The Squeeze - Republished

Excerpt from Advanced Aquarists Online Magazine:

"With very few exceptions octopuses are phenomenal escape artists, and even a large octopus (some of mine have had a head the size of a large grapefruit and been nearly 3 feet in diameter when spread out) can easily make a home out of a long-neck beer bottle! For a simple rule-of-thumb to suggest to hobbyists, I generally say that if you can stick your pinky finger into a hole, your octopus will be able to crawl through it."

Tim Burton's Vincent - Republished

Vincent is a 6 minute stop-motion film written, designed and directed by Tim Burton. It portrays the macabre fantasy world of Vincent Malloy, a young boy obsessed with being "just like" Vincent Price.

The film's narrative consists of a poem written by Tim Burton and narrated by none other than Vincent Price himself.

Macabre Satisfaction - Ramalama - Republished

This dance routine was choreographed by Wade Robson. Between his macabre choreography, the sepulchral makeup, the freakish costuming and the bizarre music of Roisin Murphy, I found the whole dance number to be incredibly mesmerizing and thoroughly, albeit oddly, entertaining.

The Hummingbird & The Flower - A Love Story - Republished

This is another* wonderful dance routine choreographed by Wade Robson. Wade and his wife, Amanda, blend this magical choreography with a haunting choice of music, simple costume design, inventive hair styling and iridescent makeup to create another* memorable, mesmerizing and superbly entertaining dance number.

The Hummingbird & The Flower

A Love Story

Dancers:
and Jaimie Goodwin

*See prior Wade Robson post, Macabre Satisfaction, dated August 19, 2006.

Fur & Feathers - A Friendship - Republished

The Naked Eye Of The Needle - Republished

Willard Wigan continues to amaze me, not only his art, but his journey as well. His artwork and his life have a common thread . . . creating a masterpiece from what others might consider to be nothing at all.

The Microscopic Sculptures of Willard Wigan
(from Amazing Planet - includes video from ABC's June 20, 2007 Newscast)
Photo © CBBC Newsround

Dustin Black's Oscar Acceptance Speech - Republished

Watch this inspiring speech and, if you are so inclined, sign the thank you note and invite your friends to watch the video as well.

Dustin Black's powerful and poignant Oscar acceptance speech
for Best Original Screenplay.



Send your thanks to
Dustin Lance Black, Sean Penn
and Cleve Jones for making "Milk" possible.
www.couragecampaign.org

Mare's Tails - Republished

The wind was howling in Malibu today. A eucalyptus tree toppled over and barely missed the house it once shaded. Down by the beach, consecutive gusts created rivers of blowing sand that swept over the ground and erased footprints within its path. Mare's tails were blown in long wisps atop the crest of each wave.

In the early afternoon, there was a low tide, a negative tide of close to two feet. Taking photographs of the tidepools and experimenting with my new camera seemed to be a great idea at the time. Of course, that was before the wind started showing some major attitude.

Although grains of sand sometimes ended up in my eyes and my skin was sometimes abraded by the relentless blasts, pictures were on my mind, and somehow or another I planned on taking those photos. And, I did. And, it was a lesson in futility, especially when attempting to take pictures of wildlife while being blown sideways, backward, forward, you name it.



Was it worth it? Well, it kept me busy for two hours, and it was good exercise. What struck me as odd was that a couple of guys on horseback would ride by the day after I published the post about Apollo. I'm unaccustomed to that sight. Maybe it's a sign. Ha!

Palisades Rat Pack - Republished

Two old ladies lovingly fed rats,
turning a home in one of the nation's priciest enclaves
into Willard. Health officials let them.

Rathouse of the Palisades
by Max Taves
LA Weekly - July 30, 2008

I'm Only Four - Republished

For years, I've been telling friends that "I'm only four." And, for years, many of my friends have nodded their heads, laughed, and not known the origin of my words.

At long last, my friends will be able to unravel the mystery behind my words.

I invite you to watch, Munro, the 1961 Academy Award Winner for Best Animated Short Film.



Pssst. I'm still only four.

Reluctantly Letting Go - Republished

Letting go of any friendship is difficult, even one that has become rancid.

An old friend of mine no longer sees me in a positive light. The sparkling eyes from the laughter that my friendship once brought is gone. My presence is no longer acknowledged or welcome. No smiles. No willingness to hug or be hugged. Decades ago, that was not the case. Decades.

To be condemned for my weaknesses while neglecting to recognize and embrace my strengths causes me pain. It angers me as well, since it has taken years for me to see myself as the good and loving person that I am, to see all the beauty that I bring to this world and to those whose lives I touch.

Given the circumstances, it is no wonder that we are no longer able to bring out the best in each other. I mourn the loss nonetheless.

Ballerina Carla

During my early college days in the mid-1970s, there were several young ladies who I was privileged enough to have as my friends. The one who most stands out in my memory, however, is Carla.

To me, Carla was magical. Humble, kind, supportive and loving, she quickly found a special place in my heart where she still resides. She treated me as if she were my big sister and helped me through a tumultuous period in my life.

Carla had been an aspiring dancer and understood loss. A car accident injured her back so severely that it ended her dreams of being a dancer. The physical injury also left lasting emotional scars along with it.

Little did I know --- or, perhaps more aptly put, what I failed to consider --- was that my birthday gift to her would open those scars to such a degree that her wounds would be made fresh again, causing her to recoil from me in a flood of tears and flee from the gaze of her other birthday guests. How could I have been so blind?

It was a poem that inflicted so much pain. My poem, a birthday poem, which I wrote for her and her alone. A special poem, a sonnet, each line starting with a letter that formed the words, "Ballerina Carla." So thoughtful, so personal --- too personal, and ultimately, thoughtless.

The poem is still in my possession, safely tucked away where it can cause no further damage. Only the last two lines echo clearly in my mind.

Life is her stage; her heart has prancing feet,
And dance, she will, until life's rivers meet.

My guess is that her grief prevented her from ever seeing those two lines.

The Perils of Poetry - first in a series.

My Selene

At a distance, you would not think of her as miraculous with most of her body draped a drab, olive green. As you neared her, you might notice, if you cared to notice, the bright splashes of lemon yellow gracing the very top of her head and the tips of her shoulders, as if the very contrast beckoned you to take a closer look.

Certainly, if you were lucky enough to chance upon her as she awakened from her afternoon nap, stretching her body before you, there would be no doubt of her unique beauty. A stunning column of color, peeking from her back in a vivid, turquoise blue, would reveal itself, drawing you even nearer to her.

Only then would you see the glorious blanket of green, clothing her chest, a vision more striking than the young blades of grass in spring. Your eyes would follow that lush carpet down her full length where you could delight in yet another outburst of sunlight, as if she were adorned with a pair of matching golden anklets.

Closer still, you would stare, transfixed upon this living jewel. With the wonder of a child's eyes, you would linger, devouring every detail of her. Elaborate, ornate, you would savor the fine weave, her tapestry of color, the intricate, interlocking threads symmetrically displayed, lovingly joined together.

And, if you dared, with the curiosity of a toddler's touch, you would caress her delicate fabric, the soft sensation capturing the fascination of your fingertips. Spellbound, you would be.

Then, spontaneously, inexplicably, you would lift it, as if an individual strand of hair, almost weightless in your hand, and marvel at one, just one, of her multitude of treasures, and this, a single feather.

Apollo

It was rapture at first sight. Handsome, mesmerizing, radiant. He was all of this and more as he pranced around the paddock. His rump reflected the warm rays of the morning light with the metallic sheen of a newly minted copper penny. Surely, an Olympian; a Greek god with hooves.

"Apollo. That's what I'll call him."

A four-year-old strawberry roan Appaloosa gelding. He was one quarter Arabian with a blaze on his face in the shape of a broad dagger bearing a cross on its hilt.

Green broke and proud cut. That's what the man who sold him to us for $500.00 had said. Those terms were foreign to me, but not for long. Apollo had some lessons to teach me; and, he taught me well, often with very little warning.

Happy Birthday, My Brother

Craig, the lost soldier…

You are the dead horse, which I’ve continued to beat to death over the years. I would like to say that I’ve run out of whips, but I haven’t. I find myself searching for bits and pieces about you and your family from time to time. Your boys are grown up; my nephews, but not my nephews; at least one of them is married. I saw the oldest when he was an infant and teething, but that was decades ago.

Do you remember that courtroom hearing long ago, which changed both of our lives? You were old enough to know what I was unable to comprehend, that I was not your “real” sister, that your dad, Arnold “Arnie”, had just adopted me at the tender age of 4, that your dad was not my “real” dad.

You and I were in the backseat of the car, when our argument started. You barked rebelliously. “He’s not your dad! I’m not your brother!”

“You are, too, my brother! He is, too, my dad!”

Again, you barked, “You’re not my sister! You’re not his daughter!”

“Liar! Mother, tell him to stop! Make him stop!”

Mom gave you a look that made your blood run cold, “Craig…”

You were in big trouble. She used your full name. I don’t remember what she said that made you stop dead in your tracks, but I remember the look in her eyes. The look said, “Don’t you dare cross me, or there’ll be hell to pay.”

Only vaguely do I remember that you were sworn to silence, that you were told never to bring up the topic of my paternal descent again. And, you didn’t. From that day forward, the subject of my adoption was locked safely away; referring to Arnie as my dad remained uncontested; and, you always referred to me as your sister. Not until my twenties would you put the word, step, in front of sister, a day that I remember well along with the shock and hurt.

You are now a Master Sergeant in the National Reserve. Your days of military school, of playing Combat on the lawn with your friends, of volunteering in the Reserve Officers Training Corps (ROTC) have become a reality. It’s no surprise to me. I’m glad that you followed your heart, what belonged to you and no one else, what no one else could touch, what was sacred to you.

You might think that I've forgotten by now, that I've managed to let go of you and of my memories of you, but I haven't. My heart won't let me forget. Step-sister or not, there's a bond that I am unwilling to break, a love that I refuse to extinguish.

I love you, Craig, and I wish you on this birthday what I have always wished you, only the best and all the blessings that life has to offer you and your loved ones.

Happy birthday, my brother...

Rising From The Ashes

The majority of my time for the past two days has been spent at the Sylmar Recreation Center. This is where Saint Didacus Church has organized a tremendous donation effort for the Oakridge Mobile Home Park residents who lost their homes in this month's firestorm. Close to 500 homes (approximately 90 percent of the community) were destroyed or damaged.

A & L - 'Til Death Do Us Part
A and L are married. They are a young couple, perhaps in their mid-thirties. L has been diagnosed with stage 4 cervical cancer, which has spread to her ovaries. She has already lost weight. Her clothing disguises the significant weight loss. She knows that she is dying and candidly states that to me.

What she next relates to me, however, sends shock waves through me. She tells me that Medi-Cal either won't or doesn't cover the treatment that she believes would cure her. In essence, as a result of what Medi-Cal will or will not cover, Medi-Cal has signed her death sentence. I look at her in disbelief. Yet, she shows acceptance of her fate and displays no self-pity.

Soon after this, L asks timidly and politely if it's okay to take one of the donated items. I am in awe. I tell her that everything around her is there for her and for the other fire victims as well.

Her husband, A, is equally polite and thanks me for whatever assistance I provide him regardless of the task involved. He is not at all prideful and willingly sorts through various undergarments to find anything that might fit his ailing wife. It is apparent that A and L are full of love for one another.

It's pleasing to see that they are finding items that they need: a microwave, a coffee maker, a rice cooker/steamer, Christmas gifts for their nephew, and more. It takes quite some time, however, to sort through the plethora of donations. It becomes apparent to me that this visit is taking its toll, especially on L who is starting to feel tired and weak.

I bring both of them some cold, bottled water while they wait for one of the two giant wheelbarrows to become available so that they can take their goods to their car. When they leave, L is exhausted.

I cannot imagine what either of them is feeling. They have already suffered such loss, and it saddens me that there is more down the road.

T & M - A Mother And Daughter
T was exhausted and hungry when she crossed my path. One of the Red Cross volunteers had offered her some chips, which she had turned down. As chance would have it, I had been seeking takers for the other half of my turkey and cheese sandwich to no avail.

At first, T tried to turn my sandwich down, stating that she didn't think that she could eat. When I found out that she had hardly eaten at all since last Saturday, I was able to persuade her to sit down at a nearby picnic table where I would join her. We spoke as T munched on the sandwich.

T has been living with her mother, M, at the Oakridge Mobile Home Park since T's divorce five years ago. This is the second time that her mother's Oakridge residence has been lost to fire. The first time was in the Northridge earthquake, when gas mains erupted and caught fire.

As I listen to T, she removes her sunglasses, and it's easy to see that she has been crying; her right eye is glossed over with tears and is red on one side. But, the tears are for her mother; they are not for herself. Although T knows and admits that her mother is remarkably resilient and is actually dealing with the situation quite well, it pains T to see her mother having to start over yet again at 81 years of age.

As T continues to eat the turkey and cheese sandwich, subtle changes take place. Her face is less pale. She is able to hold her head erect. Her voice is vibrant. Her speech becomes more animated.

We sit and share until her mother approaches along with her brother, W. She introduces me to both of them. Her brother, W, is warm and friendly, but it is her mother who most impresses me. She is vivacious, and you would not guess that she is anywhere near 80. She is a charming woman who exudes positive energy.

My conversation with T has been lengthy and has covered several topics. T has allowed herself to open up, to emote, to see her situation in a different light, to understand her role, her brother's role and her mother's role during the days ahead. She has a better idea of what she can do to support her mother without creating more pain for herself.

As T says goodbye to me, we hug. She is smiling, even laughing. Her eyes are no longer glossy, but glistening instead. Some healing has taken place; it is a good start.

M - The Family Man
M has a household of seven, which includes his wife, his two teenage sons, his daughter who has two children of her own with another on the way.

M speaks calmly to me in Spanish with occasional references made in English. Everything that he shares with me comes from the heart. He is a gentleman, a man of character. He is not only thankful and gracious, he is humble. He is thankful for the assistance provided by the Red Cross and FEMA. He is gracious to all of the volunteers, to those who donated so generously and to the firefighters. He is positive and hopeful.

At times, I can sense the fear that he is repressing. I can understand the need to keep that fear in check. He has a lot on his mind, a lot of planning to do, and he needs to provide for his family at the same time.

I like speaking with him and practicing my Spanish. Our conversation is refreshing. Both of us are enjoying it. He has a need to share and to verbalize his plans. And, he is helpful when I have trouble with certain words in Spanish or with my vocabulary, and he readily corrects my errors without being condescending.

It is almost the end of the day for me as he says goodbye. He thanks me and tells me that I am an honorable person. As he leaves, I reflect on his words and on the day's events.

Hopefully, there was something that I said or something that I did, within the past two days, which made a positive difference in somebody's life. I would like to think that I did. I am certain that I made a difference in T's life, and perhaps that is enough.

It's All Happening At The Zoo

It's been quite some time since I've shared some of my photography in one of my posts.

On Sunday, November 2nd, I had the opportunity to participate in the Los Angeles Zoo's 19th Annual Photo Day. Although I was operating a camera system, which was completely foreign to me, and dealing with a substantial learning curve, I did manage to get some relatively decent shots. What you'll see here are a few of my best shots from that day.

All of the pictures were taken with a Nikon D90 and a Nikkor 70mm-300mm zoom lens. The gorilla picture, however, was taken with a Nikkor 500mm zoom lens at one of the telephoto stations, which was set up in advance for the photographers.

I loaned all of the camera equipment from various participating vendors, including my tripod. Being able to test drive this equipment was included in the registration fee as well as a continental breakfast, a box lunch, a nifty t-shirt (used to identify participants), and more.

This was the first photo day for me, and I was absolutely amazed at the extent of organization that was required to pull off this event. It required the involvement of Mark Comon and his staff from Paul's Photo, the staff and docents from the Los Angeles Zoo, the vendors from companies such as Nikon, Sony and Olympus (Canon was a no show...::mutter::) and the participants themselves, not to mention others who are unbeknownst to me.

Since participants, numbering about 200, were allowed entrance to the zoo early, zookeepers actually brought out reptiles and insects for the photographers to use in close up shots: snakes, a tortoise, a blue-tongued skink, a hissing cockroach, a rather big millipede, a large walking stick and more.

Each hour was packed with options. Frequently, those options were on opposite ends of the zoo, and yours truly wanted to take it all in. Needless to say, I covered a lot of ground, hiking from one end of the zoo and uphill to the other end several times throughout the day while lugging my backpack, camera equipment and tripod.

All in all, it was a pretty remarkable day. I had no idea exactly how active I had been until the next day. I was so caught up in taking pictures that I was somewhat oblivious about the weight of carrying my daypack and transporting the tripod on my shoulders, of hiking up and down the zoo paths, of stepping up and squatting down for certain camera angles. My arms had a workout from setting up the tripod and packing up the tripod ad infinitum.

When I woke up the next morning, stiff doesn't even describe the state of various body parts. I was certain that had turned to stone or that someone had injected concrete into my neck and shoulders.

Yet, I can tell you this. I plan on doing it all over again next year.

Evolution Of Dance

Here are a couple of video links,
which are certain to put smiles on your faces!

Evolution of Dance

Evolution of Dance (only smaller)