bigbonton

This Juneteenth (June 19th) dispatch just in regarding the bigbonton roving reporter and field correspondent:

Winding down the first half of the year and we have yet to see much change in his condition. He's gone native, but native to where? Or what species?

"Home, home again
I like to be here when I can
When I come home cold and tired
It's good to warm my bones beside the fire."

He repeats, as if it's his mantra:
"I live in a birdhouse."
"Je vis dans une Volière."
"Ich lebe in einer Voliere."
"Yo vivo en una casa de aves."
"Moro em uma casa de pássaros."

Mmm. English, likely it's British. Then en français, in deutscher Sprache, en español, and then em Português.
Seems well traveled, coherent and articulate, whenever one can break through that protective shell. He fits in everywhere but doesn't really fit in anywhere. Focused, doesn't flitter, but the fit into farm, family, or fortune building seems still pending . . .

"Every year is getting shorter
Never seem to find the time
Plans that either come to nought
Or half a page of scribbled lines
Hanging on in quiet desperation is the English way
The time is gone
The song is over
Thought I'd something more to say"
- I live in a birdhouse.

Click for more from "The Dark Side of the Moon"

Continue reading "displaced person update" »

Posted by bigbonton at 11:34 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

Nice, nice, so very nice.
Shiny-happy, clean, and, and yet . . .

. . . something in this crisp perfection is oh-so less than satisfying.

While the above table setting doesn't reek of effort, it just doesn't satisfy like being outside in June, downwind of a hot grill, a bit of sweat on a shirt, some food gets dropped, someone tells one story over and over and over but we're free to escape and eat while standing and mosey over to the distant side of the shrubs to stick a flower behind her luscious ear because she feels the same way and knew she'd be found by magical mutual interest.

Ah, the long days of the year. OUTSIDE. That's what's causing this indoor photo to lack that je ne sais quoi - maybe I should have waited to post this image in the winter when indoorsy-ness is more inviting and crispy tablecloths are more palatable.
But here you go and there we are - lounging over there behind the shrubs at dusk. Eating fruit, spitting seeds, inside our cocoon of ethereal light between sundown and dark. Do not disturb, we're having a one-on-one communion with nature. If the bush is rustling we might be tussling.

Posted by bigbonton at 12:08 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

"Pearl, Pearl, Pearl, come let us see our girl.
Are you still our valentine? Do you still look so divine?
Come and let us see our darlin' Pearl."

Pearls are often compared to holy things.

Lester Flatt and Earl Scruggs sang about their rivalry over a mutual interest in a country girl named Pearl. Such a nice name, a bit old fashioned, somewhat Asian.
[ PS:Huh-oh, just found this toy, grooveshark lite. A simple player so you can get hip to some pulsing Pearl ]

An Aunt named Pearl was famed for her cooking ability, especially with pot-roast. In her home for her funeral there was food galore, brought in by well-wishers and by the family gathered together to mourn the loss of a dear sweet Auntie.
Food galore, but not the luscious cooking of Aunt Pearl... until... (zoot alors!) an idea! Dear Aunt Pearl was aged but died suddenly, and Hmm... looking in the fridge I found a few containers of leftovers. In the rush of the hospital and bereavement plans, no one had considered the first thing everyone thinks about Aunt Pearl, "What's in the fridge?"
Precious leftover cooking of Aunt Pearl. Should I share it? Who gets it? There was even some pot-roast! The temptation to hoard the booty laid itself down hard.
In case Aunt Pearl was watching me from her cloud I knew I should share, so I called my fellow mourners into the kitchen and disclosed the precedings that had lead up to the voila and the last of the precious home cooking of Aunt Pearl.

Dear, precious Pearl and her blessed ability to turn food into love.
We each shared small tastes of the last home cooking of Aunt Pearl. Tales of her long-gone meals praised our departed loved one.
She nailed it one last time. Mmm-Mmm Good!
- we're still thinking about you, Aunt Pearl!

Posted by bigbonton at 12:37 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)