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Gnome Ofthe Diabase
climber
Out Of Bed
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While the news is not
that crack about turning that stone up-side down
Funny, and it , yhat idea-
has been runnin; in my head since 2am
Bus stop time
be well
if it looks like hell? can we say
end times. .
Yet?
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Gnome Ofthe Diabase
climber
Out Of Bed
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oh com'on that was a slow pitch, a bit of a stretch ta hit
but theres no batter's box in (burning)stix ball. . .
It Is Always End Times Somewhere
Somewhere the sun is rising.
somewhere else,
The setting sun will dip below the cloud cover,
so, for a brilliant moment,a glorious set of rays search out the horizon.
SUPER-MOON, MOON RISE FROM DEEP IN Where I shoudn'ta 'bin
(been)- 12/3/17
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hooblie
climber
from out where the anecdotes roam
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Topic Author's Reply - Dec 5, 2017 - 06:37am PT
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Granted, Mr. Rational, though I never liked Styx. Lethe, though, fergeddaboutit.
It is 31° F right now outside.
Paha Sapa means "The Heart of Everything That Is," in Sioux. It refers to their sacred Black Hills.
It sounds to me, uneducated white boy that I am, that "The Sacred Place Where Life Begins" of the tundra dwellers championed by the Friends is about the same idea as Paha Sapa.
Before we offend, let's drop this subject of which we are ignorant and just do what feralfae asks.
Me, I'm going for some de-caf at de cafe. A bientot, you little dickens, Gnome.
And good morning, Mr. H...nice one.
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Bushman
climber
The state of quantum flux
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Beaky Bird
Beaky was a beaky bird
Who spoke his mind with every word
He liked to rattle liked to razz
Mimicked the helpless like a spazz
And Beaky always seized on that
With pithy insults that he spat
When you were troubled or were down
He’d leave you with a poor sad frown
Yes Beaky’s quips were legend for
His verbal edge upon the score
And if you met him you would know
His beak to every length would go
To assault you with his lethal tongue
No matter if you were old or young
-beakman
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Topic Author's Reply - Dec 5, 2017 - 01:17pm PT
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zBrown
Ice climber
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Jes don't grab those pussies.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Topic Author's Reply - Dec 5, 2017 - 08:17pm PT
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HA HA HA HA HA! Talk about hitting it out of the Park...
Did you know (I did not know--but found out this evening)?
State Route 120--Tioga Road--does not end at its Hwy 395 intersection--Mobil--but east of there at US 6 at Benton in Mono County.
It travels south of Granite Mountain Wilderness.
https://www.californiatrailmap.com/TrailFinder/?lat=37.98&long=-118.77
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Topic Author's Reply - Dec 5, 2017 - 11:18pm PT
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zBrown
Ice climber
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Back when cars werereallyimportant (1957?), worst thing you could hear was
Is that your mama's car?
Runner up
Nice spinners essay
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Topic Author's Reply - Dec 6, 2017 - 02:38am PT
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Deep December
This cold morning
as I wade through the bushes
in the frosty freeze
along the bank
of the river of no sleep
it comes to me that the world
is cold only on the surface.
Its inner fires don’t reach the toes
of frozen poets or eskimos
while the snows of kilimanjaros
are steadily melting
killing off the tourist trade.
Yeah, here along this river
as it slows down for the winter
the inner fires reveal themselves
as rimrock fractured by frost
last century
last millenium
last ice age
and the ones before that.
It has taken Time
no time at all to do all this
to break big ones into small ones
to create spawning beds for the water people
to do what the old man does best
and that’s to mellow things out
and change them around
and swap this for that
and mend this fault
and sink this one under the waves
and break this continent in two
if he wants to do that
and no doubt he will one day
when some individual
such as me
with cold feet
and a wicked need
walks casually up to Time’s River
and pisses in it.
--MFM
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Topic Author's Reply - Dec 6, 2017 - 02:57am PT
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Tightwad
Ebeneezer was a geezer
Kept his money in his freezer
Kept it very cold you know
Colder than the coldest snow
Gathered no moss as it lay
Locked away for a rainy day
The rainy day it never came
And greed became his lasting shame
--MFM
[Click to View YouTube Video]
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Gnome Ofthe Diabase
climber
Out Of Bed
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I was still chewing on all you've shared.
and this then with appologies for it's dark reprive,
but tis what the creator brought forth
Be it froth or not it is what ever it is.
ah then, it is with it that we go,
merrily merrily
the gasp - the eb - The flow - the dread
The beyond ? it may be
not or true who can say
The telling of it - may do harm,
'cause to really know
For Sure You must be
Dead
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Bushman
climber
The state of quantum flux
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Lucky Luigi
Hard of hearing he sat
in the maelstrom of swirling noises
The waiter asked if he wanted more coffee
She lowered her face to his his eye level
Asking again if he’d like a refill
Out on the street a bus pulled up
but he preferred long afternoon walks
The sun burned orange nearing the earth
as he walked up the final hill to his street
The tv stayed up until three AM
though he fell asleep at eight
The couch fabric indentations on his cheek
lasted longer than his impression of the day’s events
as he shuffled to bed in the predawn hour
One lonely train horn blew
The moon hung over a fog ascending
the cityscape up from the coast
Relative quiet in South San Francisco
as an old man snored
He dreamed about their second honeymoon
after VJ Day on extended leave
A train ride up through wine country
The same dream about Cassandra
some thirty five years after she’d passed away
with minor variations
Luigi woke at seven
He opened the curtains to watch the sunrise
Coffee and bagel with cream cheese
and some boysenberry jam
The morning news was uneventful
And fall weather brought more clear days now
unlike the summer fog
Instructing him on their precise placement
the pictures he’d hung long ago
as she’d graced the little dining nook
Relatives on every branch
A daughter and family living back east
Luigi preferred to stay out here
living with their memories
-bushman
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Topic Author's Reply - Dec 6, 2017 - 05:23am PT
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Bush League Poets Society Honors Tim Sorenson
First Annual Grass Roots Prize goes to:
The man with the limber frame & steely gaze
The massive beard and gentle ways.
And in the Volunteer State
The Society recognizes the efforts of Isabella Bermingham, class of 2020,
and her elves.
"Veterinary Students Spread Holiday Cheer."
#VFL https://vetmed.tennessee.edu/News/Pages/current_news.aspx
Isabella is wed to my nephew, Danny B., son of older brother Mike.
Danny's a climber and grew up in Snelling and Merced Falls, now lives in Tennessee.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Topic Author's Reply - Dec 6, 2017 - 11:57am PT
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One expects fierce wind on a high mountain. Demons ride these winds and they are the stuff of nightmares. I can't think that any climber truly gets used to it, but simply learns to endure it.
It must be especially horrific when alone. As I say, I can only imagine, having read very little on alpinism and more on rock climbing. I have more Chuck Pratt in me than Chris Bonington or Reinhold Messner. And I hate being cold! I've been suffering from the cold more and more as I have aged and my circulation has closed down from various ailments.
Consequently, I have stayed off of high peaks that require a tent or a bivouac because of an extended stay. Suffering is not my cup of tea and is certainly not necessary for me to enjoy my climbing experience. I gladly leave that to others.
One experience, however, has stayed with me since the 1980s. I was staying in a small travel trailer belonging to Jim Shirley's parents while working on their land in Box Canyon in the Canoga Park area of LA. I had boulders to climb aplenty while staying there.
The trailer sat on the hillside near the Shirley house, next to a vegetable garden. An olive tree gave the trailer some shade. There was a large boulder up the hill, many more spread out over the hillside and, way up the slope, a cliff of approximately 120', one of the more noticeable features of that terrain when viewed from the flats in the SFV.
I had a warm sleeping bag, a comfortable bunk, access to the house (shower, food, coffee maker), and was hooked up to the electrical circuit. I could listen to a radio, read my books, and play with Jim's Compaq computer--not hooked into the net if it even existed then. There was a printer connected to it, but it had no paper.
I only mention the computer because it was there--how it taunted me with my own lack of knowledge about its mysteries. Jim, at the time, was off to Merry England to study earthquakes and crustal movement with an end to increasing accuracy in the prediction of same.
The weather was typical for the time of year, November-December. The music on the radio was from a Classic Rock station, mostly. I heard John Sebastian one night being interviewed by "the Music Lady."
My job was (mainly) to cut acres of grass with an electric weed whacker to provide fire protection. I helped install a new water tank with the elder Mr. Shirley, Howard, a gentleman's gentleman--and a hearty old soul you might think Santa Claus would enjoy being around.
Howard would drive down the hill in the mornings and bring back three or four Mexican day laborers who would be lined up along a certain street. It was tough keeping up with these guys, let me say. The wheelbarrow never stopped its round-trip from the tank site to the pile of gravel in the driveway.
In addition to this task there was cutting back a very large growth of prickly pear along one side of the steep drive leading up to the property from Box Canyon Road, and hauling it off to be dumped over the cliff edge.
For two nights running--and I was glad it was no longer than that--the wild Santa Ana winds howled down-canyon. Their speed was logged on the anemometer on top of the trailer as close to seventy mph. They never let up the whole time and made sleep nearly impossible and when it came it was fitful, not restful.
The little mite of a trailer shook like you might imagine. I was fearful that it might tip over with me inside and slide down the hillside into the cactus patch. Or further, over the edge of the slabs below the drive.
Howard was sympathetic, but said it had survived many such windstorms in that exact location over several years. The trailer was, however, secured to the olive tree by a chain looped over the axle, JUST IN CASE.
I will never forget the shaking that I endured in that trailer-trap. I was invited back the next fall to help out again. That year the winds didn't materialize. Jim had returned, meanwhile, but was living elsewhere, so the trailer was freed up once more.
I spent more time indoors in the main house that year. Jim had recorded some VCRs of Fawlty Towers and I enjoyed them immensely, playing them through two times--first season, six or so episodes. As well, the Shirleys were off traveling somewhere and I spent many hours taping Lakers games for Jim and his dad.
End of story.
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