waterfall
water
falls,
calls,
trembles
brightly -
sunlight
tumbles
dances
water falls
and breaks
breathe in
mist
the
newborn air

Disc jockeys are a fascinating breed of people. Their jobs sound like fun, spending a few hours kicking back, playing music they like, chit-chatting on the microphone. Some have a fixed set, or lots of ads to play at specified times of day or night. Those with more relaxed jobs, and not much in the way of required airings, select this piece of music and that to please their listeners. Sometimes, when there is no sign that anyone is listening - I suppose the DJs play what they like to please themselves.

Some personable airwave stars work as teams, and entertain their listeners more with improvisational jokes and conversation than music. This is more like a show than the work of a disc jockey. The job of the DJ, locating interesting fare for an audience, can be an intuitive art, a combination of music knowledge and sensitivity to many elements within the recordings, and within the community. So DJs choose singers and bands and instrumentals and certain songwriters or themes - and listeners get to hear  and learn.

Another aspect of a DJ's work that's of interest is the way their selections and conversation interweave with the pulse of their community. The great disc jockeys seem to have an awareness of what's happening outside their little cubicle. One day, maybe it's a crisp day in fall after a long hot summer, and the music selections are fast-paced, and the DJ and listeners are running on the same track. One day, it's slow, and thoughtful, and maybe a little mournful, after the loss of a beloved public figure, or in tune with an as yet unknown event. There are four days in my own life that stand out, in part because of DJ choices of music on the radio, weaving so brilliantly with personal and public events. It's great to follow the path of a good DJ's music choices, to experience one song after another, a kind of journey.

Henriette et le lapin

an attempt at a poem in my limited French:


Henriette
cours sous la lune
elle cours au forêt
et près du lac
la lumière comme
un nimbeau délicat
Le lapin reste
sous les bras
des arbres grands -
il la regarde.
il s'amuse
et il la regarde
par ce qu'elle cours
avec le parasol
à sa main droit
sous la lune
à la nuit
avec sa parapluie
si. un ombre
ronde et gris
suit
ses pieds.
La jeune fille
avec
la parapluie,
sa ombre
maintenant est près du lac
maintenant aux pieds.
Le lapin la suit très vite -
plus vite et plus vite -
et ses pieds savent l'ombre
et l'arrêtent.
Le lapin gagne l'ombre
mais pas Henriette si vite -
le parasol
et la jeune fille
n'est pas visible
n'est pas ici

construction site

Day to day, I pass by a construction site with a very large and colorful crane. There is a big and deep hole like for a basement floor. I noticed of late that work on the building itself has started. The workers and the crane are building what might be a stairwell. What is new to me and of interest is that it is being assembled of very large, rectangular slabs of stone or something heavy like stone with a few notches and rectangular holes and such. Each segment is perhaps the height of the stairwell; they seem to fit together like giant pre-fab pieces for a three-dimensional jigsaw puzzle.

Many traditions last for centuries, or even millenia, and then, at some point, they fade away. When I was a kid around 1960, our town in south central Louisiana had a downtown whose main street was paved in brick, the local red-orange brick. Cars were becoming more mainstream, pedestrians less so. What came to mind today, though, is the image of nuns. Back then, most convent sisters, young and old, wore habits, a kind of uniform. At that time, the habits were long, to or below the ankles. The fabric tended to be starched. The veils not only covered the head, but came all the way to the face, with extensions that covered part of the forehead and sometimes the sides of the face. A small bit of shining face and twinkling eyes was thus framed in folded fabric. A wooden or metal cross was worn around the neck, or attached to a tie around the waist. Shoes were plain and sturdy.

The habits of some convents were black. Some were black in the winter and white in the summer. I think I recall some sisters who worked in hospitals wearing blue habits.

What is no longer visible when I look at everyday folks in town when visiting Louisiana, or here in Texas, is the sight of an occasional nun in habit. Many nuns now dress conservatively in lay (civilian) clothing, and thus can mingle without notice, which is fine. The old vista of town, though, had an occasional cloud or two or three of black floating among the other residents. A kind of peaceful energy seemed to billow about the fabric of the robes. People near them often spoke a little quieter, more calmly when nuns were evident. The sisters didn't seem particularly conscious of this, that they were like little stones, weighting things down a bit. They didn't preach, and some spoke little at all, but social disturbance rarely arose with nuns nearby. 

The everyday splashes of black in paintings and memories past were peaceful icons of piety.

Sometimes, I take the little things for granted, and today, I'm expressing gratitude for one of those little things. Since kindergarten, Crayola and other brands of inexpensive colorful crayons have been a part of everyday life. Sometimes brand new with conical points and fresh paper wrappers, sometimes worn into rounded pieces with bits of dust and debris imbedded in the sides, they work from start to finish. There's something cheerful and promising about a brand-new box, the crayons in neat rows, a choir of colors. There's something reassuring when you can find somewhere in the junk drawer in the kitchen, or in your desk, a few weathered strays. They're present in restaurants to give restless kids something to do, they're in your box of supplies as school starts at the end of summer. Crayons are really wonderful, like paint that you can hold in your hand, no drying necessary. From ages two to one hundred and twenty-two, rich or poor, anyone can be an artist.

7 by 7

When I briefly lived in San Francisco a few years back, I used a city map to find my way around. The map showed the main part of the city, much of which is bordered by water, to be roughly seven miles by seven miles. I'd been nervous about finding my way alone, but now, this news changed my experience of city life. Having been an enthusiastic hiker for many years, seven miles was not impossible! San Francisco was not so much an unfamiliar city, now, as a kind of National Park in my mind. No matter where I got stranded there, I could always find a trail, hike back home enjoying the scenery along the way.