What's New:
S.N.C.F. (Société National de Chemin de Fer) - 06/10/2011
by David L Nelson
P.O. Box 151558
San Diego, CA 92175
AttorneyDavidNelson@Gmail.com
www.FrightBox.com
(858) 452 4500
[Word, Featured, Poetry]
Ringless fingers
scratch nose
rub sore eyes.
Hours of FrozenTrees
Scream passed window seat
Misty tracks ahead
you are missing to me
close to station
Dive hotel, windows open
bedding slumped over sills
Cleaning lady
light blue smock
5'2" 190lbs
salt & pepper hair, bun
should be enjoying those golden years
beating dust
Spanish mattresses
unmade.
Linen business suits
Armani
black, stylish
whose spouses
know
and ignore
I almost wished I hadn't quit smoking.
Two day old
chewy bread loaf
stinky German cheese
bitter-sweet French cocoa
are no substitute
Hours of FrozenTrees
Sleep passed window seat
tuhthunkadunk paaauuse tuhthunkadunk paaauuse tuhthunkadunk paaauuse tuhthunkadunk paaauuse tuhthunkadunk paaauuse tuhthunkadunk paaauuse tuhthunkadunk paaauuse tuhthunkadunk paaauuse
by David L Nelson
P.O. Box 151558
San Diego, CA 92175
AttorneyDavidNelson@Gmail.com
www.FrightBox.com
(858) 452 4500
[Word, Featured, Poetry]
Ringless fingers
scratch nose
rub sore eyes.
Hours of FrozenTrees
Scream passed window seat
Misty tracks ahead
you are missing to me
close to station
Dive hotel, windows open
bedding slumped over sills
Cleaning lady
light blue smock
5'2" 190lbs
salt & pepper hair, bun
should be enjoying those golden years
beating dust
Spanish mattresses
unmade.
Linen business suits
Armani
black, stylish
whose spouses
know
and ignore
I almost wished I hadn't quit smoking.
Two day old
chewy bread loaf
stinky German cheese
bitter-sweet French cocoa
are no substitute
Hours of FrozenTrees
Sleep passed window seat
tuhthunkadunk paaauuse tuhthunkadunk paaauuse tuhthunkadunk paaauuse tuhthunkadunk paaauuse tuhthunkadunk paaauuse tuhthunkadunk paaauuse tuhthunkadunk paaauuse tuhthunkadunk paaauuse
Anza-Borrego: A Trail Tale
by Dillon Mullenix
http://mllnx.blogspot.com/
[Word, Featured, Poetry]
I was camping in the desert with my mother and her Guatemalan husband.
They go there to track immigrants from Mexico – they give these people food and water, and tell them to watch out for Border Patrol and civilians with guns, and poised blue water bins.
My mother and her Guatemalan husband have been doing this for years, following the tracks into the sand.
They have found graves and baby’s shoes, clothing, and empty water jugs – small wallet pictures of families left, but not forgotten, in Mexico.
We camped at Bow Willow.
There were some other people there.
They were looking for immigrants too, but not with the same eye or humanity – many of them feared the browns shadows in the darkness, the coyotes, and the white vans painted like FedEx trucks.
But they camped in the desert anyway, and at night they burnt big bonfires and shined bright lights into t he hills, and made sure they had pistols in their tents and dogs tied to chains.
We didn’t bring any guns or dogs, we didn’t even bring tents.
We slept under the stars.
I pointed out constellations to my mother and her Guatemalan husband, who himself had snuck across this desert some twenty-years ago.
They looked at the stars and the purple Milky Way and awed – it wasn’t their first time looking at the stars, but it was their first time seeing them, and as they looked on I told them about Mayan Cosmology, star maps, the World Tree, the smoke of creation in Orion’s nebula.
The three hearth stones and how the Maya centered their fields, lives, and rituals.
I recited the Popol Vuh as best I could – their creation story and mine.
I talked about turtles.
In our fire light a kangaroo rat emerged.
Then another.
They were not scared, and we thought how wonderful that was.
They scampered over our feet and tried to carry off whole tortillas four-times their size.
When my mom’s Guatemalan husband picked up the tortillas they hung on like pit-bulls with their little jaws and sharp rodent teeth.
He would grab their tails and make them leap into the air.
My mother laughed and laughed.
I laughed too as I drank beer by the fire, under the stars, in the dry sandy desert.
This went on for two days.
Playing with the rodents and watching the stars move in a barrel roll over the sky, circling the north star, drinking beer, watching for immigrants in the night, listening to the far off sand, crunch of sand beneath the heavy feet of weary travelers, smoking marijuana in the public bathrooms, laughing at small creatures again with their silken white and beige coats.
On the last day we found a grey fox dead in the road, its jaw twisted by the vehicle that hit it.
Its legs broken.
We found the tracks of twenty-or-so illegal immigrants who had been picked up in the night by one of those white FedEx vans by coyotes.
We found a hole in the ground where the rodents lived.
I marveled that more had not been killed by boots of angry drunks toting guns looking for foreign shadows.
We hiked to an Indian village and found pottery shards and stone tools, mortero gardens, and boulder caves that were used for rituals and shelter.
During this time the desert stayed bright.
The sand and wind caves stood still.
The ocotillo bloomed and turned grey to green.
The sage lay swept with the other low level foliage.
Reptiles bathed in the sun.
Men and women hunkered down in the rocks and waited with their children, thinking of the ones that died on the long trail behind them.
Trucks moved along lines like those of Nazca, compressing the desert soils like the faint highways of the natives, long gone from these parts.
All around us the quiet mountains loomed up, purple, red, orange, white, and yellow.
Then we left.
And it all returned to what it is now, a shunted memory.
by Dillon Mullenix
http://mllnx.blogspot.com/
[Word, Featured, Poetry]
I was camping in the desert with my mother and her Guatemalan husband.
They go there to track immigrants from Mexico – they give these people food and water, and tell them to watch out for Border Patrol and civilians with guns, and poised blue water bins.
My mother and her Guatemalan husband have been doing this for years, following the tracks into the sand.
They have found graves and baby’s shoes, clothing, and empty water jugs – small wallet pictures of families left, but not forgotten, in Mexico.
We camped at Bow Willow.
There were some other people there.
They were looking for immigrants too, but not with the same eye or humanity – many of them feared the browns shadows in the darkness, the coyotes, and the white vans painted like FedEx trucks.
But they camped in the desert anyway, and at night they burnt big bonfires and shined bright lights into t he hills, and made sure they had pistols in their tents and dogs tied to chains.
We didn’t bring any guns or dogs, we didn’t even bring tents.
We slept under the stars.
I pointed out constellations to my mother and her Guatemalan husband, who himself had snuck across this desert some twenty-years ago.
They looked at the stars and the purple Milky Way and awed – it wasn’t their first time looking at the stars, but it was their first time seeing them, and as they looked on I told them about Mayan Cosmology, star maps, the World Tree, the smoke of creation in Orion’s nebula.
The three hearth stones and how the Maya centered their fields, lives, and rituals.
I recited the Popol Vuh as best I could – their creation story and mine.
I talked about turtles.
In our fire light a kangaroo rat emerged.
Then another.
They were not scared, and we thought how wonderful that was.
They scampered over our feet and tried to carry off whole tortillas four-times their size.
When my mom’s Guatemalan husband picked up the tortillas they hung on like pit-bulls with their little jaws and sharp rodent teeth.
He would grab their tails and make them leap into the air.
My mother laughed and laughed.
I laughed too as I drank beer by the fire, under the stars, in the dry sandy desert.
This went on for two days.
Playing with the rodents and watching the stars move in a barrel roll over the sky, circling the north star, drinking beer, watching for immigrants in the night, listening to the far off sand, crunch of sand beneath the heavy feet of weary travelers, smoking marijuana in the public bathrooms, laughing at small creatures again with their silken white and beige coats.
On the last day we found a grey fox dead in the road, its jaw twisted by the vehicle that hit it.
Its legs broken.
We found the tracks of twenty-or-so illegal immigrants who had been picked up in the night by one of those white FedEx vans by coyotes.
We found a hole in the ground where the rodents lived.
I marveled that more had not been killed by boots of angry drunks toting guns looking for foreign shadows.
We hiked to an Indian village and found pottery shards and stone tools, mortero gardens, and boulder caves that were used for rituals and shelter.
During this time the desert stayed bright.
The sand and wind caves stood still.
The ocotillo bloomed and turned grey to green.
The sage lay swept with the other low level foliage.
Reptiles bathed in the sun.
Men and women hunkered down in the rocks and waited with their children, thinking of the ones that died on the long trail behind them.
Trucks moved along lines like those of Nazca, compressing the desert soils like the faint highways of the natives, long gone from these parts.
All around us the quiet mountains loomed up, purple, red, orange, white, and yellow.
Then we left.
And it all returned to what it is now, a shunted memory.
GO
by Dillon Mullenix
http://mllnx.blogspot.com/
[Word, Featured, Poetry]
Countdown to GO.
The trees line the wharf.
The ocean is turbulent.
A little girl with a pink dress
is letting the wind take the edges
up into the sky like a tulip.
She is unused – I want to use her
little body for myself, turn her
inside’s out. I smoke cigarettes
and eat pudding with grapefruit
wedges. This is life I say, looking
at the pink dress, waiting as the
countdown to GO continues.
by Dillon Mullenix
http://mllnx.blogspot.com/
[Word, Featured, Poetry]
Countdown to GO.
The trees line the wharf.
The ocean is turbulent.
A little girl with a pink dress
is letting the wind take the edges
up into the sky like a tulip.
She is unused – I want to use her
little body for myself, turn her
inside’s out. I smoke cigarettes
and eat pudding with grapefruit
wedges. This is life I say, looking
at the pink dress, waiting as the
countdown to GO continues.
sakura 2011 (part 2) - 05/10/2011
by hikaru
hikaru@photographsbyhikaru.com
[Images, Featured, Photography]
about the artist:
born in 1980 in san diego, he studied art and photography in high school and at grossmont college in san diego county. he moved to japan in 2006, and is continuing his career there. he published his first book of photos, "darkness" in 2010, and is currently working on the next one, as well as other projects in photography and other media.
Click here for more in the series.
-----
website: http://photographsbyhikaru.com
facebook: https://www.facebook.com/pages/Hikaru/122551891157290
book "darkness" is available at: http://www.lulu.com/product/paperback/darkness/12790661
on flickr: http://www.flickr.com/photos/photographsbyhikaru/
by hikaru
hikaru@photographsbyhikaru.com
[Images, Featured, Photography]
about the artist:
born in 1980 in san diego, he studied art and photography in high school and at grossmont college in san diego county. he moved to japan in 2006, and is continuing his career there. he published his first book of photos, "darkness" in 2010, and is currently working on the next one, as well as other projects in photography and other media.
Click here for more in the series.
-----
website: http://photographsbyhikaru.com
facebook: https://www.facebook.com/pages/Hikaru/122551891157290
book "darkness" is available at: http://www.lulu.com/product/paperback/darkness/12790661
on flickr: http://www.flickr.com/photos/photographsbyhikaru/
sakura 2011 (part 1) - 05/02/2011
by hikaru
hikaru@photographsbyhikaru.com
[Images, Featured, Photography]
sakura, or "japanese cherry blossom trees" are well-known around the world, but what makes them so special? the individual flowers themselves aren't really remarkable.
the trees shed all of their leaves in the fall and winter. and then in spring, the otherwise bare branches are covered in small, delicate, white or pink flowers before any leaves sprout. especially where many trees are growing near each other, it's a remarkable and unusual sight. add to that the fact that full bloom lasts such a short time (usually 2 weeks, max, and often shorter than that, if there's any strong wind or rain) and the fact that they bloom just as the temperatures are getting warmer after the cold winter, people feel the need to go out and enjoy the sakura (by drinking under them) while they have the chance.
the japanese school year and financial year both start around the time that the sakura are blooming, so it's a symbol of new beginnings at a deep psychological level.
incidentally, these trees don't produce cherries.
Click here for more in the series.
by hikaru
hikaru@photographsbyhikaru.com
[Images, Featured, Photography]
sakura, or "japanese cherry blossom trees" are well-known around the world, but what makes them so special? the individual flowers themselves aren't really remarkable.
the trees shed all of their leaves in the fall and winter. and then in spring, the otherwise bare branches are covered in small, delicate, white or pink flowers before any leaves sprout. especially where many trees are growing near each other, it's a remarkable and unusual sight. add to that the fact that full bloom lasts such a short time (usually 2 weeks, max, and often shorter than that, if there's any strong wind or rain) and the fact that they bloom just as the temperatures are getting warmer after the cold winter, people feel the need to go out and enjoy the sakura (by drinking under them) while they have the chance.
the japanese school year and financial year both start around the time that the sakura are blooming, so it's a symbol of new beginnings at a deep psychological level.
incidentally, these trees don't produce cherries.
Click here for more in the series.
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