Bird Count

I never cared much for the Audubon Christmas bird counts we used to go on. It was more an exercise in others superior knowledge of Orinthology of which I was quite elementary. Invariably I would be paired with the Society expert's team and I would groan. Me with my weak Bushnell's, he with the Leica spotting scope, he with the Stokes and Peterson field guides, me with the Golden's. He with the complete life list sans the Ivory Billed Woodpecker, me with the Cardinal and Mockingbird checked off.

It was a tedious stop, look and listen. The call alone of birds counted so off we would go checking the list of unseen birds. I just watched him work amazed.

How could there be so many birds about?  

After a morning of identifying, me mostly tagging along and agreeing to the seeing, we would head back to compile our results. I never figured what good these counts really accomplished. I think it was more an ego or humility walk, depending on your knowledge of birds.

But being the competitive sort, it always did my ego good when as a team it was humbly announced we spotted forty variety of bird, even several no one else saw, far distancing ourselves from the other groups. 

For awhile there I'd be stoked. I'd determine to purchase that Swarovski scope and replace the Golden with a real manual, don the bird watcher uniform, down to the Columbia khaki matching hat, but by New Years, interest had waned.

Every now and then I would spot Jerry coming out of the woods beaming. How many did you see today Jerry? Just thirty-two. And you? I would mumble something unintelligible, quickly redirecting the topic. All about us the birds were apparently chirping, squawking and peeping, like from some unseen Kingdom.

I wanted in, I just didn't want in as bad as Jerry did. He said he was packing for a trip to lower Louisiana. Seems the Ivory Billed was reputedly seen and he wanted to complete his life list. 

I wished him well. I think I spotted another Cardinal on my life list.

The Year in Photography

I would liken it to the year in debt by not reading the fine print. Early in the year Ritz Camera had an ad, buy the Canon S110, get an SD card and Canon printer free after rebate. I fell. The items arrived. I used them. I went to redeem the $400 rebate by making a payment, thus owing only $185. Wrong. It was a $400 purchase card. Not able to make payment. 

Too late to send the stuff back.

Still in debt.

It was a slow sales year at the gallery, selling two- three with several small print and notecard sales. I threatened several times to pull out.

I won two ribbons, an honorable mention and a third place. Meehaw, the photo of Zoe the cat was also the FB most likes.

It was the year I signed onto fine art America. Thinking this would make selling easier, I only sold a phone case and an 8x10, not even coming close to making up the $20 annual fee to show more than 20 prints.

It was the year of estrangement. My photo friend Ron, who I figured was off key, proved it by lambasting me over my words, him unable to understand play on words or humor, taking me seriously, calling me a hypocrite and all sorts of things. I had to block him.

It was a year the laptops crashed and have sat in the shop forever, hoping they will eventually recover photos to the external Hard drive I bought with my 409 rebate money from ritz.

It was the year of the iPhone6, again, purchased with the rebate. Without the laptop, I have learned to edit on the phone by downloading from smug mug and Google plus photos I had saved, processing thru apps and posting. I also can print if needed via wifi and the Epsom printer. So, in reality, do not really need laptop, though do not really know what a print looks like in a larger format.

So, if ever I get out of debt and our financial crisis eases, 2015 I would hope to replace the sensor dust laden Nikon d3100, move up in quality to a d7100 or full frame, move up in quality from the Canon s110 to a Sony rx100-3 possibly.

I would like to be able to print larger and display nicer the gallery work, canvas or metallic.

My lens wish list would be a 10-24 and 80-400. 

2014

As the years speed on, it's always a sobering time, these last weeks of a year, to reflect. For many, it must have been another good year by the number of people who let Facebook make their movie titled, It was a good year. I haven't watched the first one and I won't. I never cared for those I call the rubber inners, those who, in their good status in life, usually measured in material wealth, have the penchant for announcing to all, via photo mainly, the good fortunes.

Houses, boats, cars, grandkids, wives, all smiling and pretty.

In another place I called it the form letter Christmas card we would receive, telling in long hand how junior is making all A's, middle is working on the Phd, senior just got promoted to President and the house down by the lake will be finished soon.

And we, in our Clarks cousin manner from Lampoon Vacation, look down at our two left white shoes and wonder just where we went wrong? We could never construct such an idyllic letter, what with the no job going on two years, the first estranged in Japan, the second holed in the room on video games, the wife working her brains out of town all week.

And so the rubber inners continue. 

Already the plans in the works for a New Years bash. I will not be invited. I do not fit the celebratory mold. 

In our usual routine, we shall sit dumbfounded til the twelfth hour, amazing at the masses in Times Square so joyful and hit the hay without even an old ang sine. Tomorrow is another day like they all have been since 2002, or whenever it was we last sent out that form letter.

Savvy Viewers

We are such experts at looking these days. We recognize immediately techniques like photoshop, HDR,over-cooking, monochrome, etc.

I use the tools to achieve an affect that an otherwise straight photo would not achieve. Seems some are suspicious of manipulation and have to ask, how was it done? What camera? Etc. That bothers me. They are focused on technique and not the affect or mood. 

I could post the same straight photo and guarantee it would garner little if any response.

The trick is to up the technique to a level where it does not get in the way. Difficult when working with a iPhone, all thumbs, free apps.

Huddle Up

Melanie, Jordon and I went to the Huddle House for breakfast. French Toast for me, steak for Jordon, egg, sausage for Mel.

Then to GNC for Jordon. Home. Trying clean the algae green pool. Leaves. Contemplating tree cutting. Meme came over for to spend evening. Wait for UK to play basketball. Strewing yet over FB and church friends silence. Aurelia poems, well, seems folks must think I'm writing them. Really wonder if anyone even reads titles and such. I post and immediate like tells me either you just liked to be liking or just looked at picture. Probably both. And too, guess I need to keep putting my name on photos. One asked if I took a shot. Again, an affront to me. How often have I ever posted some other persons shot? Heesh Whizard!

Hike

Spent two days early at Alligator. Some deer, few birds. After that elusive light and look. Resort to manual exposure. Down to iphone6, canon s110 and maybe the Nikon d3100 with 18-200 and 180mm in a waist bag. Need to get back deeper in cypress with kayak. I see the Marcellino photographer from down south came up and found the light and look. 

Gallery

Two days at the Gallery. No customers. Earlier I did sell a 12.99 print and a few notecards. Art done cheaply. I switched out most of the current work. Always attempting to guess what sells. The 12.99 i think was of our chickens.

Like Johnny Bullard said, who wants note cards of local scenes, said to be marketable, it has to be recognizable. In other words, not really artistic or creative.

Surfing on air

We are skipping Christmas this year. With Melanie gone, the home is a house. The snowmen she so likes remain in the shed. The snowman tree stored. When Landon was little we would play the Snowman VHS over and over. All these memories on top of the sorrows do not lift me enough to set the snowmen up.

I pray next year changes.

Again and again

How many times does a person fall? The amount of the leaves alloted to us in our yards? I get on track, get anger and issues under some simmering, and something else boils up and over. So I sit and stew, another leaf falls in the pool.

Left Field

I did not want to play baseball. I was afraid of fast balls. My Uncle William Clark, a semi pro ball player would visit us summers, pitching fast balls to me, stinging my palm, busting my lip. When we moved to Kentucky in my fifth grade year, that summer, my friends all played baseball. I wanted no part of it. There was a tall, black pitcher on the Reds named Sam I feared to face, another William Clark. But the boys of Wilmore talked me into it, telling coach to pick me, and so I became a Little League Cub. Being a leftie I wound up in left field, which suited me, far from the action as possible. I was a terrible batter with an .097 average. I cringed when the announcer made that known to all. I did all I knew not to play, but despite my lack of batting skills, I was moved to first base, another good position for a left hander. Now I was part of the action on nearly every play. I even had my dad buy me a Ted Williams first baseman mitt at Sears. I did ok, making few errors. Still I persisted in trying not to face the fast balls. I told my dad the coach cussed. My dad to my embarrassment confronted the coach about it. I never tried that tactic again! What the "heck" was I thinking?

It was that same evening we faced the Reds and their ebony fast baller Sam. I could hear my dad cheering. We were behind. We had two on base. I nervously came up 9th in the order. And there went that announcer, "batting .097, first baseman John Stokes." I did not expect anything different to improve on that fact. All other at bats were strike outs. Sam wound up with two strikes and the former cursing Coach gave me the go ahead to swing. I closed my eyes and swung, hitting to my amazement a ground ball between first and second. It got past the infield. With my running speed I made it to second, the center fielder dropped the ball. With two RBI's, the third base coach motioned me on. I rounded third, the ball was dropped again, he motioned me home. By the time the short stop gained control over the hot potato, I had made it home. My only home run! My only hit for that matter.

It was a score keepers nightmare to plot. We won the game, beating  the lip busting Sam and the Reds. I still have the mitt. One home run, two RBI's, improved on that .097 average.

Damn he was a good coach.

Journey Lost

Today I put in to delete the Lost in Florida and Journey with John Stokes pages on Facebook. It was a little viewed, little commented on page. I do not understand the reasons, I felt the content worthy, I suppose it wasn't.

So in 14 days from today they will go away. I keep the John Clare poetry page because I've long since given up on anyone showing interest in it, save for about 6 people. Meme Clara page gets interest because my mom is more interesting than all. 

Party party

Secular Christmas parties are the absolute worst. Rotund ladies in screaming to burst skinny dresses, dancing to some foreign drum, all too familiar to the clubbers, as we the out of touch sit back amused with the scene. Such was the hospital party at the Country Club last evening. 

It will be a marked contrast tonight as we attend our Christ's Felliwship "party" at Aaron's. We are doing the white elephant gift thing though, which I really dislike.

CC

Callie Curtis the old outside cat has nice green eyes. She is hard to photograph. skittish. Soon after this, she jumped off the lawn chair. 

2:57

Sandhill group silently flew over at 2:57. I only had the iPhone6 in the back yard. Quickly zoomed and got 6. 

Still too Soon

Too soon to return. I logged in briefly to see how many resoonded to the Robert Jones video. Only two. Again, that disappointing frustration. I deleted the link and logged out. It's futile. I am not ready to return with the anger still seated.

When the product you offer in retail is inferior, out of style or not selling, you have to take measures to unload it, to make room for something that will. You try and move it to a high traffic area, you dress it up, you mark it down, and hope it sells. I recall how joyful we would be when another store would take our 144 dog dynasty tees, selling off the shelf in their market. And so I seek a tee that will sell in my market. I have yet to find it.

Fast Fade

One email today. Six yesterday. I had to return briefly to Facebook to say I am here, not there. 

Treemie

Tonight I got to thinking back to Melanie and my first Christmas. We lived in the upstairs garage apartment of Mr Emory Gray on Camp Street in Lake City. I had as a bachelor finally secured the quaint one bedroom for $125 a month after being on a waiting list. I believe it was Vicki Morrell who lived there before us.

At the time, Landon was not due until August 25th and Melanie worked in Gainesville as a RN at Shands in the NICU. That is where we got the name for our little live fur tree, Treemie, after the preemie babies she nursed. In the painting one sees the trappings of bachelorhood in place, the running shoes, the barbells. On the curtain rod is her Cockatiel Hank. On the Sony 13inch TV is Barney from Andy Griffith. Her cat she bought from her apartment in Williston Callie and Andy my black cat.

The oil of the fisherman, my first painting at age eight behind Treemie along with the oil of Renoir painting from my Florida Southern days. It was a grand first Christmas in that wonderfully cozy garage apartment.

Much has come full circle in many ways twenty six years hence. With Melanie now working back in Williston at the hospital she began in, Monday thru Friday, it is like the old dating days of only seeing one another weekends.

I cannot say I am enjoying our arrangement. I am not working, being a houseman. I have not even the desire to set up our many snowmen we have. 

Perhaps we will find the time this Saturday. With our son and grandson away in Japan, having heard nothing from them in nearly two years, we sag terribly this year. We desperately need our garage apartment back!

Far Fence

As runners we always recall our first race. Monticello was the second move of my young life. The first was from Vicco, Kentucky to Sopchoppy in Wakulla County, Florida as an infant. This move came as a shy third grader. I missed my friends Sam and Robert. We could go and do as we pleased all over town with no concern for safety. We had the river and plenty to occupy our Mayberry like days. Monticello was cultured, historical and too large to wander. Making friends was difficult for me.

I did not fit in well and really did not know how. But I could run. 

The day came near the end of Easter break when our PE coach announced we were going to hold a race to determine the fastest runner in third grade. Everyone knew that was going to be Jimmy Haines. They did not know me.

The day came when coach lined us up with instructions to run from the building, down the hill, touch the fence and return.

I had no illusion of winning, I just wanted to not finish last. The whistle blew and I was in the pack but soon moved up near Jimmy. By the fence I had pulled along side him. We touched together. I was being noticed. By midway up the hill, I pulled ahead. I won by several strides.

There was some celebration, but mostly confusion that someone had outran Jimmy.

It was the in that helped me find new friends in Monticello. 

I went on from Monticello back to Kentucky to begin Fifth grade in Wilmore.

There were no races needed to fit in as I was now the confident champion from Monticello.

Board Walk

It was always a joy to land on Boardwalk in Monopoly as long as no one else owned it. Well, today after visiting Bob, I just needed a boardwalk to land upon. I thought immediately of the long, low winding walk on the Florida Trail at the entrance to the Ocean Pond Campground. I have been going here for years. I have shots of Landon, my estranged twenty six year old son, as a toddler on the walk.

Arriving, there was a sign on the trail. Boardwalk removed, swamp impenetrable. I had to hike in to see. Sadly, only a few remnant boards remained. Another destination spot gone. Bobs mind gone. Judy's plaque gone. What is happening here? A photo of how it was:

Judy's Tree

Several years ago Steve Williams and I had Bill Sepko route a nice wooden plaque that read Judy's Tree. We rode out in the Osceola off Still Road and attached the plaque high out of reach.

Judy Hancock was a passionate defender of the forest and all things wild. She died of cancer nearly ten years ago. She was Steve and my friend.

Today while riding back from Ocean Pond, I slowed at the crooked pine, given the name by the Forest Service, and I noticed the plaque missing. I poked around the base but found nothing.

The road has been resurfaced and possibly some worker was amused or had a girl Judy he thought would like it. Someone several years placed a mocking sign Mary's Tree down from Judy's and I tore it down. Perhaps Mary was exacting revenge.

I will know it was Judy's tree. I doubt few will. Just another among thousands.

Robert

Today in order to deflect all the pointed toward self lately, I drove out West 90 to Turner Road to my old friend Bob Jones.

Since last visiting several months ago, there was a difference in how he carried himself, his arms almost stroke like, limp to his

side. But what was marked different, was his advancing dementia. I tried my best to carry the conversation, trying to help him recall things. It was a futile effort. I hit a few times, but mostly it was long pauses. 

Bob and I used to travel all over, doing so many things. Running in and training for races from 5k to marathons. Going all over photographing. Painting, diving for artifacts, biking centuries, kayaking and canoeing all the streams and ocean. I had no other good friend, next to Bob. And now he is fading before my eyes.

Apo and Eis

Wednedsay of day one from Facebook began as all others. Zoe the little Tuxedo female who sleeps on my bed waking me before light to be fed. Buster and Orange Blossom, Melanies Orange tabbies, likewise. JT and Rocky, the lopsiosa and golden too. Callie Curtis the outside cat with the two Rhode Island Red chickens, Rosie and Roger. 

Then the coffee, Maxwell House in the Kreps, manual fill. Hazelnut creamer.

Today was Hebrews 12. especially laying aside all weight, distraction, and looking toward the author and perfector of our faith, Jesus.

Thus the Greek aphorontes eis. An averting or drawing off the eye from one object to another. Apo, a turning off the eye from all other objects, the other, eis, a fast fixing of the eye upon such an object and only upon such. 

So both a looking off and a looking on.

I am thankful for the three who took the time last evening to email me: Rosemary, Paul and Trisha. Rosemary an old friend from Florida Southern days, Paul, who I met while working at JCP, hiring his daughter and Trisha, whom I have never met, but through another FB friend, became friends. a kindred spirit with mine.

And so the sun arises gently, I must be off to greet the first Rays.

Grace

By Grace, the flower soared beyond the vase.

Or, the day daisy said I shall fly beyond the vase.

What would you caption it?

Originally this was used to signify my wife Melanie, suffering with H1N1, near death, as representing the lone flower, apart from the family.

What think ye?

This is with the flower in color. It tends to attract attention. Rosemary felt it distracts. I like subtle understatement.

What are your thoughts?

Hiatus

Today was one of those epiphany type days. It was not supposed to be. It began as most days had of late, getting up, feeding the cats and dogs, checking Facebook. After that a series of cleaning the house, the pool, the yard, checking Facebook. Two cups of coffee, posting a photo. Some food by noon, posting a poem or two. More housework and checking Facebook. Lately I had been growing angrier than any person should over a lack of reply, like or comment. People have lives. I don't. After posting a photo of Melanie's hand in Orlando with a time exposure of me resembling an angel above her, I broke down. It was brief but valid. I called out, Lord deliver me from this that I am. 

One offshoot was an immediate determination to cease Facebook, if for awhile, if not more.

And so I deleted all app's on my Four devices. 

I will try and go a month.

We shall see if I am led thus from the fix I  am in.

Crist... ians

What is it with my fellow nature photographer friends? What makes these purveyors of such beauty through their lenses, such liberal idiots when it comes to politics? And yoni a further note, why do they not believe in the Creator God, His Son Jesus and the Holy Ghost, instead giving descent to Gaia or evolution?
Beauty is beauty and God in his mercy bestows an eye to behold it to these artists. It is sad that they are blind.

Rivers of Life

I stood upon the Orange Hill Cemetery, beside my fathers grave, in a driving rain storm. Below me, flowing downhill, the middle road through the monuments became for a brief moment, a flowing river. And soon, the storm moved on toward the sand hills over Gulf Hammock and on out over the Gulf. Wet from the waist down, I walked with the flowing water down to the intersection where Melanies family members rest. I brushed the wet, newly mowed grass from their graves, pulled a few weeds, righted the vases blown over.
It was a quiet gesture. Soon the sun appeared and the river turned to road again. The clouds gave way to a clean blue. The memory of the river remained. The few slabs of those I once knew could again reflect the evening light.

As artists we are often desperately in need of recognition. We are gregarious types in our shy, reclusive natures, in conflict with the need to share our visions and at the same time, our hesitancy to reveal our inner visions, wanting to protect them. Some are not as timid, and throw it out for all, come what may, hardened ones, confident ones.

When I showed this photograph to one, pulling it up, my enthusiasm in no way matched his lack of. It was just another look and move on, another ho hum moment. One who would never consider getting out of the car in a cemetery in a storm with an umbrella and walking the entire length, enthralled with it all.

I just could not convey that. It was just a photograph that was not that special. What was I to do? Upbraid him for his lack of interest in walking with the dead beside rivers soon to disappear? A certain pity on my part, for me, for him, that I was 'this way', that he and most of whom I move and breathe with are, 'that way', an oddity among the normality, trying quietly to fit in, to sit in vehicles when rains come.

Beneath blue heaven

The last few evenings have been full of lightening and thunder and rain. Dramatic heavens. I have been for the most part unsuccessful in capturing lightening like I envision it. Long dramatic streaks. I try and anticipate and count between flashes, but miss every time. I try long exposures, but if too long, it wipes out the streaks. This was taken with the Canon S110 at 15 seconds on the limit of its exposure, since the idiotic Canon technicians put a limit on the ISO for long exposures, limiting it to ISO80, effectively negating properly exposed long exposures. The S95, which died, did not have this limit.
Some photographers use a lightening trigger that detects motion and trips the shutter. Perhaps I need one.
Nevertheless, it has been interesting, if not for anything, but to be out watching the awesome display of God's power. A power that caused the opening Gator Game in Gainesville to be cancelled.

Climbing down

Lately I  have been climbing all the wrong trees. Causing a disquiet spirit. A clamoring. This and that getting me out of sorts. I have begun reading at the suggestion of Jayne English, The rare jewel of Christian Contentment by Jeremiah Burroughs. So far it has helped to quiet the unrest, the wanting this and that, the anger over not having a Nikon D810 or the eye of Moran or a job or a retirement,etc.
Learning over and over like rungs on a ladder to descend and seek the dew droplets upon the ground, not climb in my own efforts toward the fruits of heaven.
I am not down enough by any means. I still go gee whiz when one of the photographers I follow posts a WOW photograph, which is daily. I still go Oh I wish when I see the dust spots on the D3100 I am using or the little Canon S110 that tries its best to please me. I still think what an idiot way too often. I still get near road rage when I am poking along and another vehicle bumpers me. I still savor good gossip, etc.
Like one of those sound boards musical groups use to adjust the music,God is turning all the clanging cymbals and tinkering sounds way down in order that Christ may gain the preeminence and come through clearly in that still,small,sweet acoustic voice.
http://www.preachtheword.com/bookstore/contentment.pdf

Sunday Ride

Following church Melanie and I went by and picked up mamma at Paula's and went to the Porter House for lunch. Following lunch, we rode around the countryside. There was a storm brewing to the east and I pulled over to the side of the road off Price Creek by Gabe and took a few shots. They looked great in the camera, the Canon S110. On the computer, not as good, not as intense, not as yellow in the field. I tried to replicate the look from the camera to the computer but couldn't. If I could figure out what was going on, I would be happier with the results in post processing. Perhaps a stronger program for post production is needed I am certain.

Toward Hors

My profile photograph, taken yesterday on the twelve mile ride. I have for over a month now been riding fairly frequently, almost daily between 6 and 7. I've gone up to twenty, but mostly around ten, to 90 and back by Cold Storage. I have only ridden Basso and will soon get Miele down and use it alternatively.
One or two times I rode the Giant Mt Bike around 5 miles. I cannot really tell I am getting in any better shape. For that I think I would need to ride harder and longer. My rides are mostly saunters, taking it easy, spinning up to twenty mph every now and then. I am continually on the look for sky shots and such. I am constantly scanning the little rear view mirror for distracted drivers. So far none. The route seldom varies as I do not care to ride down Price Creek in order to get to less traveled roads.
I am content just to be out and riding again, nothing grand. I had entertained the idea of riding the Horsefarm One Hundred again this October, but have for now given up on the thought. Too much time in the saddle to try and maintain a 16mph pace in order not to finish dead last.

Route Update

Today I took a ten mile bike ride out to the college to Cold Storage. Pitiful I know you would have said. I was just telling Peggy today we would start there, you waiting impatiently for me in your grey Dodge van, eager to get started on our seventy mile ride up to Taylor and back. She could not believe it. Well, as I struggled just to make the ten, I too wondered how.
When you were here, this Facebook thing we have now was not so pervasive. Your friends were face to face not like it is today. Oh, we may have seven hundred on our wall, but in reality, they are not really friends like the ones you had. It is more one way. I imagine if you were still here, you would be quite frustrated with it. You would update like you so much liked to do and you would get no feedback. I think you would be
un-friending many, like you did Al and a few when you were here.
I try and keep up with some that were on your route, but it is difficult. Professor I hear from every now and then. I imagine things haven't changed too much with him. Harry tells me he still has trouble adjusting seat posts and stuff you did so easily. I imagine his pool timer has never worked since you last fixed it.
Mutt is still around too, I hear from her every now and then, unlike you, who checked in daily. Puppy, I have lost contact with. As for the cleaners, it remains open, probably on much more prayer and expense without your continual fixing of boilers and pressers and various machinery. Rick continues to thrive with his sub shop, despite not having you to do cost analysis on every sub that goes out. I know he misses your running the operation for him.
Teri is still practicing vet medicine down in Deland last I heard. She probably has married the prisoner despite your vocal disagreement. I do not know if she still rides the Dawes you gave her.
I miss hearing that motorcycle glide up to my carport, knowing it was time for my daily update. I just feel out of touch and so much more alone, despite having hundreds of so called friends. But, like I told you, not really. Junk friends I suppose you would call them.....

Not the growing

Last evening the pastor said one of his concerns in his life is battling the need to see growth, the fear of never seeing souls saved, of growing in numbers. And I sat there and thought, well, he certainly needs to take a look at me. Four years plus of blogging and the followers are up to a dozen. Not about the growing, but the growing.
The men in attendance said, in so many other ways, there has been growth. And it isn't in just numbers. But yet, we look to the outward. To see tangible results. I have long since given up in making something grow of my own accord. If the Lord so wills, He will allow it. It is for me, a growth. In the journey.
The writing, the poetry, the photography, is a growth in grace process out loud if you will. I am laying much of it out there for all to see, if they just so happen to like it or just so feel compelled to comment upon it, fine.
But for the greater part, they will not. It is not their journey. They are more interested in their own journey.
I thought today while riding the bike. Wouldn't like on Facebook, it be nice if God would 'Tag us' when He had something to say to us? Instead of us going to scripture, searching, trying to discern, if on our app we would get that little notice, and we would know.
Today at the nursing home visiting Harold, he had his facebook page up. I noticed he had nearly ninety notices where people had commented or liked something he had posted. He had never acknowledged them. He did not know what the little numbers meant. I told him he had two people wanting to message him, and nine wanting to friend him. And he lays all alone at the rehab with no one visiting him but immediate family.
We are just as Harold is on Facebook toward God. In reality, He is continually messaging us, wanting to friend us, sending comments and likes, but we are ignoring them, or just are not discerning, not aware.
So all this blogging, all this poetry, all this writing, all this photography I trust is leading me to discern, to learn to listen, to communicate with the one who matters most.

Life Cyclist

How is it in this life we measure the men? By the wealth they obtain? By the influence they have? By the fame? In my life, it has been the cyclists in my life I hold dearest. Oh, not the speed crazed lung machines we see in the Tour, not the Lances and the Floyd's, cheating and donning an artificial laurel wreath.
From a boy in Sopchoppy, it has been a life upon a bicycle. Until I got the first cycle to call my own, I rode my sisters blue Huffy, even back then knowing I did not like riding with that top tube missing, but Robert was not judging, we just had to ride, and so we did all over Sopchoppy,taking our toys downtown to try and sell.
With my own Western Flyer bicycle with the top tube and the push button horn in the faux gas tank,that blue bike took me all over Monticello, canvases in tow going across town to Mrs Groves house for art lessons, to Marks house where I first learned there were other teams out there beside Florida State Seminoles and Fred, namely a Steve and some Florida Gators. From then on, it was a fight as to who would play Steve.
By the time we moved to Wilmore, Kentucky, I had outgrown the little blue bike. The first Christmas in wonderful Wilmore, with snow upon the ground, there beside the tree that morning in our duplex, was a Western Auto gold stingray, with white banana seat, three speed stick shifter on the down tube. I was elated and could not wait for the ice to melt to ride over to Stuart and Steve's up the hill by the Asbury college golf course. Many a day chasing Joker and Penguin on that Bat bike.
The bike came to Williston in 1967 when we moved back to Florida. The banana seat was handy for carrying Rebecca to the movie, one of my first bicycle dates. It took me to Chips, to Terry's, to Randy's, to school up the street. It was replaced by a three-speed brown Schwinn English style bike. This was the days of Thoreau and journals and the life of quiet isolation, and the bicycle took me, not so much any longer with friends along, but out into the lanes and back ways in my quiet contemplation.
There was another friend in town I did not so much ride with, but he too lived a life upon a bike. Bruce was the son of the local sign painter, Milo, whose motto was, "we made signs before we could talk." And while Mr Milo was about his signing, Bruce and I were playing tennis mostly in those later years in Williston.
I was about to start driving the blue fastback Volkswagen and moving beyond the cycling years.
The brown three-speed was relegated to storage.
Moving to Lake City after college, several years into the running road races, my friends Buddy,Steve,Mike and Forest began training for the new sport of triathlon. It was then I took the blue 10 speed Schwinn out that was my sisters, who never rode, with the baby killer shifters on the stem, and began attempting to ride along on their training rides. It was soon evident girl Schwinn's would not cut it. I gave up the riding and returned to running.
It was soon after Bob acquired a Schwinn chrome-moly steel racing bike with the shifters on the down tube. It was a thing of gaudy beauty with its lilac girlish colors. What were you thinking Bob? Well, we had a common friend, Roger, who also had one of these fancy racers, a red Vitus. It was then that they accompanied me to Gator Cycle in Gainesville where I purchased a yellow Cannondale. I could now call myself a cyclist again. With this new found Thoreau-like freedom, we rode far. We rode to Live Oak to the Boys Ranch to swim in the Suwannee. We rode to Monicac, Georgia just to see the pretty lady. And so we rode and we rode. The Cannondale was sold to a lady friend and I purchased a Basso from a college student leaving UF. It was a beauty, with the Campy gruppo. It was a sad day when it was stolen, along with the Schwinn bike Roger had given Melanie, my wife for a wedding present.
With another biker friend Rick, who was my insurance agent, he was able, with knowledge of bicycles of course, to secure for me, at replacement value, in 1991, from Colorado Cyclist, another Basso bike. The Basso Gap, with the Campy gruppo, of which I continue to ride.
It was one of the saddest days ever when we learned Roger had gone on beyond, leaving his Klein and many other assorted Vitus, Trek and Schwinn bikes behind. Growing myself too slow to ride with my faster friends, with Roger gone, I rode much less. It was a special moment indeed when Liz his daughter offered me Rogers old red Trek Mountain bike. With a blue and purple frame Roger had given me years earlier, I took the two bikes down to our bike shop friend Harry and he wedded the two, making one bike. Shaun called it the Frankenbike.
And so Sunday, as I stood in First Baptist and admired Bruces red Huffy bike, I thought back to all the miles, all the friends, all the rides, and I at once wanted to ride. It did not matter if it was on the expensive Italian Basso or on the lowly Huffy. With friends in the head wind, to draft behind, or to help them, making tail winds for them, there were lessons they all taught me, lessons I shall carry, way, way again I trust up to that pretty girl, with friends, with memories carrying us along, to make the seventy mile trip that once seemed so very far alone, but a short jaunt to Taylor and then on into those Georgia pine woods to Moniac.

Sunsets same

While my friend in Gainesville was no doubt standing in front of the same tree overlooking the same lake, I was again off in search of a good view. I was racing from the Winn Dixie after stopping at the lake to look, then stopping behind the high school, then finally turning down Press-Ruth road. The skies were brilliant. I tried to get the dead turtle shell in focus along with the sunset, but without being able to lay on the ground, it was slightly off. I took many other's, but this was the one where I tried to include foreground, midground and background in the scene.
My staying away less from FB has been somewhat of a success. On learning of the death of my old good friend Bruce Smith from Williston, I reposted the Song of Williston poem, and got Melissa to share it on the Williston page. I know that as a rule, whenever I post poetry, it is ignored.
We shall see. Not holding out great hope for much interest.
I re-hung photographs on the wall today. It was sad to me when I went outside to retrieve some shark teeth for Doug Hethcoat's grand daughter, who likes sharks Gerald said, that the photo of Nathaniel and I fell from the wall, the nail pulling out, shattering all over. It was a sad metaphor for our broken relationship. The gouge was on my cheek in the photo, the spot of the kiss.

Super Moon

Last evening cleared, unlike Saturday evening, and I waited after nine until around one AM in my sisters yard in town for the moon and any intersecting planes or birds. None came, well, two actually, birds that is, but I was too slow. So I reverted to my favorite cheat. I image overlaid the moon onto a long exposure of the trees in the VA parking lot. The moon would have been in that location around five AM, but I did not want to fight the mosquito's any longer.
I am trying to quit fighting. I stay so angry all the time with various things. Lately it has been with Facebook and the fellow photographers steady stream of amazing work. Then its the friends and their silence. One thing or another.
Aaron in the beginning of his sermon hit me on the head when he said, temptation can come in many forms, one being the temptation to pride and anger when one does not get the recognition he thinks he deserves. That is exactly what has driven me, a prideful attitude to garner likes and comments, and when they were not forth coming, an anger, a bitterness, a sense of failure.
Granted, most of my work and output lately has been off. Is it any reason? The focus is off.

Flowing Well

Flowing Well
John Clare Stokes

Once beneath the magnolia I remember
as a child a flowing well,
ever bubbling upward clear and pure,
a cool place to linger for a spell.

As a child I listened in the swing
on Mrs Mary's front porch,
I could hear the faint flowing,
clear into tannin black ebbing forth,

a remnant of a lane circling,
remains from a slower time and place,
native lime rock walls of the spring,
relics of a once often visited place.

With years the home of Mary fell,
leaving only her shady magnolia tree,
overgrown became the little flowing well,
lost in Florida beside the Sopchoppy.

Who remains to tell me if there
is yet a flowing fountain trickling
down the steep bank gathering ever
clear where the black snakes whistle?

Now I am old and my memory dim,
long, long since my childhood going,
this one request I am offering,
please help me find the flowing,

carry me quickly to the flowing well,
where I can again taste the waters
beneath Mary's magnolia forever to dwell,
ever young around the fountain pure.

This is another of those all true poems. There actually was, is, a flowing well. It was there in the 50-60's when we lived in Sopchoppy. If I recall, you could drive down to it, down the steep bank off the road. It was a sulphur spring, or pipe, that was always flowing. It was beneath the huge oaks and sweet gums, cool and shady. Some day I hope to be able to spend time in Sopchoppy and take a longer look see.

damsel arise

tonight i took mamma down to Gainesville to stay the weekend with my brother Lewis. it was raining on the way home. i stopped at the New Zion cemetery to check out the name of the person who had the john deere tractor atop their grave, that i entered in the farm bureau photo contest. i came on back from the far back and again, the dove drew me in. it wasn't till seeing afterward, what appeared to be another dove rising from the trees.
today some answers came. out of nowhere, razziel, my old roommate from florida southern sent me an email saying he was thinking of us and praying. i replied. that was good to hear briefly from him. two, Nikki texted me and gave me some info on Landon at Misawa. that helped.
so slowly, things happen.
i am one to want things to happen quickly.
i want the Lord to say, damsel, arise, now, not in the resurrection.
i learned or am learning, that people just are not interested in all my verbiage and carrying on with poetry that i do. i usually do it to elicit a response i hope beyond the ordinary, easy pretty or nice, but it never happens.
today, Tom Sturch, a poet I like, finally replied to something. He liked my selfie of my eye. it was about the only like. he said, greatest selfie ever. I even included what i thought a somewhat profound statement. again, ignored. totally. what's up with people?
too much time on my hands, too little time on their hands. i often forget that i am a bum and not working, but sitting here mostly typing and posting away, way too much for my own good.

Count it all joy

Melanie and I did not ask for or seek to be where we are today. She, working at a prison with two sore toes, me, sitting on the sidelines, watching the moon. But we are where we are, and we trust there is a purpose, a plan behind the upheaval. One thing I can certainly count all joy, is, while life goes on for many, as we see the vacation pictures, the family pictures, the ongoing happy, happy times, if not for this sideline position, I would not be sitting under these heavens praying for you, praying for my son and his wife and their son.
I too would no doubt be off somewhere lost in my own happy, of which I am chief, not giving a moments notice to anyone or anybody, much less praying with any fervency.
I was thinking this morning while mowing the grass of a particular loved one, whom I often looked to for help, who has again deleted their Facebook account, and "gone under". So I was thinking that often, in our mourning of the dead, the lost, we kill the yet living. It is my tendency too, to go underground, to blame everyone and everything for my situation, coiling in like a rattler, ready to strike out at any who would come near.
Even if my son never again communicates again with us, even if my grandson grows up never knowing us, even if I always am destined to moon watch, even if Melanie always has to work at a prison with two sore toes, it will not have been in vain. For, had these trials never occurred, I would never have prayed for you.
So, they say on the 14th there is a super moon coming. The Lord knows I shall be there, watching and praying for you. Counting it all joy.

Chasing Light

Tuesday night following the men's meeting I was on my way home chasing the setting sun. It was a losing battle as I could never position myself for a good shot of the large cloud in a vivid red. This was a quick stop on the Tustenuggee Road and shot from the window. Fortunate there were no cars behind me. Cars behind me always test me as they are invariably in a hurry and do not understand why I am poking along.
It was a long trip from Ken's house on Pinemount, to 90, to Bascomb Norris, down 47, across to Tuskenuggee at I-75 on 47, over to Watermelon Park and home via Price Creek, all for this one quick stop shot. That's how it goes, chasing light.

Burning Daylight

I have been three days running riding the bike, trying to return since a layoff or practical quitting since the passing of Roger Sessler, who pretty much I could count on to show up for a ride. And they were not just the ten mile slow rides I am struggling through lately. Seventy and more. Up to Moniac in Georgia, just to see the pretty clerk. Down to Wellborn where we would stop for a drink and ice cream, catching up on all the store clerks lives.
When I first started out with Roger, he was patient, yet stern, scolding me when I followed too close, did not maintain a good draft, did not signal properly, was too abrupt in my moves, etc. He was not one to linger and go my pace, it was up to me to keep up, and he had no problem leaving me.
In the later years, it was Roger who was now the slow one and we would linger, waiting for him to catch up after struggling up a hill. I recall the Horsefarm Hundred's we rode, where I struggled to maintain his pace, falling out on the side of the road by mile twenty-five, hobbling through the ride alone. And to Rogers last century, him to struggling last with Teri Harty pacing him.
There are so many whom I miss, who no longer ride or are now too fast for me the slowing one. So I ride alone. It is best that way, for I often have to coast and glide along, catching my wind, adjusting my seat that is oh so sore, until hopefully the old muscles will respond and once again carry me to Moniac and maybe even another Horsefarm One Hundred this October in Roger's memory.

GracePrideDay

Vera of the church of the holy rollers passes out distracts

You are not cordially invited to attend, unless you fit in, the first annual church of the only way grace pride day parade. We will feature floats and marching teams mocking about everything we deem not worthy of our definition of what a true church is. We will have O'Steen impersonators on hand, smiling and squinting to the spectators, tons of cowboy church horses and riders, floats throwing money from the wealth church, folks handing out free healing cloths from the health church, a tongue speaking band accompanied by clanging cymbals, and on it will go...bringing up the rear will be the true outcasts, a great float of witnesses, certainly not members of our group, but nevertheless, the many,many not associated with Sturgeon or the impuritans or the fellows on our radio only waves or the Armenians or the catholic or the fundamentalists or the methodists or the presbyterians and even not the Baptists who do not see things our only way. Great fun! Plenty of Pride on hand. Plenty of mocking to keep you knocking on our door, begging to fit in.

Cowboy Church

The smug are at it again. Making fun on facebook of other churches. This time, the Cowboy church. Sure, they probably have Armenian ways, they are probably in "error" in many areas, but what purpose does it serve to mock them? To make fun of them?
I have been guilty of making fun of Joel O'Steen in an equal manner, using a take off on his philosophy of your best life now with, your best camera now. It's in good fun, I am sure, like these folks thing theirs is in good fun...but again, to the weak brothers, it only serves as a stumbling block, confusion.
Our pastor, Aaron Turner believes the cause of Christ is much better served by dwelling upon His love, his call, making people want Him, not spending time mocking others.
I too will try and be careful of what I put out there for all to see. Like I say, I am guilty as charged as well.

He was dear

Beginning August 11th, this photograph will appear hopefully in the Farm Bureau annual photo contest. It is one of those, judged on Facebook by the viewers likes, like that infernal Ken Rockwell contest. Just a heads up to watch for it and like, if you will.
Taken on the 30th in the cemetery off CR241, I forgot the name. I will return and get the information off the grave, who it was buried there.

Over the top

Tonight upon traveling to town to Winn Dixie, I detoured at Lake DeSoto downtown. I stopped to photograph the sunset, with a neat Aurora Borealis above the clouds. I realized the limitations I am up against using a sub par camera. I am just too lazy to drag the D3100 along which is much more difficult to achieve suitable exposure for me. Then there are the dust spots in the upper portion of the frame.
Today Carlton Ward posted his equipment he is taking on another extended photograph trip. Where do these guys get all the money to afford all this expensive gear? In sarcasm I posted on his page my Canon S110, two batteries and the little jobo tripod. I said, this is my Thoreau kit of quiet desperation. I am sure he saw absolutely no humor in it.
I just want one decent camera to carry. I do not need an arse---nal. Again...thou shalt not covet.
You can see the one photograph from the sunset tonight on my John Stokes page. My brother Lewis used it for his cover page.
Until then, it had gotten one like.
The photograph of the day for me though was of Kimberly Johnson taken at Olustee back in February. The light was grand behind her, highlighting her hair. I waited patiently for her to exhale in the cool morning, to catch her breath. Rhesa Collup called it steampunk. It only got ten likes. To say the least, I am most disappointed in the photographers, poets and artists that I have as friends. Seldom if ever do any comment or give insight or suggestions. They are too busy promoting their own daily work. Here on this blog as well. I go to the settings page and it shows one visit, maybe two. I wonder if its not my own visiting and so no one is even pulling the page up. Allow me to continue my chronicles of narcissism voyage...
On the John Clare poetry page, I posted what I thought was a good, thought provoking poem contrasting Eden and Sodom, our journey back to Eden, through the Son of Man. It got the usual one like from Melissa and that was that. I deleted it. 
On Fine Art America, I got the stats today and the same. One look from China. China? Good grief.
Neither of the two people who said they were going to order did. I knew that would never happen, but there was hope.
On a brighter note, I sold two note cards and a print last week at the gallery. That was $39 for the print and 2.75 each for the cards. I am on my way. Over the top. All downhill from here.