Thursday, November 15, 2012

Monday, October 15, 2012

Truth Be Known...

Hey Y'alls, Long time no hear. I've been away from my desk muy mucho this Summer, researching my ancestral history as it were. It all started when I casually mentioned the fact that I was one-sixteenth Native American to a friend of mine. Dude! She said. You have native rights as such, you should look into it. Perhaps! I said, but that road was pretty much barricaded by my  father's maternal grandfather the staunch, WW1 Army Captain and American Federalist Party Member and primary father-figure to my dad, Roland Willis. You see, a million years ago, my Great-Grandfather Earl Gilbert Seely ran off at age 16 to join in the Klondike Gold Rush, from his home in Southern California. He and 100,000 other 'would be prospectors' of whom 30,000 arrived and 4,000 found gold, stampeded north in search of their fortunes. Old 'Dad' Seely never struck gold be he found himself a beautiful wife, my Great Grandmother Bessie Wyatt Seely. She was half French-Canadian and half Aleut Alaskan Native. Earl (great Grandpa) and Bessie (great grandma) moved back to So. Cal. in 1901 where they were pretty much ostracized by the Old World Seelys, but together they built a good long life, raising their twin children, the boy of whom was my dad's dad, Earl Jr.  Earl Jr. married the daughter of Capt. Roland Willis (Patty Willis/Seely) and together they failed at building a good long life together, divorcing when my dad was 11 or 12. Captain Roland Willis hoped to completely erase the memory of the Seely debacle (as did the other Seelys, they being my dad's Uncle and Aunt and Cousins) by pulling strings with his military connections to have all traces of Bessie Wyatt's birth records expunged, allegedly in the form of a single hand-written certificate in Dawson City AK that Roland used to light one of his ubiquitous stogies with. And the rest as they say, is history.

Sunday, July 29, 2012

Rallying Cry Protest Protest, speakout, rail! Act!

Reject the cartridge! Poor quality blades, two dollars a piece. Reject canned goo! Unnatural smells, numbing agents. Scrape, scrape, scrape, scrape. A better shave with obsidian and fat. Reject burning faces, rashes, and blood on the collar. Reject the siren of marketing- five is not better than four, better than three, better than two. Countdown- five, four, three, two- one is the only one you need! One blade, machined with care, shiny, (razor) sharp. Treet, Tiger, Feather, Dura, One fifty for ten, not ten for five. Embrace the gestalt. First, hot water. Then, a brush, profuse with lather. Rose, lavender, citrus. Menthol. Soft. Soapy. Hot. Smooth! Upon your face, the brush and lather coaxing your beard to attention, The menthol a continuing cool upon your face, tickling your smell, making the cat sneeze. Grab your shaving instrument rescued from the scrap heap of Aunt Polly’s Interesting Junk shop, loaded with just ONE blade. Blue Tip, SuperShave, Merkur, Weishi. Glide. No pressure. No pain. Like shaving a peach. Like shaving a balloon. Shaving, not scraping. The sound of ice being scratched resonating along your jawline. With the grain, against the grain. Rinse blade. Lather. Repeat. The civilized man emerges. A bracing splash of Floid, Porasso, Tabac, or Anherb. No sissified, over-priced scent-of-the-month. Leave those to the metrosexuals. Join the underground. Transform the morning! Electric? Blasphemy!

Saturday, July 14, 2012

Salmon On My Bagel...

...makes me happy. Pickle on the side, makes me high. I don't care who listens, I'm still kosher. Salmon in my life, gets me by.

Friday, July 6, 2012

Ground Control To Major Tom

Take your protein pills and put your helmet on. That is all.

Tuesday, July 3, 2012


Disneyland House Captain · Anaheim, California I am chief bean-counter and administer of unfair punishments. Finding my missing manuscript Dec 13, 1975 to present Yes indeed! I grew up in Eagle Rock (born in Glendale.) In 1969 my folks moved us up to Red Bluff where I attended 8th grade at Reed's Creek elementary, then High School at R.B.U.H.S. Class of '74. Then, thanks to my mom's father, I moved to the Shasta College Dorms where I lived (and partied) for 2 years (Art Major.) Failing to complete my A.A. during this time and in perhaps one of the most ill-conceived, over-priced endeavors of all time, Grandpa decided I should move back to L.A. and enroll at Oxy for the Fall semester of 1976. And so it was, with an enormous bag o' weed and 100 hits of purple micro dot, I moved back to Eagle Rock and jumped into the (then robust) ceramics and glass studios at Oxy, with a heady connection/reference from good old Cliff Sowder and Max Penington. The whole gig ended in disgrace around Christmas Time 1976, when one of the many lavish partys I hosted at Grandpa's mansion ended in a raid (Symbionese Liberation Army connection) and with me fleeing back to Dairyville. I never went back. Willy Wonka & the Chocolate Factory Meanwhile, back at the chocolate factory, the oppression persists. As the only "straight" Oompa-Loompa in the joint, I am often the "whipping Boy" to Charlie's manic rage against the state of the economy and his business affairs. It's an extremely difficult life here in what looked, at least on paper, to be a veritable cake-walk of a job and a wonderful opportunity to advance myself in life. Now... well, there are times so dark I just feel like diving into that river of chocolate and sinking away to that eternal obscurity. College In a Goddah-da-vida Baby! In a Goddah-da-vida Baby!

Friday, June 29, 2012

The Search For Slavko

When I was a young lad, I had a friend named Slavko Limonczenko. We lived on the same street in Los Angeles back in the 1960's. We dreamed of the many things we would together, when we were grown up. One of the things we put at the top of the list of things to do was to attend a World's Fair. The ruins, depicted here, are still standing in Flushing Meadows in New York, from the 1964 World's Fair. I am still interested in visiting the site, all these years later. I also hope to someday visit Chernobyl in the Ukraine, where Slavko's family immigrated from.

Sunday, June 17, 2012


With no functioning radio to call for help, the survivors wait to be rescued, but the storm blew them too far off-course to be found. Although they have a large quantity of dates for food, they calculate their water will only last for 10 to 15 days provided they avoid physical exertion. Seely and Blevins attempt to walk to an oasis. Blevins leaves his monkey behind with the men. Seely and Blevins refuse to let Natch Biz go along due to his increasing mental instability, but he defiantly follows and dies. Days later, Blevly, a sort of amalgamation of the two men (Seely-Blevins) a twisted and grotesque abomination, returns to the crash site alone and barely alive.

Sunday, June 3, 2012

Clockwork Angels

I have been asked by the "Boys" to mention very especial pair of young men, they are of course Dr. Heckle and Mister Jive. Born in a time, here in America, when men were men and beer was a cool, refreshing beverage, not a loaded gun on a nursery school playground, rocket ships were sending huge payloads off to space at hypersonic velocities, cartoons were rife with senseless violence and God had his hand firmly on the dome of of the White House like a fragile egg safely nestled in a cocoon of Tempur-pedic foam. No one really knows what happened to these lads, but their work in the mid-to-late 70's can still be felt today, especially in the world of journalism. Poets these chaps were, and poetry, as the the old saying goes, "Poetry is not a turning loose of emotion, but an escape from emotion; it is not the expression of personality but an escape from personality. But, of course, only those who have personality and emotion know what it means to want to escape from these things."* We attribute much the those slayers of great dragons, those players-with-words, those Kings-of-things-that-always-brings-us-back-to-where-a-robin-sings-and-when-we-find-these-pretty-things-we-tend-to-cease-destructive-flings. Say good night Ed. *T. S. Eliot (1888-1965) American-English poet and playwright.

Monday, May 28, 2012

Foucault's Pendulum

The plot of Foucault's Pendulum revolves around three friends, as relevant to the rule of three, named Belbo, Diotallevi and Casaubon, who work for a vanity publisher in Milan. After reading one too many manuscripts about occult conspiracy theories, they decide they can do better, and set out to invent their own conspiracy for fun. They call this satirical intellectual game "The Plan". As Belbo, Diotallevi and Casaubon become increasingly obsessed with The Plan, they sometimes forget that it's just a game. Worse still, when adherents of other conspiracy theories learn about The Plan, they take it seriously. Belbo finds himself the target of a very real secret society that believes he possesses the key to the lost treasure of the Knights Templar. It's a tough read with numerous plots twists and endless references to societies that I must separately research. Oh, and then there's the translating from Italian.

Sunday, May 27, 2012

The Potential Well

Zero-point energy is fundamentally related to the Heisenberg uncertainty principle. Roughly speaking, the uncertainty principle states that complementary variables (such as a particle's position and momentum, or a field's value and derivative at a point in space) cannot simultaneously be defined precisely by any given quantum state. In particular, there cannot be a state in which the system sits motionless at the bottom of its potential well, for then its position and momentum would both be completely determined to arbitrarily great precision. Therefore, the lowest-energy state (the ground state) of the system must have a distribution in position and momentum that satisfies the uncertainty principle, which implies its energy must be greater than the minimum of the potential well.

Sunday, May 20, 2012

Is The Caller There?

As a young boy, I always thought that Wilbur, the man from the hit T.V. Show Mr. Ed, had it made. I loved that his place had a stable (where Ed lived) that had a phone and a desk and fridge... I always thought that was so cool. I used to think that if I were Wibur, I would just move my bed out there too and my clothes and everything and just let Carol (his wife) live in the house. Carol (and my mom for that matter) only seemed to make Wilbur (and my dad) nervous and upset, whereas Mr. Ed was obviously a guy and I thought guyfriends were better than women friends. We have a lot of fun and it's just a lot of fun. Say good night Ed.

Friday, May 11, 2012

Tee Polyphosphate Ef

Six o'clock - TV hour. Don't get caught in foreign tower. Slash and burn, return, listen to yourself churn. Lock him in uniform and book burning, blood letting. Every motive escalate. Automotive incinerate. Light a candle, light a motive. Step down, step down. Watch a heel crush, crush. Uh oh, this means no fear - cavalier. Renegade and steer clear! A tournament, a tournament, a tournament of lies. Offer me solutions, offer me alternatives and I decline. The other night I tripped a nice continental drift divide. Mount St. Edelite. Leonard Bernstein. Leonid Breshnev, Lenny Bruce and Lester Bangs. Birthday party, cheesecake, jelly bean, boom! You symbiotic, patriotic, slam, but neck, right? Right.

Tuesday, May 8, 2012

Living Hell!

Here is a picture of the man who has made my life a living Hell, here at the Chocolate Factory. Little Charlie is all grown up now and runs the place like some kind of concentration camp. Oh, how I miss Willy Wonka. Why, sometimes, I get so down-hearten I just want to climb into the taffy puller and turn the machine on. Really what I'd like to do is shave that bastard's smug mustache off and sprinkle it in the candy. That would shut this place down real quick. Oh, I'm going to Hell. In a handbag y'all.

Monday, May 7, 2012

It Ain't Over

Meanwhile, back at the chocolate factory, the oppression persists. As the only "straight" Oompa-Loompa in the joint, I am often the "whipping Boy" to Charlie's manic rage against the state of the economy and his business affairs. It's an extremely difficult life here in what looked, at least on paper, to be a veritable cake-walk of a job and a wonderful opportunity to advance myself in life. Now... well, there are times so dark I just feel like diving into that river of chocolate and sinking away to that eternal obscurity.

Monday, April 30, 2012

My Memorial For The Next Reunion

Seely, an inveterate avant-garde in the field of Mind expansion through Native American ceremonies and arm chair anthropologist, was last seen in the Sonoran Desert near Maricopa, Arizona on December 20, 2012. He is presumed dead.
Onward from vast uncharted spaces, Forward through timeless voids, Into all of us surges and races The measureless might of the wind. [...] In the steep silence of thin blue air High on a lonely cliff-ledge, Where the air has a clear, clean rarity, I give to the pledge: ”By the strength of my arm, by the sight of my eyes, By the skill of my fingers, I swear, As long as life dwells in me, never will I Follow any way but the sweeping way of the wind.” __________ (published in On Desert Trails with Everett Ruess, with introduction by Hugh Lacy and foreword by Randall Henderson, Desert Magazine Press, Palm Desert, California, 1950.)
He is a monster He is a monster Was he really born this way? He is a monster He is a monster He is always there when you turn the page. No Restraining He's retaining Everything he sees While the world shook He's eating another book I hope he shares some with me He is a monster He is a monster Was he really born this way? He is a monster He is a monster He is always there when you turn the page. SFC

Friday, April 27, 2012

So Long And Thanks!

Well as they say, all good things must come to an end and by gaw, the end drawer nearer. The old polyphosphate filter has served us well for a few days now but alas, I feel it has grown a bit long-in-the-tooth, as it were. But fear not! For I am planning an entirely new new Weblog entitled, Ode To Ed. A Blog based on all the Eds out there that have shaped my life into the magic caravan o' fun and fear that we see rolling along the prairie of purple imprudence, day in and day out. So stay tuned fellow caballeros! We're in for a new long haul down the dusty trails of imagination. Brought to you by Bubba's Bar and Grill.

Monday, April 16, 2012

Dreamers Learn To Steer By The Stars

Dreamed that I was back at the old Propane Driver job. And I was miserable. And in a way, I really am. Here in heaven, just another hell. Just another winner, pours his life down the drain
Just another island in a hurricane
Just another loser, like a cat in the rain
Just another day ace the path of a speeding train.

Sunday, April 8, 2012

Happy Easter

The Donkey
By G. K. Chesterton

When fishes flew and forests walked
And figs grew upon thorn,
Some moment when the moon was blood
Then surely I was born.

With monstrous head and sickening cry
And ears like errant wings,
The devil’s walking parody
On all four-footed things.

The tattered outlaw of the earth,
Of ancient crooked will;
Starve, scourge, deride me: I am dumb,
I keep my secret still.

Fools! For I also had my hour;
One far fierce hour and sweet:
There was a shout about my ears,
And palms before my feet.

Tuesday, April 3, 2012


Willem, die Madoc maecte,
Daer hi dicken omme waecte,
Hem vernoyde so haerde
Dat die avonture van Reynaerde
In dietsche onghemaket bleven
(Die Arnout niet hevet vulscreven)
Dat hi die vijte van Reynaerde dede soucken
Ende hise na den walschen boucken
In dietsche dus hevet begonnen.

Willem who has made Madoc,
and suffered many a sleepless night in doing so,
that the adventures of Reynaert
had not been translated in Dutch
(because Arnout had not completed his work).
So he has researched the facts of Reynard's deeds
and in the same way as the French books
has he written it in Dutch.

Sunday, April 1, 2012

Deus Ex Machina

a character or thing that suddenly enters the story in a novel, play, movie, etc., and solves a problem that had previously seemed impossible to solve. O.K. So our caravan now was rolling through the steppes of central Asia. Things were about as good as one could reasonably expect them to be, considering that I had to hold the whole affair up for almost two hours, earlier that morning, to go wash and dry my pants down by the river's edge. The curry we'd had for dinner that previous evening, ran through me like a tornado and sure as you-know-what, I'd shat them, thine aforementioned pantaloons that is.

Monday, March 26, 2012

Home From L.A.

I've got to tell you, when I opened the letter with the words Occidental College written upon it, I was a little concerned. After all these years, had they finally traced those days of indiscretion and acts of vandalism (we called it art!) to me? I opened the letter and found inside an invitation to attend an unveiling ceremony (from my old friend and veteran professor of art history and the visual arts, Linda Lyke), "Destructive Beauty," at South Pasadena's LouWe Gallery. The mural, is composed of 26 one-foot-square glazed ceramic tiles and features, among other things, old photos and excerpts of poems, letters, and musical scores by Occidental alumni and faculty past and present. Anyway, to make a long story short* I went, I saw, I had the time of my life and was regaled by many at the event as "One of those crazy hippies over at the old Quonset hut, back in the '70's!"
*the rest of the story will be the subject of this coming year's Christmas letter.

Sunday, March 25, 2012

Snows of Kilimanjaro

You kept from thinking and it was all marvelous. You were equipped with good insides so that you did not go to pieces that way, the way most of them had, and you made an attitude that you cared nothing for the work you used to do, now that you could no longer do it. But, in yourself, you said that you would write about these people; about the very rich; that you were really not of them but a spy in their country; that you would leave it and write of it and for once it would be written by some one who knew what he was writing of. But he would never do it, because each day of not writing, of comfort, of being that which he despised, dulled his ability and softened his will to work so that, finally, he did no work at all. The people he knew now were all much more comfortable when he did not work. Africa was where he had been happiest in the good time of his life, so he had come out here to start again. They had made this safari with the minimum of comfort. There was no hardship; but there was no luxury and he had thought that he could get back into training that way. That in some way he could work the fat off his soul the way a fighter went into the mountains to work and train in order to burn it out of his body.

Monday, March 19, 2012

Of Goose And Man

"Where in the world is Carmen?" Sandy Diego asked, as she slowly crept inch by inch closer to the edge of the cliff, threatening to undo all of her father's hard work. Oh I was born under a wanderers scarf, it is true, but lately, the way things been going, they're gonna crown o' thorn me anyway, so what else can a poor boy do, but to sing in a rock and roll band. When you were young and your heat was a drunken crook, you used to say live and let fry, you know you did, you know you did, you, no you DID NOT! And I'll be the first to hang my asre out there on the line fer ye Pops! Does anyone know where the love of God goes, when the gales of November come early?

Friday, March 16, 2012

Looking Out My Backyard

Joel has no control over when the movies start, because—as the original theme song stated -- "he used those special parts to make his robot friends." (Those "robot friends" being Cambot, Gypsy, Crow, and Tom Servo. The opening theme-song lyrics were changed repeatedly in later seasons to accommodate plot changes, like when Mike Nelson replaced Joel Robinson.) He must enter the theater when "Movie Sign" flashes, because Dr. Clayton Forrester (and in later seasons, his evil would-be tyrant mother Pearl) has numerous ways to punish Joel/Mike for non-compliance, including shutting off the oxygen supply to the rest of the ship, and electric shocks. As the movies play, the silhouettes of Joel/Mike, Tom, and Crow are visible at the bottom of the screen, wisecracking and mocking the movie (a practice they often referred to as "riffing") in order to prevent themselves from being driven mad.

Monday, March 12, 2012

The Long And Winding Road

McCartney originally wrote the song at his farm in Scotland, and was inspired by the growing tension among the Beatles. McCartney said later "I just sat down at my piano in Scotland, started playing and came up with that song, imagining it was going to be done by someone like Ray Charles. I have always found inspiration in the calm beauty of Scotland and again it proved the place where I found inspiration."
McCartney recorded a demo version of the song, with Beatles' engineer Alan Brown assisting, in September 1968, during the recording sessions for The Beatles.
The song takes the form of a piano-based ballad, with conventional chord changes. The song's home key is E-flat major but it also uses C minor. Lyrically, it is a sad and melancholic song, with an evocation of an as-yet unrequited, though apparently inevitable, love.
The "long and winding road" of the song was claimed to have been inspired by the B842, a thirty-one mile (50 km) winding road in Scotland, running along the east coast of Kintyre into Campbeltown, and part of the eighty-two mile (133 km) drive from Lochgilphead. In an interview in 1994, McCartney described the lyric more obliquely "It's rather a sad song. I like writing sad songs, it's a good bag to get into because you can actually acknowledge some deeper feelings of your own and put them in it. It's a good vehicle, it saves having to go to a psychiatrist."
The opening theme is repeated throughout, the song lacks a traditional chorus, and the melody and lyrics are ambiguous about the opening stanza's position in the song; it is unclear whether the song has just begun, is in the verse, or is in the bridge.

Thursday, March 8, 2012

8 Days To Williams

"The Ultimate Route" would be to come up Hwy 101 all the way to Longvale and take 162 over to Covelo, to County Road 306, which is N.W. of Willows. But that's Banjo-land out there, if you catch my drift! No, better to come over Hwy 20 where you can catch Leesville Road North, to Lodoga Stonyford Road, North to County Road 306, to Elk Creek, Chrome (population 8!) to Newville (Black Butte Res. to I-5 option) or, continue N.W. on Newville Rd./County Road 58 to Paskenta (now we're in my boyhood stompin' grounds!) Options to then head East to I-5 or continue North on Lowery Road, to Red Bank Road, Ridge Road, to Hesse Rd. Johnson Road at which point you will probably want to head East to Reeds Creek and in to Red Bluff, although I know a good way to connect over to Hwy 36, and from there you would head West out to Platina and from there take A16 all the way in to Redding. But I digress! North out of Red Bluff is the lovely Jellys Ferry Road which will bring you to Gover Rd. etc. etc. !!! P.S. One could also take Old 99, North out of Williams, to Willows where one could jump on to Hwy 162 N.W. and head out in to da hinterlands and the afore mentioned bird's nest of rural moonscapes!
- Show quoted text -

Tuesday, February 28, 2012

I am, The Man In the Lawn Chair.

And by Gaw, if ya get it, You are a very big winner indeed!

Sunday, February 26, 2012

Face Up

You turn my head
I spin my wheels
Running on empty --
You know how that feels
I'm on a roll now --
Or is it a slide?
Can't be too careful
With that dangerous pride
If I could only reach that dial inside
And turn it up
FACE UP -- Or you can only back down
FACE UP -- Hit the target, or you better hit the ground
FACE UP -- There's still time to turn the game around
FACE UP -- Turn it up --
Or turn that wild card down
Turn it up
Don't complain
Don't explain
I don't think my new resolve
Can stand the strain
I'm in a groove now --
Or is it a rut?
I need some feedback
But all the lines are cut
I get so angry, but I keep my mouth shut
And turn it up
You get all squeezed up inside
Like the days were carved in stone
You get all wired up inside
And it's bad to be alone
You can go out, you can take a ride
And when you get out on your own
You get all smoothed out inside
And it's good to be alone
Turn it up! Rush- Roll The Bones

Monday, February 6, 2012

Well! I'm Off!

I remember reading about a man who was going to make a pilgrimage from the town of Mt. Shasta, up the old Everett Memorial Highway, to the top of the mountain. He made elaborate preparations in the form of a handmade leather apron, knee pads, gloves etc. There was a write up in the paper as I recall. The big day finally arrived and with his support team, they headed off. Several hours later the man was bruised and bleeding and he bailed out! Done! Never to return to the "accursed" mountain again! In the words of one of my heroes, "Sometimes our big splashes, are just ripples in the pool." Forgive us our cynical thoughts!

Wednesday, January 25, 2012

Earth Air Fire and Salt

Salt firing dates back to 15th century Germany, where potters discovered that throwing quantities of common salt in the kiln when it reached high temperatures caused a chemical reaction with the clay, forming an attractive natural glaze.
At Webfoot Farm Pottery, the firing process is a two-stage event. The first step is the bisque (or biscuit) firing, in which leather-hard stoneware items —a variety of wheel-thrown and hand-built vases, bottles, plates, lidded jars, bowls, teapots, tea caddies, mugs, sake sets, planters, lamps, and others—are placed in an electric kiln and brought to a temperature of 1800 degrees F. When cooled, slips (coatings of liquified clay) are applied, along with brushwork or other decorations. Then the pots are fired again in the salt kiln, to a temperature of over 2350 degrees. The salt kiln is heated with two powerful propane burners, each rated at 250,000 BTUs per hour. Salting begins when the temperature reaches approximately 2100 degrees. About two pounds of dampened salt is put into the kiln at a time. The salt immediately vaporizes. The damper is closed down for several minutes to keep the sodium vapors inside the kiln, forcing them to react with the silica in the clay, thus forming the glaze.
Then the damper is opened for several minutes while the kiln atmosphere clears. The cycle is repeated eight to ten times over roughly a two-hour period, until the quality of the glaze is right. During the procedure, small clay test rings—about the size and shape of napkin rings—are withdrawn from three spy ports, revealing the amount of glaze build-up. After salting, the kiln is brought to a temperature of over 2350 degrees. The whole firing lasts 14 to 15 hours and consumes about 80 gallons of propane gas. It takes three days for the kiln to cool down enough to be opened.
Salt firing can be extremely unpredictable, and failures occur in every kilnload. However, it is this very unpredictability that potters find so rewarding (though the process is relatively expensive in terms of materials and labor), resulting in one-of-a-kind pieces. Aside from the natural warm browns that firing with salt produces, unexpected colors and marks often appear on pots as if by magic, sometimes with striking results. It is these and other effects—gifts from the kiln gods—that make salt firing so endlessly compelling.

Monday, January 9, 2012

WebFoot Mausoleum

I rode the F.B. Trail with a small group of friends yesterday. We worked our way to the Hornbeck Trail and then out the Upper Ditch Trail to the Chemise Peak overpass. As we rode we talked about our most beloved form of recreation, riding bicycles. We decided that something as special, to the lives of ourselves, our friends and our families, really should be memorialized, but how. Then, one of our most devoted members hit upon an idea. We will build a mausoleum out at the graveyard at Whiskeytown. So we are beginning a fund raiser to explore the possibility of building such a monument. We are thinking of a building made of local stone that will accommodate 30 souls. At $10,000 a piece, we'll make a lasting impression! Are we high? What do you think?

Saturday, January 7, 2012

Comes A Time

Finally the fierceness of the flames diminished enough to allow the spume cap to settle and a gentle, simmering action could then ensue. We had not slept for at least 36 hours but we did then and dreaming of the lovely porridge that awaited us come morning, we smiled.