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Sport climber
Apr 28, 2013 - 10:04am PT

Your guide...

Trad climber
The great state of advaita
Apr 30, 2013 - 12:38am PT
"Poetry meets deep, essential, unremembered hungers. It is food and drink for the soul - memory of the soul."—Krista Tippett

Now I remember for whence here I came...
For lunch, natch!

mouse from merced

Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
Apr 30, 2013 - 08:00am PT
Nachos for lunch...

Sure It Could Always Be Verse

They say things should rhyme
But I haven’t the time
To babysit pronouns all day

If they want it so
I want them to know
We consider myself to be they

So f. them and the lamas
(And especially them commas)
They all rode in on today

Beck to verk, Fledger! Vite!

Mckinleyville, Ca
May 1, 2013 - 12:22pm PT
Mayday Mayday

-rik rieder May 1, 2013

An angry God with fiery rod and voice of burnished steel
the Tower of Babel did condemn, the people brought to heel
“thou shall not try to reach me, by buildings and big stairs.
the type of things I had in mind was charity and prayers”
He brought construction to a halt, ordering dispersal
then turned men into climbers, all confused but universal
And then the Lord did turn his face toward other grand affairs
with eyes ablaze he cast his gaze and left for the Himalayas

Came the days of old when knights were bold, the church of the rock had taught the flock
to worship at the holy shrine the symbol of man’s love divine
A holy writing made with chalk inspired the people on their walk
They came from all across the Earth for recognition of their worth

And then one day a pilgrim did have a revelation
to test the flock he scrubbed the rock and suffered castigation
the high priests and their orderlies declared a desecration
the gods would be offended by this crass abomination

The shrine restored, the angry mob had all but settled down
when underneath that very spot there came a rumbling sound
the ground was heaved, the boulder cleaved by a bolt from the clear blue skies
and from the crack stepped a man in black with tired gentle eyes
and stepping out behind him there came a dozen more
all climbers of the highest rank, women and men of yore
they silently looked out upon the wide-eyed quaking crowd
their faces were concerned, understanding and yet proud

By now the audience had grown, the loud ones and the meek
the man in black did raise his hand as he began to speak
“you people with your idols, your symbols and reputations
you glorify yourselves and leave your marks on my creations!
I gave you rocks and mountains, all you sisters and you brothers
so that you could grow within yourself and help to lift each other
but something has gone wrong among my paradise of granite
idolatry and bullying is not how I had planned it
you make your pious altars and say you’re sanctified
when really they’re just monuments to puny human pride
though in honesty you’re not to blame, I’ve been away too long
I thought I had it figured out, that nothing could go wrong...”

Just then a pink point radster said “surely old man you jest!
we have a right to argue and fight to be the best
so if you don’t mind please step aside, I see a first ascent”
he marched up to the new offwidth, pushing God into a nearby tent.
the climber flailed, gasped and wheezed, inching ever higher
as the Lord got up, brushed off his clothes, his eyes were shooting fire
“whence came you by this nonsense, you bobble-headed flunkeys!”
he raised his staff and turned them all into a tribe of monkeys

Ages later God recanted, and felt remorse for that time he ranted
Restoring the monkeys back to men he gave them one more chance again
Resolving himself that come what may, he’d try to not remain away
You never know when he’ll be back so give your brothers a little slack

And somewhere on the valley floor there still exists today
the fabled piece of stone where this story came to play
some say the crack is gone because the rock grew back together
still others claim God did the work one night in stormy weather
And only for a little while there used to be a route
named: Never Steal A First Ascent From Underneath God’s Boot
No one knows who climbed it, no one dared lay claim
Its really unimportant compared to stepping up the Game

mouse from merced

Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
May 1, 2013 - 01:29pm PT
Brilliant, rr!

And historically accurate, too!
mouse from merced

Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
May 2, 2013 - 02:23am PT
Insert photo RR,pensive pose back cover shot from My Life.

Me-did-tations Midst Rubble

Before I worked in Yosemite as a houseman I fried hamburgers and made chicken for a franchise in the Bay Area. The hamburger we sold was "The Big Barney." Fred Flintstone, Barney Rubble, OK?

I yearned for the mountains, back then, though I knew not what could possibly happen up there.

I found that in the mountains, Time passes slowly, hand-to-hand, until it is no longer legible.

It's then used for TP.

What I am resting on is the detritus of monoliths.
They are like the piles of dead skin cells which accumulated underneath my mattress.
If Sentinel sheds skin, this is it, and they have been laying here for, like, quien sabe?
It is a poor conceit for what has happened here in the side-hill oak forest.

I never notice skin flakes falling off me or the noise they must make if they do.
Let’s set that myth on its heels.
Everything makes noise but we all are not equipped or NEED to hear
the crash and boom (or their tiny-world equivalents--maybe whiff and poof?)
of dandruff or hairs hitting the deck.

Maybe the dust mites can detect the sound.

You’ll hear an oak leaf as it falls among its brothers.
You’ll hear the pine cones run away from their mothers.
You cannot hear the acorn when it is sprouting.
You sure can hear the mountain when it is shouting!

Why am I formalizing this rambling mental dialog?
Why ever not?
Have I not
spent many hours wishing that I were
here and not
somewhere that is more stressful
and far less enjoyable
like down there?

I am in danger from having too much fun, thinking about what possibly could go wrong on OK. It sounds New Agey and corny but it is rather descriptive.
I am trying to find Sentinel Creek so tha I might have a unique view of a seldom-seen scene, Sentinel Falls.
It is a legitimate quest. Call me Sir Beansalot. And If I am not satisfied that I have completed the quest, I can always return, at least I can always want that.

Face it. It is what I want, to die up there.

I could back off a boulder trying to increase the depth or width of a shot.

I could put out another freaking eye if I do not wear glasses.

I could put out another freaking eye if I do wear glasses.

The fact is I have better coordination when I wear nothing on my nose.

This also eliminates sweat problems, not that I am moving so fast that I acutally break a sweat.

St. Galen sweated plenty for our sins--patron saint of talus runners andphotgraphers, y'know.

I have been comfortable all day in a T-shirt and a light sweat top.

My feet have room and it is because I removed the inner soles and left them at home. The peds tend to swell now, quien sabe? Take yer peds-meds and hush.

There is a huge difference in sound between the forest and the creekside.

Notorious as a waterless trail, the four mile only crossed one that I recall from my only other passage (downhill), but I have a whole half-gallon in my pack, a precautionary measure should I be so stupid as to get hurt in the Raucous.
Credit: mouse from merced
my attentive audience

I also have a headlamp.

I recall lessons learned last fall near Dewey Point, a low point.

I believe I have redeemed myself in my eyes, which are the only ones which need to see this and the only ones really fit to judge, according to some.

But I'm generous, they tell me. It is nice of them to say.
Let them who refuse to ask for help get on their knees and pray.
I pray when I walk.
I worship when I shoot.
I listen to its talk.
It has shown me how to walk.
How could I not be a seeker?
How could I not be on a quest?
I have seen myself become meeker.
I think it seeks for me the best.

"Sun-lit meadows"
"forested slopes"
"cataracts plunging"
"topographical sculpture"
"another hit of fresh air"
All seem canned phrases describing my wish-life.
[Insert inane crudity about tuna and spouse if you dare...I don't care.]

5.1! Siesta time.


Social climber
Desolation Basin, Calif.
May 2, 2013 - 06:53am PT

my sweet old etcetera
aunt lucy during the recent

war could and what
is more did tell you just
what everybody was fighting

my sister

isabel created hundreds
hundreds) of socks not to
mention shirts fleaproof earwarmers

etcetera wristers etcetera, my

mother hoped that

i would die etcetera
bravely of course my father used
to become hoarse talking about how it was
a privilege and if only he
could meanwhile my

self etcetera lay quietly
in the deep mud et

cetera, of
Your smile
eyes knees and of your Etcetera)

e.e. cummings
dirt claud

Social climber
san diego,ca
May 2, 2013 - 08:12am PT
By: Rose Milligan

Credit: dirt claud
mouse from merced

Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
May 4, 2013 - 05:32am PT
To Ogmian Hercules

Your labours are performed, your bye-work, too.
Your perfect ashes float on Oeta’s peak;
Here is escape then, Hercules, from empire.

Little Hebe, youngest of all Goddesses,
Who circles, leaping, on the Moon’s broad floor
Harbours no jealousy for Megara,
Auge, Hippolyte, Deineira
But sighs for their distress: you broke all hearts,
Burning too Sun-like for a mortal bride.

Rest your proud shaggy head on Hebe’s lap;
What wars you started let your sons conclude;
Meditate the new Alphabet, heal wounds,
Draw poets to you with long golden chains--
But still go armed with club and lion’s pelt.
--Robert Graves
mouse from merced

Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
May 4, 2013 - 10:11am PT

Excerpted from The Grave Robber by Don Gray
"Life, its way, the way God made it, can't help but be
morally shabby. Consider grim nature's law...
hardship, mental anguish, fatigue of body, dirt;
cruelty, disease, duress; necessity, pain, death;
equivalents of man's lust for money, evil,
expedient deceit, scoundrel hypocrisy.
Religion, man's wholesome, feeble, corrupt attempt,
to seek, reach out for, counter, God's reality,
desirous, rejected, ambivalent, still-born
in futility, contradiction, helplessness....

Ruled by hubris, enshrined in feral transience,
we cavil and splutter through life, believe we are gods,
omniscient, with blinkered wisdom from the playpen
of our petty thrones."

mouse from merced

Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
May 6, 2013 - 08:11am PT
Somewhere In My Palm He Lies

A lack of wit and charm and grace and style
Is all I have to overcome: With guile
And lies, misdirection, innuendo,
Factoid, pretense, I make some sense though
To those who choose not to hear but to show
Agreement with my utterance.
mouse from merced

Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
May 6, 2013 - 09:19am PT
Life as it is is just not good enough for us anymore without electricity.

“Better living through electricity.”--old timey G.E. commercial slogan, and it's true (the LSD part)

Kindle Kitty

Google Glasses on her head
Tiny ear buds in her ears
Small green vibe between her thighs
Just confirmed my worst fears:
She’d be just as happy being a robot.

Trad climber
May 6, 2013 - 08:15pm PT
I'm going to rent myself a house
In the shade of the freeway
I'm going to pack my lunch in the morning
And go to work each day
And when the evening rolls around
I'll go on home and lay my body down
And when the morning light comes streaming in
I'll get up and do it again

Caught between the longing for love
And the struggle for the legal tender
Where the sirens sing and the church bells ring
And the junk man pounds his fender
Where the veterans dream of the fight
Fast asleep at the traffic light
And the children solemnly wait
For the ice cream vendor

~Jackson Browne

May 6, 2013 - 08:30pm PT

deep is the heart
and yet what blooms
needs strong hands to reach
to share, to pick the fruit

what is given freely
don't hesitate to grasp
for if you let the fruit fall and hits the ground
it is spoiled and is lost to us both

and as I watched you
so strong and quick
not lifting a finger as I fell
I hit the ground hard

...and this is what's left
words sound hollow now
all the meaning lost in the wind
that sweeps between us

mouse from merced

Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
May 7, 2013 - 04:18pm PT
Out from Under

Greatly gifted
She's uplifted
From under piles of dust

They have drifted
Her tone has shifted
To one of pure disgust

And old dirt clods
By any odds
Are simply hardened dust
mouse from merced

Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
May 7, 2013 - 04:19pm PT

Old school:

Modern version:
File footage.
mouse from merced

Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
May 8, 2013 - 11:51am PT

First he was born.
And then he was warned.
And then he was taught to swim.
And then he was married.
And the he was buried.
And that's all that happened to him.
--Shel Silverstein

Credit: mouse from merced
Credit: mouse from merced
Credit: mouse from merced
--Shelver Silstein, bookseller extraordinaire

Trad climber
the tip of god's middle finger
May 8, 2013 - 12:16pm PT
when im beneath a foreign fluid,
i execute an explosion of heart
gesture that writes my mis-alignment
with your universe.

Sport climber
May 8, 2013 - 12:20pm PT
Poetry: Acts of the raven

“Blood has leaked and darkened the cheeks and masked the little lamb, which now stands calling and helpless in Ianto’s face, its senses in this world of plunged pain and darkness leading it towards the nearest large living thing. Nothing it can see and nothing it can feel but for the sky-brought fire in its face…..

“……The lamb cries and cries again, the dark and bubbling holes in its face expanding into howling voids which begin to draw little Ianto in and he reaches out young fingered and desperate to fill those awful weeping gaps with his plaything pebbles. To put something where there is nothing, to bring substance upon emptiness. The stones sink softly into place and for a moment the lamb stands stone-eyed, ……..”

Science: Sheep and sight

"Sheep depend heavily upon their vision. Behavior scientists speculate that the placement and structure of the sheep's eyes are due to nature's designation of sheep as a prey animal. Sheep have a very large pupil that is somewhat rectangular in shape. The eyeball is placed more to the side of the head, which gives sheep a much wider field of vision. With only slight head movement, sheep are able to scan their surroundings. Their field of vision ranges from 191 to 306 degrees, depending upon the amount of wool on their face.

On the other hand, sheep have poor depth perception (three dimensional vision), especially if they are moving with their heads up. This is why they will often stop to examine something more closely. Sheep have difficulty picking out small details, such as an open space created by a partially opened gate. They tend to avoid shadows and sharp contrasts between light and dark. They are reluctant to go where they can't see.

For many years, it was believed that sheep and other livestock could not perceive color. But, it has since been proven that livestock possess the cones necessary for color vision. Research has shown that livestock can differentiate between colors, though their color perception is not equal to humans."

Names: Ianto

"Ianto (pronounced Yan-toh) is the pet form of the name Ifan, one of the Welsh forms of John. Therefore, Ianto shares John's meaning of "Yahweh is gracious". Ianto is usually a masculine name."
mouse from merced

Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
May 8, 2013 - 12:46pm PT
Dear Puck, A Duck:
My five chicks have green tails. Does this mean they will be roosters, not hens?
It’s what my auntie tells me. So is she just screwy? I guess that all depends

Food group or building block of insanity?
Food group or building block of insanity?
Credit: mouse from merced

Dear Pluck, A Duck
argh... My two black EE chicks both have green tail feathers coming in.
Dad is black and tailed Arcauna. Mom is black EE with white undertones, not gold.
One acts and looks so roo-ish with a high tail, the other is muffed and has a low hen-like tail and is more submissive.
But they both have those green tail feathers!

Dear Puck, A Duck
thanks for the replies. I didnt need to post a pic after all- it started crowing!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Dear Pluck, A Duck
Well, you know it's a rooster now, but see this RIR hen I used to have? Green sheening all over her black tailfeathers.
Why "sheening?"  Is it an Irishism?  Green = Irish.
Why "sheening?" Is it an Irishism? Green = Irish.
Credit: Speckledhen

And CarpeDeHen weighs in:
Green tail feathers is not always a sign of roo, as Speckledhen has shown.
Dark hens tend to get green feathers too, like some others I have owned.
Also crowing is not a definitive sign of a roo.
Hens can crow too. Vagina doodle-doo!

Behold the duck
It does not cluck.
A cluck it lacks.
It quacks.
It is specially fond.
Of a puddle or pond.
When it dines or sups,
It bottoms ups.
--Dogden Dash
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