Eudaimonia   Wednesday, October 07, 2015

We took a little two day drive-around in the Big Bend this week and I finally got new pictures. Unfortunately, a two day drive-around leaves me two days behind in my "Here and Now" preparation leaving me not  enough time to properly process the pictures. So, I decided to save those pictures for next week and use this week some old pictures from the coast and Corpus Christi I had laying around.

Back to my book New Days and New Ways for old poems, this week from the third section in the book, "Human is as Human Does."

This is it:


business breakfast

Frances Trevino
Graytown, Texas

times a'changing

I used to wonder about the purpose of life   

Bruce Bawer
On  Leaving the Artists' Colony

it is because of nights like this

the thin-lipped woman

Naomi Shihab Nye
Waiting to Cross  

I live in a small world

the very proper lady in the black Sunday dress
the hefty woman eats a hardy breakfast

Anuradha Mahapatra

Akhtar-ul -Iman

never nothing doing

the source of my problem

Wendy Rose
Dancing for the Whiteman  

the stars at night

I'll be there

Li Po
Wandering T'ai Mountain

so much like that day

all brothers to all brothers

a drive in the country   


I ran across this word and got to  thinking that if I couldn't  find a poem in such a beautiful, musical word, I  should go back to  writing scripts for you GPS.


(eudaimonia - translated from its Greek root as "human flourishing")

she comes like a stranger to your  door,
and demands entry
and, if you are ready to allow her passage,
becomes your friend

becomes the spark
that creates

the carrier
of human flourishing
that blows away walls that restrict your vision,
cuts the knots that bind your soul

opening the all-embracing sky
that carries in its winds
the contagion of your spirit's
deepest  reach,
the fullness of your humanity

the bottomless well of your

This section of the book, "Human Is As Human Does," includes many of my diner/coffeehouse observationals. Those are my favorite places to write, early in the morning surrounded by a roomful of,  life, people and stories as I  can imagine them.


   tall girl
with very white teeth
comes in

and,  on this sun-shinning
blue-sky day,
her smile is a beacon

of reflected light,
like crystals tossed into the air,
like diamonds

a cloudless, winter

the sun
rising high and bright

business breakfast

  there is a large crowd,
ten diners
on several tables pushed

a business breakfast meeting,
for a congregation
of insurance agents (my guess,
they look like insurance people)

in dress shirts and ties
and a couple of women
for lack of male genitalia...

at the end of the table
a very large
red-faced man
who appears to be the boss,
with the assurance of a person
genetically in the dark
most of the time,
telling sleep-deprived staff
all about the Shinola
he don't know
from, and beside him
a mid-thirties blond, well put-together,
who has a 17-year-old daughter
at home
who's driving her nuts
with skimpy dresses and good-for-nothing
boyfriends, all this  expressed
to the world before the meeting started,
and now that it has,
reveals her self to be
the boss's carry-on brain, taking over
his Shinola punditry
to put the meeting to order,
providing such business as there
was scheduled to be
in this early morning business meeting...

the other eight at the table
who knows
what needs to be known
because their droopy-eyed attention
to the boss's Shinola
is  immediately replaced by edge-of-their-chair
attention when she starts talking,
chewing reduced to a roar,
petite and silent little chomp-chomps
as eggs and bacon and toast
slide quietly and respectfully down
alert and thoughtful gullets...

I have been
to - convened even -
many such meetings, sat
at the head of many such tables
spouting my own Shinola
killing time
my nearby brain finishes
her poached egg and fat-free milk
and sets herself
to take care of business -

my job done for
the day

The first poet  from my library this week is Frances Trevino, with a poem from her book Cayetana, published by Wings Press in 2007.

Trevino is chair of the English Department at Thomas Jefferson High School in San Antonio, home of the  oldest high school literary magazine in Texas. She also a writing instructor at The University of the Incarnate Word, one of three large Catholic universities in San Antonio.

I had never heard of  Graytown and had to Google it, but drive any small country road in Texas and you'll find many Graytowns, each with it's own name, population Few to None, deserted and lost to time, nothing left but, as in this poem, cemeteries with overgrown graves of people long dead.

Graytown, Texas
         - Day of the Dead 

When Mary and Fred of Southside
San Antonio go to Graytown
every November  2nd is a ritual.

Leaving the city limits, Mary sits quietly in the front seat.
Fred sings Vicente  Fernandez's Cielito Lindo,
drives into the dusty heavens of a pale Graytown sky.

Parked outside the scrolled iron  gates,  at the cemetery
the early morning has become warm.
Mary takes last year's flowers

imitation silk now faded by the
scorching Graytown sun, places
new ones into vases welded on the tombstones.

Monuments of weathered
cement  settled crooked in the earth,
etchings  that read:

Gregoria Sanchez Gomez 1904 -1967
Marian Arrocha Gomez 1896 - 1958
the graves of her mother and father.

Some tombstones have faded pictures,
sepia blotted photographs of ghosts
staring into farmland  horizons.

Those who once knew Graytown.
Those who caught their underwear  in branches
while climbing  trees, those who danced at weddings,
passed along a little gossip,
sold a little moonshine on the side -
Graytown, Texas in the 1940s.

Now families have left the ranch for city life,
traded seasonal work and seasonal foods for
year round benefits and grocery store name brands.

Graytown, Texas now a ghost town
of a cemetery off a farm road.
The car is cold, the afternoon hot.

November feels like August as they depart
and leave the souls resting beneath the
South Texas limestone in Graytown, Texas

I'm checking out every sign of the end of summer. Two nights ago, in Alpine, temps in the fifties and the dark clear sky alive with stars, it begins to feel like fall is falling.

times a'changing

first  crickets of fall
like Mexican jumping beans
in a cast iron skillet,
Bella chasing,
pulling me along...

big storm passing at
blowing and crashing loud
like Valkyries riding...

a bright-sun morning,
still as a church, quiet as a silent

68 degrees..

the times,
they are a'changing

Here's another from "Human Is As Human Does."

I used to wonder about the purpose of life

   I used to
wonder about
the purpose
of life
and my place in

I  wonder
why I'm standing in front
of the Frigidaire
at 6:30 in the morning,
door  open,
refrigerated light illuminating
all the staples,
Miracle Whip
Stubbs BBQ sauce
liver sausage and
punkmunster cheese
along with a week's worth
of leftovers
in varying shades of green...

the I see them...

my keys...

and now I wonder how
my keys got into the refrigerator
and why I knew
to look for them there
in the first place
and this begins
another week
in a life of
my purpose in it
to appreciate the ever-expanding horizons
of my confusion

Next from my library,  a poem by Bruce Bawer. The poem is from his book Coast to Coast, published in 1993 by Story Line Press.

Bawer is an American writer who has been a resident of Norway since 1999. Born in 1958, he is a long-time literary, film and cultural critic. His poems frequently address issues related to gay rights, Christianity and Islam.

On Leaving the Artists' Colony

The way love  rests upon coincidence,
the way a sense of family and home
can flow now, like a stream, through several hearts
transplanted from their diverse native climes
by strangers' choices, violates all sense.

If we had all been here at different times,
I know we'd have formed other loyalties,
drawn other eyes and written other poems,
and I know there are friendships I'd have made
with people whom I now may never meet.

But so be it. Heard melodies are sweet,
and unheard melodies are never played
except on the harmonium of art.
This place  we love reminds how immense
the world is, and how  small our cherished part,

and why we feel drawn on toward mysteries,
compelled to pain and sculpt, compose and write.
To think of those who'll be here three months hence,
who'll feel just as we do, and find it hard
believing that emotions  so intense

can be so commonplace, is to regard
those mysteries as if with second sight.
It is to sense and elemental rhythm
of soul and soul, to feel a river flow
between our hearts and those we'll never know.

Beautiful  days and beautiful. It is that time of the year in San Antonio.

it is because of nights like this

it is because
of nights like this
that people make their gods...

the pale princess of the night,
reflecting the golden glow of She
who gives all life, giving life tonight
to her daughter, her soft radiance shining
right through the  clouds, round and full,
plump with the brilliance of stars
dimmed in her presence...

it is a night to make gods
proud, all assembled in the pleasure
of their creation,
smiling at the beauty
of their glorious

Again from New Days and New Ways, the third section, "Human is as Human Does"

the thin-lipped woman

the thin-lipped
and the wide-eyed man
stare at me from across the room

it seems

and I'm thinking oh
what the hell did I do now
cause they don't look
like anyone I know
maybe from the dark shadows
of the very distant past
but I don't look at all like I looked
in the dark shadows
of the very distant past
unless I did something
grievous to them in the dark
of the very distant past
something that imprinted indelibly
and forever in their frontal
or backal
cortex or middle cortex
or in whatever cortex where there resides
those memories
that survive unto death
and possibly
into eternal haunting
in the dark shadows of dead of night
but I'll  be damned
(it could be, you know)
if I remember whatever it was
to  produce such a deadly stare
as though the dark shadows of a dim night
nestled glowingly behind
their eyes...

I think it's not me
they're after...they stare
the same flaming laser stare
at everyone
not just

I think they must just be
people with issues
maybe just bad people
who  hate everyone and not just

making me feel better now, knowing
it's not my fault
and I will not  be eternally haunted
in the dark shadows
of dead of night
and that I can go on with my
and finish my biscuits
and gravy
free of trepidation
and future haunting  potential

This, new from my library, Naomi  Shihab Nye, San Antonio poet, international traveler, and one of my very favorites.

Her poems are  from her  book, Fuel, published by Boa Editions, Limited in 1998.


If  you place a fern
under a stone
the next day it will be
nearly invisible
as if the stone has
swallowed it.

If you tuck the name of a loved one
under your tongue too long
without speaking it
it becomes blood
the little sucked-in breath of air
hiding everywhere
beneath your words.

No one sees
the fuel that feeds you.

Waiting to  Cross

One man closes his hand.
He will not show us
the silver buckle
he uncovered in his garden.

One man reads houses.
They make sense to him,
grammar of lights in windows.
He looks for a story to be part of.

One man has no friends.
His mother is shrinking
at a table with one chair.
She dreams a mouse
with her son's small head.

One man feel right.
The others must be wrong.
And the world? It does not touch him.

One man stares hard
at the other men's profiles
against the sky.
He knows the is one of five men
standing on a corner.

Feeling sometime constricted, as if the world is pulling in tight around me.

I live in a small  world

I live in a small world
that gets smaller every year
I grow older in it

each year another constriction...

then, a few days ago, I read of
a new, wrinkle in quantum theory
that, at least for a few days, has stretched
the foundries of the box I live in

it is called "transactional interpretation"
and  while I understand next to nothing
of the explanation I read, this point
leaps out at me...

space and time, is itself a larger version of my
diminishing personal box, a grand container
that has been assumed to contain all that
wrapped tight in a cocoon called the
space-time continuum...

but wait, if space-time is a box than
there must be, as with all boxes,  a bottom
and top  and sides of some shape, and if
three is an  inside the box, there must also  be
an outside the box and that means that.
outside the space-time continuum we assumed
was the all and absolute, there is...


knowing there is is enough for now, knowing
what is not as important to me
as imagining
that the boxes I live in, both the small
that is  mine and the large  that
encompasses us all, might be, not boxes
at all, but bubbles instead,
bubbles containing one,
but only one, reality in a field
of other bubble realities, each awaiting
the inevitable pin prick
and a new kind of bursting
into a new time and new space
and new light and life
for us all...

perhaps the Tao is larger even
than  the masters

a new and grander way to be

Again from New Days and New Ways.

the very proper lady in the black Sunday dress

   the very proper
in the black Sunday dress
and jeweled necklace and dangly earrings
blows her nose
into a tiny lace handkerchief
and her eyes
like a bug's or maybe like
a bit spotted frog caught wide awake
on her lily pad at midnight
thinking silverfish thoughts...

her ears
I swear they're flapping
and I'm thinking
holy shit her head's gonna explode
like the bad guy's
at the end of the first Indiana Jones movie

and I don't know
if I should watch or shield my eyes
from the sight
so I compromise
and peek through my fingers and watch
as the pressure slowly eases
and her head shrinks back to regular size
and her ears lie supine at rest
against her head
and her eyes slink back into mean little  slits
like when she came in
and I didn't notice then like I do now

that this is one evil woman
in her proper black dress and jewelry
and her earrings and by gosh
I'm glad she didn't blow up or I'd probably have
little devil debris gunk dripping all over me...

a pretty scary experience
for this early morning but it is one of the reasons
I  like to breakfast here - you meet the most interesting people
and other creatures one
can't be entirely
sure about

the hefty woman has a hardy breakfast

kind of hefty,
well north of stout
I'm saying,
but judging from the three eggs, scrambled,
and stack of buttermilk pancakes
she's packing in for breakfast
it doesn't seem to bother

being no lightweight myself,
I stick to my more
with porridge
in skimmed milk
and a single  piece of dry toast
and feel quite
at peace with myself for it,
judging not the stout woman
for her pleasure in the morning,
finding it admirable, in fact,
to  see her fortitude in the face
of such tribulation
as her continued absence of a view of her feet,
jealous, a  little ,
of her full and hearty breakfast
in comparison to my prisoner-of-war

and though she seems
such a healthy and happy person
despite her disregard for her own well-being
and the feelings
of all the stoutish people around her
sticking to their dank dungeon
swill while she engages breakfast
like a skinny person,
it seems she mocks our own efforts
at adipose reduction, which
is why we all
the fat woman and
her three eggs, scrambled,
and full stack of buttermilk

fat woman!

on top of everything else
she will probably
outlive us

From my library, two poets from The Oxford Anthology of Modern Indian Poetry, published in 1994 by the Oxford University Press.

The first poet is Anuradha Mahapatra. She was born in 1956 into  a rural working class family in West Bengal. She received an M.A. in Bengali literature from Calcutta University.


Under the easy glide of water
lies more water, concealed within oneself,
oneself, unconditional melancholy's magnet.
With a magic spell she imprisons
in the dead lamp's hollow
                    the blind muse of desire.
Whichever way life flows, so floats
the sacred banyan leaf.

                     Translated from  Bengali by Jyotirmoy Dutta
                                                           and Carolyne Wright

The  second poet from the anthology is Akhtar-ul-Iman. Born in the Bijnor District of Uttar Pradesh in 1915, he was brought up to be  a priest. Not wanting that, he ran away from home and was educated at a reform school. Later he earned a B.A. from the Anglo-Arabic College, Delhi, and an M.A. from  the Aligarh Muslim University. Early on he worked  for the government's All India Radio and later as a dialogue writer and occasionally as a director in the Bombay film industry. His publication includes a verse play and half  a dozen books of poetry.

He died in 1996.


Whenever I kissed her,
the smell of cigarettes filled my nostrils.
I've always thought of smoking as a vice,
but now I'm used to it,
it's a part of me.
She too got used to my stained teeth.
Whenever we meet, we become strangers in words,
only our breathing, sweat, and loneliness
fill the room.
Maybe our souls are dead,
our senses have run dry,
or is this story repeated over and over again:
life's always going through the pangs of birth,
new messiahs come and go to the cross,
a dusty man in the back rows
pushes his way to the front,
climbs the pulpit, and says,
"The crucified man was ours!
His blood is our heritage!"
Then he swallows all the ideals,
all that had caused calumny,
and spits them out as commentaries
and interpretations,
the last resort of helpless  people,
maybe all people.
I look for the ideal man in vain.
People dream and ride the high winds,
then reach a state when they weep bitterly
and break like branches.
They find loved ones,
who're the focus of their desires and lives,
then come to hate them
even while loving them still.
I hate her,  she despises me.
But when we meet
in the loneliness, the darkness,
we become one whole,  like a lump  of kneaded clay,
hatred leaves, silence stays,
the silence that covered the earth
after it was created,
and we go on breaking
like branches.
We don't talk about the dreams we once dreamt,
we  don't talk about the joys,
we simply go on breaking,
I'm fond of  drinking,
she's addicted to smoking,
wrapped in a sheet of silence we  cling to each other,
we go on breaking
like tender branches.

                             Translated fro Urdu by C.M. Naim and Vinay Dharwadker,
                              using earlier translations by Gopi Chand Narang and David
                              Paul Douglas, and Adil Jussawalla and the poet

I got to thinking, if there was a very successful TV show that was said to be "about nothing" - why not a good poem "about nothing?"

never nothing doing


that's what we call
all the things
we cannot

the things
in the cracks between
all that is visible
to us...


that's how we think
of such in-between spaces...

empty though we describe them,
empty they never are,
all of those spaces,
whether in the vastness of dark
between galaxies or the tiny, infinitesimal gaps
between air motes that blur our eyes
in the humid summer, there are
the ever-circling elements of creation, from the largest
to  the smallest, the ever-moving vortex
of mystery and shadow...

something always, never

Another form "Human is as Human Does" - New Days and New Ways.

the source of my problem

that's  my problem,
too much of it...

I haven't  seen
an Albanian gypsy
in years

or heard the plaintive
of the river flattapotumus

or smelled
the acrid  stench
of burning filagabbit

around me at this restaurant
I see
not a single Grenadian pirate
or Senegalese
soul-snatcher, just
plain old moms and dads
and grandmas and grandpas
and little kids
with chocolate milk mustaches
and the old guy in the corner typing
on his computer, dripping
grits in his beard,
muttering to himself about things

just another Sunday

how is one
to find a poem in a life
so unadventurously

Wendy Rose is next from my library. The book is The Halfbreed Chronicles and Other Poems, published by West End Press in 1985. This is a book I just bought, the third or fourth I have by Wendy Rose.

Dancing for the Whiteman

      "When I would dance  for them, they would laugh and throw
       pennies at my feet. I did my war dances special."
                            - Paiute man in Yosemite National Park - 1968 

Yes we are still doing it
for it's such a familiar trail -
pollen wind swept against old prayers
having become the smell of cedar smoke
receding from the caves on endless beaches,
having become the splash of a camera lens
about our knees.
Oh we are still stepping high,
broadly wobbling with the gleam
of silver conchs, the tender pull
of peyote-rope through our ears
on on our quirts,
from hip  to ankle
the shake of shawl fringe,
the tangle of jingles
on our  velvet hips.
Earth muscle hands grip
the old rattle tight
banging seed against seed
to bring thunder storms in a string
following with the wisdom
of shadows.                        Spin, spin, running in
                                           to where the whiteman waits
                                           tongue half in, half out
                                           for  honey or salt to  lick
                                           from out knuckles, ready
                                           to bind us around
                                           his slender bush
                                           afire with the bones
                                           he is still  talking!
Through the museums
and in the books
we are dancing
inside the computers, the t.v.s,
the streetlights of Phoenix,
Santa Fe stucco and plastic vigas,
the bridges and bottles of Gallup,
thee water-blur of old treaties.
Watch the pages flip open
in the senseless wind,
rob us word by word by word
of that  most ancient copyright
beneath the piss pine's needled branch,
under the lichen-furred boulder,
about the bay-leaved coastal creek,
within the quills of the raven's wing.
And do we lose the way home again?
Lose the movements of the dance -
the door ajar, the sun slipped
over the western brink
by these lives linked
with faceless  pennies?

Another new poem from  last week.

the stars at night

the stars at night
are big and
just like the song says,
deep in the heart of Texas
where I am, in between mountain shadows
and desert's pale glow, under
a black velvet sky
studded with a grand collection
and universal sparkle
of alien gemstones, waiting bright in the sky,
setting my imagination to soar among
them, amid the trillion suns,
life-givers, like my own,  shining
on times and lives and places not so dissimilar
under their different light
from my own...

the beauty
of creation un-ending
and I have a place in it tonight

A declaration of existence from "Human is as Human Does."

I'll be there

   the coldest day
of the year so far,
and predicted colder

not so cold
as the sixth planet
of the 437 thousandth sun
of the Alapadadie Senseatory Galaxy,
or even New Hampshire
or New York or
New Padonia in East Texas,
but pretty damn cold
for here

all bundled up,
layered,  me, too, two
shirts, coat, and my hat
to keep my head warm,
actually would feel  a little silly
if any of my friends
from norther more territories
were to see me
I'm cold and my nose
is running
and I have a cough
like the sky splitting
and I'm out in the cold
I am a human of the being variety
and such as we are do not bow our heads
in defeat just because it's cold
and our nose is running
and we're coughing
like an earthquake in southern California
(look! there goes San Diego
and San Francisco and Cambria
and Carmel and  San Juan Capistrano
(poor birds
and Catchatorie and all the rest)

we do not fold...

we gather our guts around us
and persevere, like Chief Dan George
in the Eastwood movie
we endeavor
to persevere, persist, keep up keeping on,
until the clouds part, the sun shines
its brilliant happy face,
the birds Tweedledee-dee in the trees
and the marmosets creep out of their snugly den

(and what the hell is a  marmoset, a name
that sounds like a musical instrument
from Brazil or possibly Peru, and do they really
eat birds, or is that just an Internet hoax?)


as I said,
I am a human of the
being  kind
and I'll be here till the sun
comes shining around the mountain
and the old gray mare is back
to what she used to be
and Ol' McDonald gets his farm back
when the pigs and sheep and cows and chickens
declare a truce and all is back to  normal
with an oink oink here and there
discreetly declaring
the evolution has left without

and despite it all
I'll be there
trying to remember what I'm

Last from my library this week, here is a poem by the master Li Po. The poem, from his early period, 701 -742, is from  Selected Poems of Li Po, a New Directions book published in 1996, editor and translator, David Hinton.

Wandering T'ai Mountain

In May, the imperial  road level stone
setting out, I ascend T'ai Mountain.

A six-dragon sun crossing ten thousand
ravines, valley streams meandering away,

I leave horse tracks winding through
emerald peaks all green moss by now,

water bathing cliffs in spray, cascades
headlong in flight. Among wailing pines,

I gaze north at wild  headwalls, tilting
rock crumbling away east, and over

stone gates standing closed, lightning
storms rise from the bottom of earth.

Higher up,  I see islands of immortals,
sea-visions of silver and gold towers,

and on Heaven's Gate, chant devotions.
A pure ten-thousand-mile wind arrives,

and four or five jade goddesses come
drifting down from the nine distances.

Smiling, they entice my empty-handed,
pour out cup-loads of dusk-tinted cloud.

I bow, they bow again, deeper, ashamed
I haven't an immortal's talent. And yet,

boundless, I can dwindle time and space
away, losing the world in such distances!

A memory poem.

so much like that day

it's in the sixties today,
and though it will clear
later in the morning, for now
the blue sky is wrapped in a thin
white veil of clouds...

a day that draws memories...

a day in Albuquerque, walking
the mile or so from the university
to a movie downtown, the day
like this as day as we began, then a shift
to bright sunshine, deep shadows
under morning light, then clouds again,
then very light and scattered rain,
then wisps of snow falling, then bright
sun again as we buy our tickets
and enter into the dark...

this was in the late fall, 1964, a time
that brings many such memories I
treasure still, 50 years later...

and here, now, the clouds  have
gone and the bright sun
casts dark shadows under
the yellow light of

so much like that day
long ago...

Here's my last piece from New Days and New Ways. The poems this week were from the third section of the book. Maybe I'll do another section next week.

Meanwhile, the book can be bought (cheap) anywhere eBooks are sold.

all brothers to all brothers

it's true,
I talk to my animals...

even Reba
who can't hear me,
but she can see my lips move

and know
she's on my mind, like the blind cat
knows she is not alone in the dark

when I stroke her  head as  I  pass,
like the friendly nod
I exchange with people

I pass on the street
because we all need to  know we are not
alone in the dark -

such an acknowledgement
of our shared passage we should
pass  on to the creatures  around is


balm to repair the primordial weld
that has bound us all
since creation, the weld that is separating now
as all become remote from the others...

if you believe in God, remember he created us all
as part of his plan and it is not our place
to withdraw the blueprints of his

if you do not  believe in God,
remember instead,
that  we  are all creatures at base
of common offspring, basic
elements that give us,
as our relatives,

the snake, the bird, the fish in the ocean,
the lion in the field, our neighbor
across the fence, the daffodil

wild as any creature on the meadow,
the earth beneath our feet
and the stars that shine overhead,

all brothers to all brothers
in our most basic

 This is my last poem for this week, a kind of preview of next week's post.

a drive in the country

a  drive in the country...

700 miles

a little less than 350 miles
a turn-around in Alpine,
and a little more than 350

700 miles
just for a few hours breathing
Big Bend air,
cool and dry, deserts
to mountains
and back again through
the wooded hills
of central Texas, and along the way,
the towns, tiny and not so,
the names mysterious to me
in years past, lyrical now,
like a song I  sing
in passing...

Del Rio (a river-width from Cuidad Acuna)
Fort  Davis

and more...

Hwy 90 north and west, then
Interstate 10 south and home,
maybe for the last
as life changes around me,
breathing deeply,
the songs of tiny towns
alone in the seeming endless passages
of West Texas where people
in the desert  live in the shadows
of mountains, where people in the mountains
see  past their skirt of high forests
to the boundless pink desert
spread like a tabletop

one more time...

leaving in an

As usual, everything belongs to who made it. You're welcome to use my stuff, just, if you do, give appropriate credit to "Here and Now" and to me

Also usual, I am Allen Itz owner and producer of this blog, and diligent seller of books, specifically these and specifically here:

Amazon, Barnes and Noble, iBookstore, Sony eBookstore, Copia, Garner's, Baker & Taylor, eSentral, Scribd, Oyster, Flipkart, Ciando and Kobo (and, through Kobo,  brick and mortar retail booksellers all across America and abroad)

New Days & New Ways

Places and Spaces

Always to the Light

Goes Around Comes Around

Pushing Clouds Against the Wind

And, for those print-bent, available at Amazon and select coffeehouses in San Antonio

Seven Beats a Second


Sonyador - The Dreamer

                                                             Peace in our Time

at 3:09 PM Anonymous Anonymous said...

best photos this time round- 3 @ 4 down- the high rises nxt to the walk ways- some how- good contrast- great color- rest seem a bit random-
chk photos of grabriel orozco- they are arrangements- and yrs seem also - but only sometimes- needs more craft
art cannot just b casual- it may seem to b

thus do we need EDITORS

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