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.