12/25/23

Merry Christmas to all from Ugly Christmas Sweater Cat!

Just got Jeff’s new calendar for 2024, and here’s one of the best photos in it — these are Kokanee salmon heading upstream — in the Kootenays, B.C. So beautiful!

Jeff doesn’t sell these calendars, he just takes his best pictures and has them made up into a calendar for friends and I am lucky enough to get one every year. The above is the October photo.

My friends Jeff and Caroline were lighthouse keepers off the coast of Vancouver Island (three miles off coast from Tofino) for many years and had many adventures — they’re now retired and traveling and Jeff free to really work on his photography and Caroline on her children’s books. I’ll never forget the shot he got of a helicopter lifting off a gigantic piece of heavy machinery — an earth-moving thing of some kind — from the island. It was the Lennard Island light station. They were clearing the island of old junk machinery. They both had to do an amazing variety of things, including rescuing foolish people who thought they could paddle out into the North Pacific in plastic boats. I spent a wonderful six days there visiting them.

Here’s the lighthouse in snow, from about 2009 or so.

Very Christmas!

Merry Christmas! To all of you from me, my family and other animals.

We managed to pull off the cantata again this year, despite sicknesses and colds and flu’s and now one case of Covid —- the town is all lit up and several of us musicians are driving down to Sabinal to play for their Methodist church on Christmas Eve and then Christmas day all I want as a present is to be able to sleep in until at least ten in the morning! Won’t make it to San Antonio with Jim and Nadine and the darlings but maybe New Years.

And, despite all the tragedies —

Happy Hannukah…

Elvia is quite the traveler! This is from her South America trip — the presidential palace in Montevideo — she talked Jaime into going with her. Great picture.

And my travels were back to the Missouri Ozarks in October, finally posting pictures — susan and I used to camp out in the snow, sleeping on the ground — that was more than twenty years ago. Now we’re all glamping. This was a commercial KOA campground with authentic looking covered wagons, fully supplied with electricity and bathroom, comfy beds…so time passes and we get hip surgery and we like our warm beds. Also on this trip was Gini Barnett, Megan and Melinda. Fall colors were terrific and that’s me standing on the shore of the St. Francis River, reinvigorating, soaking up vibes from my home place.

Below is Gini Barnett, I opted to not even ride but we rented a golf cart and I drove Gini around the trails as she is recovering from a bad horse-wreck, she broke that left leg in several places and can’t ride, of course, so we explored the trails around Sam. A. Baker state park in comfort.,

Fall colors.

Belated!

I realize I have not posted pictures of my trip to Coatepec, Veracruz Mexico last August, and so I am just now getting around to it. I think it’s because I posted so many of the pictures to friends. At any rate, partially this is to assure people that I really do have a social life here, so many friends in eastern cities/large cities imagine that I live in a tiny hermit house far out in the wilderness and never see people or go anywhere and am totally without human contact or something. Really.

The Ortiz house/villa, and entrance, where I am privileged to stay — it came down through the family from Julio’s wife, Luz ‘La Guera’ Ortiz and has a fascinating history with several very funny stories attached when it was the only hotel in Coatepec and many outrageously wild parties went on there but that’s for another time.

Here’s Julio, one of my favorite people, brother of my friend Elvia, he’s an architect. He told me what project he was working on but I forget…

Elvia at the Coatepec market — she goes there every day and everybody knows her, knows what it is she needs for the day. I love the market.

And another of her brothers (she was the only girl) Jaime, who is an enormous amount of fun — he has a PhD in electrical engineering from an English university, I forget which one, and he told me a great story about being a consultant with the mayor of Jalapa, when we were all at lunch at a very elegant restaurant in that town, from which I did not get any pictures. Or maybe I did, I’ll look. Anyway he worked on El Farallon, (an island) Mexico’s only nuclear power plant, decades ago, and Jim and I got to go and stay with him at El Farallon —so interesting!

Best of all was a trip with Jaime and Elvia to the coastal town of Tlacotalpan, on a very muddy, mosquito-laden shore of the Papaloapan River where it feeds into the Gulf of Mexico —a mile broad — which was a colonial town from the 1700s where all the houses are preserved and painted the most fabulous colors. Preservation by means of the Mexican government department of antiquities, a very worthy use of the money. At any rate, the aristocrats of the 1700s and 1800s lived in these lovely places and of course the poor in jacales. It was a shipping port — I think produce from the interior. At any rate, it was frozen in time.

Y como siempre, desde los tiempos de Ulyses, la colgada secando en los techos, las banderas de los pobres.

When Jim and I lived in King William and I used to keep my horse at the Fort Sam Houston stables, a group of us used to ride on the grounds where permitted. Down into Salado Creek and around the edge of the national cemetery, where Jim is now buried.

One time when we were near the edge of the National Cemetery we saw a pile of gravestones, just heaped up, some scattered around, all broken. A retired Marine sergeant who used to ride with us. Don Diaz, rode over to them and looked them over and said, “They’re being replaced. They got broken or worn or stained and they’re being replaced, these are discards.” And he leaned down to read the names, as if he might know them.

Don and I used to ride together from time to time, just the two of us, and he told me a lot of stories about Vietnam. He didn’t mind telling me the stories because he knew my husband was a combat veteran. He said he knew a lot of young soldiers that got killed because of poor training. He said they’d been trained as if they were going off to fight a regular army as in WW2. He also told me good stories about growing up poor and Hispanic in San Antonio. I hope he is still among the living. He was a great guy.

AP photo

People who do stuff

I’ve been reading Rob Henderson on Substack, I like his writing very much. Like Paul Fussell (Class) and David Foster Wallace (A Supposedly Fun Thing I’ll Never Do Again) he writes about “class” or better “status” but from a relevant perspective. I would add that the non-upper/middle/class world — ‘working class’ and village and rural and small town life, the culture tends to form around what people DO.

The urban world in general coalesces around how people can appear and the culture urges an eternal struggle for social status.

Wallace wrote that we seem to be becoming a world of ‘appearers’ rather than ‘do-ers’.

So when journalists or retirees or anthropologists step out of an urban upper/middle/’class’ world into that of the village, rural, or ordinary working people world, they tend to assume that the social scene they have entered is also formed around how people can appear. They assume that the people around them are also in an eternal fight for social status.

They are very much mistaken and often come to grief because they can’t question their own cultural biases.

The culture of non-urban people is around doing stuff and doing it well. Sometimes fearlessly. The culture of the non-urban does not impose that terror of losing social status, of slipping down a notch, of social shame, of being ejected from society because of a non-approved-of signal.

When one does something and does it well, sometimes fearlessly, what one gains is respect, not status.

I didn’t get any pictures of the full eclipse but these shadows came through my windows from the trees outside. They replicated the progress of the eclipse itself. Very strange. The shadows — or light-impressions — on the red floor downstairs were when it was almost completed, making crescents, and the ones upstairs in the study were when it was at full.

I saw a clip from a pro-Palestinian protest at Chicago city hall and the screaming, yattering young woman (clearly a non-Palestinian) looked just like something from Skibidi Toilet.

The young men of Hamas were raised on the deeply seductive, narcotic pleasures of hate cartoons and the notorious ISIS murder/torture films, as Salvador Ramos, the killer of Uvalde, had fallen completely into the narcosis of various kill games on the Internet. People need to take this seriously. People can be turned into mass murderers of little children, into young men who would behead babies, BY THE INTERNETS’ MOVING VISUAL IMAGES.

Is it any wonder that both the ancient Judaic tradition and the Protestant reformation were deeply suspicious of visual images? How do we separate “this is information” from “behave like this, you can be a god”?

Got me.

I love it. It’s not hard to figure out. The screaming toiletheads like demented things surround us in present internet time, television time, raging, screaming, blaming, accusing. As George Will once said, ‘Anger is all the rage’. The Georgian man sussed it out and made it into a war and the people said Yes! By billions of hits.

The toiletheads advance out of nowhere in a state of head-trembling rage, shrieking incoherently, they are in such a state of ungovernable fury that their heads are trembling. That’s the real fascination — the trembling.

In some circles it’s au courant to go into a rage so intense that your head trembles. The toiletheads hate,hate, hate and want to puke blood on you. They come in squads, they’re all killed, they come in more squads.

So as for the basics; the toiletheads are all head and a toilet for a body. The good guys are all body and a camera for a head. There are no women. Well, one maybe.

The cameraheads are calm and emotionally contained. They wear suits, black gloves and don’t puke on things. They interact with each other. When their squads fan out they nod to one another, point, agree, coalesce. They work together in units like military people do, their camera-heads turn to one another, they give each other thumbs-up.

The toiletheads don’t interact. They apparently don’t see one another. They don’t coordinate their actions. They stare straight ahead in their flying toilets, bellowing and screaming hate (all of it unintelligible) doing the head-trembling thing. So they seem like a kind of fecal black magic chattering wildly at very high decibel numbers and hurl themselves in their flying toilets at the cameraheads and the monitorheads, inflamed with shrieking malevolence. They are in a state of extremely primitive emotion. The toilets are perfect; the fury is toxic waste.

It’s a relief when the cameraheads take over the scenario. They are calm, trained and manly. They have broad shoulders and narrow waists, their suits are impeccable, they move forward fearlessly into the Iwo Jima of the industrial-colored streets and take on the toiletheads. They blow them apart. This is their plot, to keep flushing the toiletheads down into some distant acid vat, with their neat black gloves they use the plungers and pull the lever or turn flamethrowers/rocket launchers on them. It’s wonderful.

The cameraheads are faceless. The toiletheads are all face. The cameraheads are silent. The toiletherads rarely shut up. The two sides are contrasty from beginning to end.

So that’s it. That’s the plot. Skibidi simply and brilliantly evokes very primal feelings and the very barest of epic bones. David Foster Wallace would have had such fun with this.

Really it’s the first vacation I have had in years. I mean just travel and fun and not having to do a reading or a talk, just enjoying myself. Meanwhile I am preparing to go — arranging for animal care, called Rusty Redden to bring a round bale to the lower pasture and Auriel will drop feed into their over-the-rail feeders every morning so they have Nutrena Safe Choice Original, water, salt and free-choice hay. Sooty goes to the kennel because if I leave her in the house with DT he’ll beat up on her. Girl Dog and tomcat DT will stay in the air-conditioned house all day, Auriel to feed them and give them hugs every day. They all adore her.

Sooty peacefully sleeping before DT comes along and pounces on her. Anyway, they love her at the kennel.

It’s 105 but feels hotter. I remember the time in San Antonio, when Jim and I were in the midst of a kind of constructional shambles, with one air conditioner for the entire leaky old place, when it hit 111 F.

This is DT plotting as to how he can torture and abuse poor Sooty.

Horses don’t seem to mind the heat as much as other animals. I’ve seen them lying out in the blazing sunshine at 100 F.+ snoozing away as if it were chilly! At any rate, enough about the heat — my lovely cool room in the Pink Palace (the Ortiz House across the street from the old Contreras villa, which Elvia now owns and cares for) coming up next week!