Indigenous peoples within the apparently ‘assimilation-based’ Justice system in Northern Territory. Without detailed knowledge e.g. of formal Australian law and related practice, and as outsiders, there is much that we are not qualified to comment on or discuss. However, we can attempt to illustrate how the voices of Bill Idumduma Harney and Hugh Cairns sit within ‘Living- Theory’ Action-Research practice, and present and consider, in outline only, the case they make for an appreciative and deep valuing of their Marriage and Family Customary Law; and for its approach to redeeming their miscreants to be more widely adopted.


The context in which we write this review is one of deep distress on all sides, as a Royal Commission is being set up to investigate the tear-gassing of young Aboriginal boys in ‘ Don Dale Juvenile Detention Centre’ in N.T.. From what we can gather on-line, this is now deeply political. Bill Idumduma Harney and Four Circles may have an explicit role in the investigations and recommendations. <Extract> Read On



Out of time

Vermont Diary




At around 3 Thursday afternoon my wife told me that she saw on Facebook that my friend Merritt Brown had passed away that morning.


Last night I determined to get in one or two group photography trips and thought of going either to Putney Mountain or The Retreat Ice Pond or down Northfield way where there is an enormous corn-field with swamp and birds beside the Connecticut River.


The odd thing is, instead off all the above, I had done something unusual, gone out early to photograph a place I had perhaps over-photographed — but it was the last place Merritt and I visited together — along with Jeff Lewis.  Merritt had died that very hour.


I even remarked earlier today that in a bird sanctuary how odd not to see nor hear any birds as if the foggy surrounds also rendered the place out-of-time.


He was probably the best landscape photographer in New England, though certainly a most modest man, and we had gone on a half dozen group photo trips I had organized together.


How strange to think of him not being around for more invitations, and I never did get him up to the Retreat ice-pond beyond the ski-jump, and was looking forward to a just-snowed Fall visit.


We did go up Black Mountain last year though, and I’m not sure he had been there before [nor previously to the Hogle where I was this morning] .


I’m just typing now, not quite knowing what to say.


This morning I had not checked my camera as usual, and the battery was showing low when I got there, so I only took a few photos, and then put it away in order to be present in a different way.  Later I wrote, feeling somewhat strange:


“The last time I was at the Hogle all the vegetation had been cut down so that the funky boardwalk was exposed in its meander. This morning it was more mysterious — and my conceit with this photo was that it was the opening sequence in a film, and soon an actor would emerge walking slowly toward the camera.”


Read More




A warm welcome to a new column by Vincent Panella who offers us a three-part essay: Who Art In : Moment : Youth

in his Column The First Glass





Who Art In

He was born in 1916 in a dirt road town off the Appian Way. His mother died in the Spanish Flu pandemic soon after. He came here at seven, grew up in Hell’s Kitchen, quit school at sixteen - it was the depression -  worked at who knows what, became a city fireman, then a bar owner, his first in Harlem called The Horseshoe, looted and lost in the riot of 1943; later The Marine Bar on South Street across from the Staten Island ferry. In my growing up years he kept me at home during the week so I wouldn’t quit high school and follow some of my friends into the military. In my college years he bought a bar upstate and in summers we worked it together. I opened up at eight for a customer named Smitty who needed four shots of rye before going to work. In late afternoon he took over and I napped in a spare room upstairs. We worked the night shift together and closed at four. Next came the all night diner for breakfast, after which I’d sleep for a few hours before opening up again. This was seven days a week. One night a drunk he’d kicked out threw a beer bottle from outside that hit the cash register and shattered in his face. In the course of this career his nose was broken five times. His marriage didn’t survive the temptations of the business and he left my mother when I was in my twenties. I resented him for everything. In his late forties he left the bar business and went into real estate, selling and owning property. This was work he finally enjoyed. In the end we made peace. The body that lived for work lost out to diabetes and Parkinson’s. From there it was dementia and the nursing home where he ogled the nurses and tried to sell the rooms as condominiums. He did what he could, gave me a gift, he’s always in the next room.

Read more Here


In September Elizabeth Hill offers us an essay “The Pony Man” in her column Love In Action




For those of us who grew up in small town post WWII America, there was a familiar phenomenon that we called “The Pony Man.” He roamed the suburban streets and announced his presence at every house on the block. With him was an assistant who held the lead of a palomino pony, all saddled-up and bridled western-style.


The Pony Man was a photographer, and he carried a satchel that contained the photo equipment plus a western style child-sized outfit complete with a ten-gallon hat, leather chaps, and a bandana. The tradition was that young children would get their picture taken dressed like a cowboy or cowgirl while sitting on the pony.


One summer day when I was two and a half and my brother Don was thirteen months older, the Pony Man arrived at our door. According to our Mom’s retelling of the story, Don was excited to get on the pony. With no hesitation, he took his turn first. Clearly, his pony-boy picture is a testament to just how happy and proud he was to be sitting in that saddle.


If you look more closely at the top right corner of his picture, you’ll see a bit of my young self, standing with Mom behind the porch screen. Though I’m sure she had the best of intentions, Mom had awakened me from a nap so we wouldn’t miss a chance to get a cute picture of me sitting on the pony. She’d brought me to the porch to gussy up my hair and show me how much fun my brother was having.


Apparently, my sleepy self was less than cooperative, although Mom did eventually convince me to put on the cowgirl outfit and be lifted onto the pony. The finished picture was obviously meant to depict an idyllic image of a happy-go-lucky little child. A closer look, however, reveals my unimpressed face and the Pony Man’s assistant crouched behind the animal to steady the reluctant cowgirl in the saddle.  Read the full article.



Julia Ferarri writes on A QUIET RAIN FALLS in her column in between




We finally got some cumulative rainfall in New England, a downpour, and the day before, a quiet rain overnight. This is needed here for the crops to grow … that slow penetration of water, to mingle and make available the soil nutrients, then sun to warm and energize. I think about how our lives are no different. The essential self is affected by our environment of growing up, just as the wind or drought will affect seedlings. I think that none of us come through childhood or life without those difficult events that begin to shape us. Whether we are presented with the deeply challenging circumstances of thoughtless or hurtful people, significant loss, or consistently unstable, undesirable events, environments or conditions, all these things take the developing self and place restrictions and encumbered shackles upon it. I have come to believe that since most of us go thru this (to differing degrees) that it is actually our opportunity for growth being laid out for our lifetime. I would even go so far as to say that it is perhaps our map (in a reverse way) to finding our way back to wholeness and happiness.

 

I’m beginning to think we come into this life being given the circumstances we need to be broken, then are given the means or circumstances to grow out of them, albeit sometimes very slowly, as it may take a lifetime. Oftentimes it takes recognizing that we can become set in our beliefs, habits, patterns, pain, or restrictions, which can hold us in unhappiness and limitation. But, this can eventually become our comfort zone, and we are hard pressed to change our minds, hard pressed to turn things around. It takes a conscious choice to stop making excuses… however sometime I glimpse that it’s as simple as letting go—letting go of the absolutes, of the mind cage, of the answer No. Read On >>



STORY PAGE features a wonderful new tale by MM Kizi in slide show format,  “Rose’s Spring”




You can control the rate slides appear by clicking the first image then click again when ready for the next, otherwise press “Play Slideshow” to view the slides automatically. See More of the 44 image tale and yes, the story features real goats.



Terri Kneipp titles her recent column in THE GREAT ADVENTURE “The Fairer Sex.”




What’s Fair about Discrimination?


Equality under the law. Justice is blind. An interesting concept, but is this true in any shape or form? Are women treated equally by our legal system, by the laws established or carried out? We are horrified at how women are regarded in “other” countries, but how about right here in the good ole’ U.S. of A.? Surely we are far superior: women can work, vote, own property, get divorced, and even run for President. However, are laws slanted against women? Lately, my blood has boiled seeing some of the glaring examples of inequality play out right before my eyes.


Let’s look at a topic that affects us all, equal pay. The Equal Pay Act of 1963 states that men and women should be given equal pay for equal work in a given establishment. As well, discrimination based on race, color, religion, sex, national origin, age, or disability is prohibited in Title VII, the ADEA and the ADA. But, do any of us truly believe pay inequality has been eliminated? When a woman makes 77 cents for every dollar a man makes, the facts speak for themselves. So, what did our dutifully elected officials do? Read on


 

Passages

Juliette Binoche

Sponsored by the oldest furniture store in New England 

https://www.facebook.com/finefurniturenaturally

Hours M-F 10-5 Sat 10-4  (802) 257 7166




I think acting is about forgetting yourself in order to give the best of yourself. It's passing through you more than you're creating it. You're not the flower, but the vase which holds the flower.


For me, acting goes to a special place; it's almost mystical. You have to let go of what you think is good; it's a jump into trust, and trying to reach without wanting too much.


I am not a great French woman. George Sand, Marguerite Duras and Simone de Beauvoir are great French women.


I love the unknown. I think because it brings fear, and to embrace fear is the best feeling.


When you really put your heart in the work, you don't think of how you look. And I think that's the beauty of it.


But I think it's a little different in Europe, because 40 is really the best age for a woman. That's when we hit our peak and become this ripe fruit.


Fighting the ageing process just doesn't work. I think that actresses, ultimately, are responsible for the faces we give to women.


Maybe it's because my mother divorced and my grandmother divorced, so maybe I'm frightened deep down. But then I also feel there is no real need. Why do I need to get married? To reassure me? No I don't need reassurance.


I really don't think that the Oscar changed my career much because I didn't want it to.


Not Quite Daily

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Guest Article

Simon’s Trip

A series of reports on where and how it’s going


Simon is making charity run in England, all of it

Running 5000 miles Round the Coast of Britain to raise £10,000

for Ecologia - www.ecologia.org.uk

  




Days 123-124 Tuesday-Wednesday August 16-17

I’m awake at 1am - three local cyclists have gathered nearby for their weekly lakeside parly, only seeing me as they leave, but checking I am alive. At 5 a rombustuous, probably big, barking dog runs over my body and through my intriguing dream, and after 2 more do the same I'm up and out and on the road by 6. I peruse the town for warm, flavoured water, find none, and again inspired by deft, victorian town-craft, wander south and into the plant-rich dunes, skirting the great Royal Birkdale golf course. Tired and a bit-demented, yet secluded and warm under an early, glistening sunbeam, I meditate and snooze for a couple of hours, then cross the long birch and water-reed strips onto the mighty beach-lands that stretch north to Fleetwood and south to North Wales; and out west, over the sea and out of sight, where Dubliners are shaping their days, momentarily stopping to gaze back, rendering a silent hello.

I am just walking, purposefully and well, a shuffle of anything quicker unmanageable, the west coast stonking hot. Louise from the Wildlife Trust is counting - pointing out to me the sandwich terns from the south, Artic terns from the north, and the common who reside here with the black headed gulls. People gather in the accessible stretches of soft sand and gently swirling, waving seas, and hungry, I head inland for food, through the ranger-protected red squirrel pine woods, modern surburbia, and into the small town centre of Formby. While everyone else sits on the café street terrace of the Hop And Horn, I’m inside in the shade, eating and writing. The food is excellent, some of the best of my trip. A guy Chris comes up to me and offers a place to stay, without having spoken to me, having seen my shirt and checked it on line. He’s a cross country walker and understands. Paul, the owner, donates my food - great people.

I manage to run a bit, through the suburban roads, alongside the railway line and into Hightown, stopping for sweets. I’m sweating, feeling heavy, and humming Beatles songs - the great City of Liverpool is not far now. I’m on the coast again, the clear skied horizons adorned with wind turbines, and tumble over rocks onto Crosby Beach. The sands are firm, I find some momentum to run. The first of Anthony Gormleys Iron Men winks at me, then others follow. Ken Durose, Prof of Physics at the University, on his way home walks up and suggests I’m a man with a story to tell. We walk together for half an hour until his wife calls. The bright red cranes of the Port Of Liverpool beckon. Photographers are out en masse, capturing the 100 men of Gormley’s Another Place as the sun sinks out of sight. I settle early as the path strays inland around the Port, on the slither of duneland between the beach and Crosby Lake. Kids think I’m a police officer in the half light. The wind kicks up, the rough hum of port industry murmurs into my sleep, and expectant of the day head, sing Gerry Marsdon’s Ferry Across The Mersey, my favourite ever love song. Read On >>>



Image Notes — Sep 26

Wind in the Willows





Immediately following this note are the beginning paragraphs of Wind in the Willows, a tale for young children now over 100 years old.


The Wind in the Willows is a children's novel by Kenneth Grahame, first published in 1908. Alternately slow moving and fast paced, it focuses on four anthropomorphised animals in a pastoral version of Edwardian England. The novel is notable for its mixture of mysticism, adventure, morality, and camaraderie and celebrated for its evocation of the nature of the Thames valley.


While this beloved classic is still read to children it is a wonder that there are not more attempts at writing an endearing tale? Is it because the whole story is a little wicked? And are we liberal enough to permit such escapes?But enough of me, let’s here more of onion sauce!


THE RIVER BANK


The Mole had been working very hard all the morning, spring-cleaning

his little home. First with brooms, then with dusters; then on

ladders and steps and chairs, with a brush and a pail of whitewash;

till he had dust in his throat and eyes, and splashes of whitewash all

over his black fur, and an aching back and weary arms. Spring was

moving in the air above and in the earth below and around him,

penetrating even his dark and lowly little house with its spirit of

divine discontent and longing. It was small wonder, then, that he

suddenly flung down his brush on the floor, said 'Bother!' and 'O

blow!' and also 'Hang spring-cleaning!' and bolted out of the house

without even waiting to put on his coat. Something up above was

calling him imperiously, and he made for the steep little tunnel which

answered in his case to the gravelled carriage-drive owned by animals

whose residences are nearer to the sun and air. So he scraped and

scratched and scrabbled and scrooged and then he scrooged again and

scrabbled and scratched and scraped, working busily with his little

paws and muttering to himself, 'Up we go! Up we go!' till at last,

pop! his snout came out into the sunlight, and he found himself

rolling in the warm grass of a great meadow.


'This is fine!' he said to himself. 'This is better than

whitewashing!' The sunshine struck hot on his fur, soft breezes

caressed his heated brow, and after the seclusion of the cellarage he

had lived in so long the carol of happy birds fell on his dulled

hearing almost like a shout. Jumping off all his four legs at once,

in the joy of living and the delight of spring without its cleaning,

he pursued his way across the meadow till he reached the hedge on the

further side.


'Hold up!' said an elderly rabbit at the gap. 'Sixpence for the

privilege of passing by the private road!' He was bowled over in an

instant by the impatient and contemptuous Mole, who trotted along the

side of the hedge chaffing the other rabbits as they peeped hurriedly

from their holes to see what the row was about. 'Onion-sauce!

Onion-sauce!' he remarked jeeringly, and was gone before they could

think of a thoroughly satisfactory reply. Then they all started

grumbling at each other. 'How STUPID you are! Why didn't you tell

him----' 'Well, why didn't YOU say----' 'You might have reminded him

----' and so on, in the usual way; but, of course, it was then much too

late, as is always the case.


It all seemed too good to be true. Hither and thither through the

meadows he rambled busily, along the hedgerows, across the copses,

finding everywhere birds building, flowers budding, leaves thrusting--

everything happy, and progressive, and occupied. And instead of

having an uneasy conscience pricking him and whispering 'whitewash!'

he somehow could only feel how jolly it was to be the only idle dog

among all these busy citizens. After all, the best part of a holiday

is perhaps not so much to be resting yourself, as to see all the other

fellows busy working.


Art & Soul

Notes on Creating by Audrey Flack


The New Subject Matter, A Problem OF Transcendence

  




Christian Renaissance art dealt with transcendent images. The Resurrection, the Ascension, the Baptism — these images were uplifting. Tintoretto, Reubens, Piero, Raphael, and Michelangelo had their imagery clearly cut out. Live and death, heaven and hell, were depicted in subjects like the Virgin Birth, the Crucifixion, the Resurrection, and the Last Judgement. Transcendence was built in; it was often almost literal.

Veronese, Poussin, and Puvis de Chavannes dealt with mythology and allegory, still an attempt to work with heroic and transcendent subject matter.

In surrealism, transcendence occurs when one shifts from the conscious object tot he subconscious.

Impressionism, in dealing with the common man and common objects used in everyday life, is no longer heroic or transcendent in terms of specific objects and ideas. Transcendence is transferred from subject matter (the object) to the actual paint itself.

This leas to modernism — as exemplified by Barnett Newman and Mark Rothko [Illus.]— in which paint and transcendence are merged, and the object has disappeared. The subject matter is now the fusion of transcendence and paint.

This fusion resulted in a distancing from emotion, and encouraged a cool dispassionate art, in which sentiment, romanticism, and passion were dismissed.

The current return to representation art brings with it new subject matter, as strong reaction to the formalist and modernist past, and a reintroduction to emotion, through the artist’s personal statement and mythology. This sets the stage for a new transcendence.



FOOD INQ

This Page Is Under Construction


  



A new column about Food is under construction, no peeking!


Chicken Joke Series

(New Age, Neo-Pagan)


   Why Did the Chicken Cross the Road?




Celtic:

In County Feedbeygohn on Midsummer's day, there is still practiced St. Henny's Dance, which is a survival of the old pagan Chicken Crossing fertility rite. Today, modern pagans are reviving the practice, dedicated to the Hen and the Green Rooster.


Thanks [or blame] to

http://www.katinkahesselink.net/arch/gb3.htm

as suggested by George Macnamara



Now, here, this!  Sep 26


Short & Long-term forecasts





There is a useful on-line resource which tracks real-time lightning strikes here

http://www.lightningmaps.org/




To This Degree

An image a day every day of the year



Taurus 1

The Image: A clear mountain stream

Keynote: The pure uncontaminated and spontaneous expression of one’s own nature

Keyword: Its Own Nature


Taurus 2

The Image: An electrical storm

Keynote: The cosmic power able to transform all the factors of natural existence

Keyword: The Visitation


Taurus 3

The Image: Natural steps lead to a lawn of clover in bloom

Keynote: The gradual expansion of individual consciousness after a fecundating experience

Keyword: Natural fulfillment


Taurus 4

The Image: The pot of gold at the end of the rainbow

Keynote: Riches that come as result of linking the celestial and earthly nature

Keyword: Communion


Taurus 5

The Image: A widow at an open grave [Illus.]

Keynote: The impermanence of all material and social bonds

Keyword: Discard the past




Image groups comprise a 5-fold sequence

(1° to 15° TAURUS in Scene 3 ‘SUBSTANTIATION’

in Act 1 of 4, Differentiation)


 

Photos of the Day


Gallery Walk

&

Moon Walk