Maggie's Farm

Saw them last night. I think everyone still misses Duane, and Dicky Betts. However, they are wonderful, and they do some jazz too - they had a sax player. At the end of Melissa, every boat in the harbor was tooting. But Sonny Boy Williamson's One Way Out was my favorite. They played until 1 a.m. Live at the Fillmore? I was there.

 

1After the death of Saul, when David had returned from defeating the Amalekites, David remained two days in Ziklag. ²On the third day, a man came from Saul’s camp, with his clothes torn and dirt on his head. When he came to David, he fell to the ground and did obeisance. ³David said to him, “Where have you come from?” He said to him, “I have escaped from the camp of Israel.” ⁴David said to him, “How did things go? Tell me!” He answered, “The army fled from the battle, but also many of the army fell and died; and Saul and his son Jonathan also died.” ⁵Then David asked the young man who was reporting to him, “How do you know that Saul and his son Jonathan died?” ⁶The young man reporting to him said, “I happened to be on Mount Gilboa; and there was Saul leaning on his spear, while the chariots and the horsemen drew close to him. ⁷When he looked behind him, he saw me, and called to me. I answered, ‘Here sir.’ ⁸And he said to me, ‘Who are you?’ I answered him, ‘I am an Amalekite.’ ⁹He said to me, ‘Come, stand over me and kill me; for convulsions have seized me, and yet my life still lingers.’ ¹⁰So I stood over him, and killed him, for I knew that he could not live after he had fallen. I took the crown that was on his head and the armlet that was on his arm, and I have brought them here to my lord.”

¹¹Then David took hold of his clothes and tore them; and all the men who were with him did the same. ¹²They mourned and wept, and fasted until evening for Saul and for his son Jonathan, and for the army of the Lord and for the house of Israel, because they had fallen by the sword. ¹³David said to the young man who had reported to him, “Where do you come from?” He answered, “I am the son of a resident alien, an Amalekite.” ¹⁴David said to him, “Were you not afraid to lift your hand to destroy the Lord’s anointed?” ¹⁵Then David called one of the young men and said, “Come here and strike him down.” So he struck him down and he died. ¹⁶David said to him, “Your blood be on your head; for your own mouth has testified against you, saying, ‘I have killed the Lord’s anointed.’”

¹⁷David intoned this lamentation over Saul and his son Jonathan. ¹⁸(He ordered that The Song of the Bow be taught to the people of Judah; it is written in the Book of Jashar.) He said: ¹⁹Your glory, O Israel, lies slain upon your high places! How the mighty have fallen! ²⁰Tell it not in Gath, proclaim it not in the streets of Ashkelon; or the daughters of the Philistines will rejoice, the daughters of the uncircumcised will exult. ²¹You mountains of Gilboa, let there be no dew or rain upon you, nor bounteous fields! For there the shield of the mighty was defiled, the shield of Saul, anointed with oil no more. ²²From the blood of the slain, from the fat of the mighty, the bow of Jonathan did not turn back, nor the sword of Saul return empty. ²³Saul and Jonathan, beloved and lovely! In life and in death they were not divided; they were swifter than eagles, they were stronger than lions. ²⁴O daughters of Israel, weep over Saul, who clothed you with crimson, in luxury, who put ornaments of gold on your apparel. ²⁵How the mighty have fallen in the midst of the battle! Jonathan lies slain upon your high places. ²⁶I am distressed for you, my brother Jonathan; greatly beloved were you to me; your love to me was wonderful, passing the love of women. ²⁷How the mighty have fallen, and the weapons of war perished!

Jones Beach, on the south shore of Long Island (Atlantic), receives more visitors annually than Yellowstone and Yosemite combined.

Humans do like beaches. It's a big one, and a fine birding spot during the fall and winter. It's New York City's beach - the people's back yard, and one of the world's great beaches.

And no condos and no shops - the narrow barrier island is a 2400-acre NY State Park. It has some remarkable heron and egret rookeries. In winter, it's good for Snowy Owls, Rough-legged hawks, Gannets, Bonaparte's and other interesting or rare gulls, the occasional alcid (murres, razorbills, and auks), and plenty of Harbor Seals in the surf, which, at first, you think is someone's Lab taking a swim - until they dive. Plenty of Myrtle Warblers over-wintering on the bayberries.

But in the summer, it is Coppertone time - time to strut your good stuff - and no-one is stalking through the scrub and poison ivy looking for birds of the feathered variety.

Photo from the above link.

Here. What's the big deal? It's your own yard, and it feels cheerful and wholesome to have the summer breeze blowing past your private parts. And why is anybody looking anyway? Keep your eyes to yourself. What goes on in my yard, stays in my yard.

For Santay, Sasha threw on some clothes for the photo, while taking a break from lawn-mowing and dead-heading the roses in the most charming manner.

Who cares for your gardens in the nude? Or am I just lucky?

Reposted from June, 2005:

Music without Magic

That's the title of Hoffman's piece in the Wilson Quarterly. It mainly addresses the psychological effects of art music and the failure of much 20th Century art music to gain an audience. A quote:

But just how does our gracious Art exercise these powers? How does it comfort us, charm us, kindle our hearts? We might start our search for answers by positing two fundamentals: a fundamental pain and a fundamental quest. A fundamental pain of our human condition is loneliness. No surprise here: We’re born alone, we’re alone in our consciousness, we die alone, and, when loved ones die, we’re left alone. And pain itself, including physical pain, isolates us and makes us feel still more alone, completing a vicious circle. Our fundamental quest—by no means unrelated to our aloneness and our loneliness—is the quest for meaning, the quest to make sense of our time on earth, to make sense of time itself.

Where does music come in? Music is both a balm for loneliness and a powerful, renewable source of meaning—meaning in time and meaning for time. The first thing music does is banish silence. Silence is at once a metaphor for loneliness and the thing itself: It’s a loneliness of the senses. Music overcomes silence, replaces it. It provides us with a companion by occupying our senses—and, through our senses, our minds, our thoughts. It has, quite literally, a presence. We know that sound and touch are the only sensual stimuli that literally move us, that make parts of us move: Sound waves make the tiny hairs in our inner ears vibrate, and, if sound waves are strong enough, they can make our whole bodies vibrate. We might even say, therefore, that sound is a form of touch, and that in its own way music is able to reach out and put an arm around us. 

Read entire here, and if you have the time, read the erudite comments posted below the article.

That's Gaelic for "water of life." This site has the history of Scotch whiskey, known around the world as plain Whiskey, except in the US and Canada, where we also have cheap Canadadadian whisky for a cheap drunk, and rich, smoky, earthy, sweet Bourbon from deep in the Southern hollers. We like Maker's Mark, for bourbon. For holiday eggnog - any bourbon, and never rum. But Scotch whiskeys are the ultimate expression of the distiller's God-given art.

Reposted from Feb 20, 2005

This in from Vermont's Northeast Kingdom:

Ayup, well, I shot that fat sucker on Friday night under the barn light while the dogs were sleepin - a nice head-shot but not too difficult from the porch - and took yer advice and marinated that meat in olive oil, thyme and garlic and a bit of vinegar overnight - well, actually til this afternoon, then I gave it a hit of soy sauce and salt and pepper and threw it on that old -----   ----grill out back with a pile of hickory sticks - shagbark it was. Wasn't half-bad. Fancier and Frenchier than I'm used to, but not too bad. Jes don't give me that shallot -----, or tell me to cook my raccoon rare, or over meskeet. Food is done when it is cooked, and if I find some meskeet in my woods, I'll try it. But I ain't goin that far Frenchie. That was a fat son of a b. - got my supper for the next three days too, ayup.

For more of his stuff, click here. He has not written for Maggie's, really, since he got hitched. Maybe he will write some more after the honeymoon phase is over.