Category Archives: Abstract Photos

Where the world begins

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There is a place where the sunrise shines despite storm clouds.

The sun rising behind a growing storm with Interstate 20 running headlong beneath it toward East Texas (20080809_10444)

There is a place where Spanish moss drips from the trees.

Spanish moss (Tillandsia usneoides) growing from a tree limb over the bayou (20080809_10497)

There is a place where barbed wire restrains nothing more dangerous than bales of hay.

Barbed wire running in front of a pasture containing nothing but hay bales (20080809_10530)

There is a place where water lilies contain the hope of every morning.

A water lily bloom and pads (Nymphaea sp.) floating in weak morning light (20080809_10483)

There is a place where hummingbirds throughout the day join an endless procession of their brethren in a waltz that blankets the sky.

A hummingbird (unidentified) perched atop a wire (20080809_10683)

There is a place where arachnids lie in wait to ambush innumerable interlopers.

A green lynx spider (Peucetia viridans) waiting on a leaf to ambush prey (20080809_10704)

There is a place where deer prance through the pastures as though they haven’t a care in the world.

A female white-tailed deer (Odocoileus virginianus) trotting through the trees of a pasture at the family farm (20080809_10803)

There is a place where passion flowers bloom wild and offer their fruit to all who are interested in partaking of the bounty.

A purple passion flower (a.k.a. Maypop; Passiflora incarnata) in full bloom at the family farm (20080809_10613)

There is a place where alligators, beavers and otters bring life to tranquil waters.

There is a place where great horned owls, bald eagles and great blue herons join vultures in ruling the sky both day and night.

There is a place where gargantuan moths, beetles and spiders reign amongst endless foliage that stretches verdantly in all directions.

There is a place where the highway ends and the world begins.

There is a place where I want to live that becomes wonder regardless of how the word is defined.

This will be my home.

[all photos taken yesterday during my trip to the family farm in the Piney Woods of East Texas]

Stillness

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Too often we humans don’t recognize those times when we need to be still, need to be reserved.  We rush from moment to moment, thought to thought, feeling to feeling, and so we cram full each day with a menagerie of events that become distorted, dislocated.  Is it any wonder we find life so stressful, too busy and painfully hectic?

Dew on a blade of grass (20080629_08460)

This constant sprinting, both literally and figuratively, poisons the water of life that streams beautifully from day to day, and later as we find our way further downstream we discover the toxins we spilled long ago have dashed our hopes against jagged rocks and left us empty, wanting, sans direction for our intent already lost to footsteps we can no longer retrace.

A clear stream (20080727_10301)

A six figure salary in my twenties filled my pockets with silver I had no time to spend, and all the while it emptied my soul of joy.  I forgot how to be still, how to watch the sun set and rise, how to let waves against the shore lull me to that peace found only in calm.

An empty pier somewhat hidden behind reeds (20080726_10007)

Now approaching forty years of age, I look back along the banks of my life’s river and feel dismay at the chaos.  Clear, smooth waters gave way to dark, rushing torrents clouded by confusion and disorientation.  The songs of tranquility vanished long ago beneath the deluge of diligence, greed, industriousness.

An empty set of swings in a park devoid of life and movement (20080727_10218)

So now the dredging begins, the cleaning of a river that spilled over with life so many years ago yet now smells of ruin and decay.  It’s time to find the stillness again, find the wherewithal to stand firm and quiet when the world demands activity and noise.  It’s time to rediscover the serenity I once enjoyed.

A creek running through lush vegetation (20080713_09755)

Perhaps then the waters will clear, vitality and verve will surround its banks once again, and I can feel this has become my life once more, my destiny, my waterway of living that will be as beautiful and alive at its end as it was at its beginning.

Stones partially submerged in still water (20080727_10236)

I just need to be still…

Where the wind blows

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Sometimes we go where the wind blows and sometimes we stand in defiance of it.

A sailboat riding the choppy waters of White Rock Lake (20080628_08264)

I’m too tired, too angry, too beleaguered to have much thought at the moment.  Like the people in that sailboat, right now I’m at the mercy of my own tumultuous winds.

Flogging myself, and other fecund reflections

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Induced to blog as often as possible by nothing less mundane than excuses heaped upon excuses slathered atop yet more excuses, I considered more often than not of late the immediate demise of this journal and its offspring.

Instead, like so many times before—but this time with far more fervency than previous considerations, I am committing myself to certain rules that must be adhered to if I am to finish Dreamdarkers, End of the Warm Season, the other novels I wish to write, and all while addressing my relocation away from Dallas to the Piney Woods of East Texas.

xenogere will be first and foremost a less frequent destination, fare being proffered every two or three days at most, more frequently from time to time if circumstances warrant.  This begins immediately.  (Keep in mind that I will be apt to post more often while on call for work since that task makes it impossible to focus on any serious writing efforts.)

With push technology (RSS) now defining the blogosphere and all other corners of Web 2.0, I doubt the change will impact many.

xenogere unseen will continue in the same spirit with which it began: I will post there when I have something to share.  That determination rests entirely on how much time I think is needed to tender something.

Another piece of this is a further reduction in the number of blogs I read.  I hate to leave behind any of them; doing so is necessary though, and will take place.  Basically, this is a subjective endeavor and cannot be defined by any set rules.  What goes will go and what stays will stay.

— — — — — — — — — —

The cicada killer numbers are greatly reduced this year.  I suspect this has much to do with the monsoon season we experienced last year.  So much rain for so many months diminished the number of cicadas, and that in turn reduced the number of wasp offspring buried for this summer’s spell.

They still swarm with great presence, just not as great as so many summers before.  Likewise, the song of cicadas appears drastically lessened now, a sign that the annual species suffered under the constant deluges that besieged our state throughout most of their usual period in 2007.

A male cicada-killer wasp (Sphecius speciosus) perched on a leaf (20080615_06805)

Climactic decreases notwithstanding, the wasp colony fully stretches around three sides of the house, from the north corner of the garage on the east side to the north corner of the patio on the west side, consuming three full quarters of the perimeter.  I intend to enjoy this marvel of nature as much as possible since I fear I may never wallow in their company again, what with my relocation taking me to places where I have never seen their kind.

— — — — — — — — — —

I don’t feel well again.  Or still.  It doesn’t help that I worked until three this morning and am so tired that I can barely stand.

What’s up with that?

— — — — — — — — — —

I shall miss this place, this magical realm wherein I lose myself all too easily, this fantastic oasis of nature so neatly contained by urban sprawl and city landscapes.

The confluence in Sunset Bay at White Rock Lock as the sun rises to the east and lush greenery surrounds the placid waters (20080614_06545)

Memories immemorial surround it, memories new and old.  Too long have I dwelt here.  And too little time have I spent amongst the beauty that defines this space.

Yet right there, just beyond a stone’s throw rests that which I hope to escape.

Downtown Dallas viewed from the east shore of White Rock Lake (20080518_05579)

Ah, how I shall miss this place.

— — — — — — — — — —

Many things must be left behind, like relatively short commutes to visit loved ones, quick jaunts to see those who care for The Kids, all a metropolitan area provides for those in need…  The list goes on.

— — — — — — — — — —

Can one truly survive when the nearest liquor store is 30 minutes away?

— — — — — — — — — —

No matter how many times I tell myself it pays the bills, I hate my job.  Too many times have I considered giving notice—or no notice—just to get out of there.

It won’t be missed.  At all.

The people?  Yes, at least some of them, but not the environment, not the work, not the hours, not the pay, not the callous disregard, not the token gestures, not any of it.

I despise it.  I intend to make that clear in my closing remarks.

— — — — — — — — — —

How will they deal with this?  The Kids, I mean.

How do I move then almost 200 miles?  How do I ensure their continued well-being given so many health concerns?  How do I provide the kind of home they deserve and need whilst tossing away the comforts of a now-life for the promise of a then-life?

who’s most afraid of death?

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who’s most afraid of death?  thou
           &nbs p;           &n bsp;                       art of him
utterly afraid, i love of thee
(beloved) this

A great egret (Ardea alba) walking through the marshes of the Sunset Bay confluence at White Rock Lake (20080518_05676)

           &nbs p;       and truly i would be
near when his scythe takes crisply the whim
of thy smoothness.  and mark the fainting
murdered petals.  with the caving stem.

Looking up the trunk of a massive eastern cottonwood (Populus deltoides) near the shore of White Rock Lake (20080518_05474)

But of all most would i be one of them

round the hurt heart which do so frailly cling… .
i who am but imperfect in my fear

Or with thy mind against my mind, to hear
nearing our hearts’ irrevocable play—
through the mysterious high futile day

A lone sailboat moving wistfully across White Rock Lake (20080518_05565)

an enormous stride
           &nbs p;           &n bsp;  (and drawing thy mouth toward

my mouth, steer our lost bodies carefully downward)

An empty bench sitting under a tree on the shore of White Rock Lake (20080518_05489)

[poem is “who’s most afraid of death? thou art of him” by e.e. cummings]