Archive for the ‘video’ Tag

Tacana Family On The Tuichi River   Leave a comment

A Tacana Family Headed Down the Tuichi River to Rurrenabaque in the Amazon — HDR Image by kenne

The Tacana people live along the Beni River in the Madidi National Park, Amazon.

The Tuichi River joins the Beni River upstream from the town Rurrenabaque.

Pedro, our Tacana guide demonstrated the indigenous technique of fishing.

Matt did have some success on our Day 3. — Image by kenne

Amazon Rainforest Sunset   Leave a comment

Amazon Rainforest Sunset (August 2019) — Image by kenne

Spending time on the river
walking its banks,
seeing the variety of wildlife,
that lingers there,
makes for beautiful
paintings and photographs,
for people to admire.

— kenne

 

Let’s Dance, Grandma   4 comments

“Let’s Dance, Grandma” — James and Joy (October 2, 2021)

Another Existential Moment — Charles Bukowski   Leave a comment

Charles Bukowski

Tom Russell has great respect for Warren Zevon’s work, but probably none more than “Carmelita,” which he combines
with Charles Bukowski’s, “Crucifix In A Deathhand,” on his Modern Art CD. By putting the two together, Russell
demonstrates his appreciation and understanding of Bukowski’s words and the lyrics of Warren Zevon. It just so happens
that “Crucifix In A Deathhand” is my favorite Bukowski poem.

Crucifix In a Death Hand

yes, they begin out in a willow, I think
the starch mountains begin out in the willow
and keep right on going without regard for
pumas and nectarines
somehow these mountains are like
an old woman with a bad memory and
a shopping basket.
we are in a basin. that is the
idea. down in the sand and the alleys,
this land punched-in, cuffed-out, divided,
held like a crucifix in a deathhand,
this land bought, resold, bought again and
sold again, the wars long over,
the Spaniards all the way back in Spain
down in the thimble again, and now
real estaters, subdividers, landlords, freeway
engineers arguing. this is their land and
I walk on it, live on it a little while
near Hollywood here I see young men in rooms
listening to glazed recordings
and I think too of old men sick of music
sick of everything, and death like suicide
I think is sometimes voluntary, and to get your
hold on the land here it is best to return to the
Grand Central Market, see the old Mexican women,
the poor . . . I am sure you have seen these same women
many years before
arguing
with the same young Japanese clerks
witty, knowledgeable and golden
among their soaring store of oranges, apples
avocados, tomatoes, cucumbers –
and you know how
these look, they do look good
as if you could eat them all
light a cigar and smoke away the bad world.
then it’s best to go back to the bars, the same bars
wooden, stale, merciless, green
with the young policeman walking through
scared and looking for trouble,
and the beer is still bad
it has an edge that already mixes with vomit and
decay, and you’ve got to be strong in the shadows
to ignore it, to ignore the poor and to ignore yourself
and the shopping bag between your legs
down there feeling good with its avocados and
oranges and fresh fish and wine bottles, who needs
a Fort Lauderdale winter?
25 years ago there used to be a whore there
with a film over one eye, who was too fat
and made little silver bells out of cigarette
tinfoil. the sun seemed warmer then
although this was probably not
true, and you take your shopping bag
outside and walk along the street
and the green beer hangs there
just above your stomach like
a short and shameful shawl, and
you look around and no longer
see any
old men.

– – Charles Bukowski (Source: Oldpoetry.com)

There’s a video on YouTube of Russell in a live performance talking and singing about Charles Bukowski, Warren Zevon, and Dave Van Ronk that will give you a better feel for this morning distraction.

— kenne

No Words Can Describe   1 comment

We spent some brief moments with brother Tom during our trip to Seattle for Lisa’s and Mike’s wedding on Lummi Island (August 29, 2009). 

It’s never been easy for anyone to figure out the Turner boys, let alone one to the other. In some ways,
however, if you know one of us, then you know the other. We are very much alike, but selectively taking
some similarities to an extreme (by choice and personality), which appear different.

This video is about my brother; therefore, it’s about me.

“The cat’s in the well and grief is showing its face
The world’s being slaughtered and it’s such a bloody disgrace.”

— kenne

 

 

For Crying Out Loud (September 2009)

(The video can be enlarged by clicking on HD at the top right and the four arrows in the the lower right corner.)

Blue Wing   Leave a comment

Eastern Bluebird — Photo-Artistry by kenne

He had a blue wing tattooed on his shoulder
Well, it might have been a bluebird, I don’t know
but he’d get stone drunk and talk about Alaska
The salmon boats and 45 below

Well, he got that blue wing up in Walla Walla
and his cellmate there was a Little Willy John
and Willie, he was once a great blues singer
so Wing & Willie wrote him up a song

— from Blue Wing by Tom Russell

Another Glass Of Wine My Dear   Leave a comment

Another Glass Of Wine My Dear (April 5, 2007) — Image by kenne

Have Some Medeira, M’dear

She was young, she was pure, she was new, she was nice
She was fair, she was sweet seventeen.
He was old, he was vile, and no stranger to vice
He was base, he was bad, he was mean.
He had slyly inveigled her up to his flat
To view his collection of stamps,
And he said as he hastened to put out the cat,
The wine, his cigar and the lamps:
Have some madeira, m’dear.
You really have nothing to fear.
I’m not trying to tempt you, that wouldn’t be right,
You shouldn’t drink spirits at this time of night.
Have some madeira, m’dear.
It’s really much nicer than beer.
I don’t care for sherry, one cannot drink stout,
And port is a wine I can well do without…
It’s simply a case of chacun a son gout
Have some madeira, m’dear.
Unaware of the wiles of the snake-in-the-grass
And the fate of the maiden who topes,
She lowered her standards by raising her glass,
Her courage, her eyes and his hopes.
She sipped it, she drank it, she drained it, she did!
He promptly refilled it again,
And he said as he secretly carved one more notch
On the butt of his gold-headed cane:
Have some madeira, m’dear,
I’ve got a small cask of it here.
And once it’s been opened, you know it won’t keep.
Do finish it up.
It will help you to sleep.
Have some madeira, m’dear.
It’s really an excellent year.
Now if it were gin, you’d be wrong to say yes
The evil gin does would be hard to assess..
Besides it’s inclined to affect me prowess,
Have some madeira, m’dear.
Then there flashed through her mind what her mother had said
With her antepenultimate breath,
“Oh my child, should you look on the wine that is red
Be prepared for a fate worse than death!”
She let go her glass with a shrill little cry,
Crash!
Tinkle! it fell to the floor;
When he asked,
“What in Heaven?”
She made no reply,
Up her mind, and a dash for the door.
Have some madeira, m’dear.
Rang out down the hall loud and clear
With a tremulous cry that was filled with despair,
As she fought to take breath in the cool midnight air,
Have some madeira, m’dear.
The words seemed to ring in her ear.
Until the next morning, she woke in her bed
With a smile on her lips and an ache in her head…
And a beard in her lug ‘ole that tickled and said:
Have some madeira, m’dear!

Flanders and Swann




I’m A Rover   Leave a comment

Ye Vagabonds LP 

I love British folk music — enjoy.

Posted February 3, 2021 by kenneturner in British, Information, Music, video

Tagged with , , ,

A Man’s a Man for a’ That   Leave a comment

Old Man — Image by kenne

A Man’s a Man for a’ That

Is there for honest Poverty
That hings his head, an’ a’ that;
The coward-slave, we pass him by,
We dare be poor for a’ that!
For a’ that, an’ a’ that.
Our toils obscure an’ a’ that,
The rank is but the guinea’s stamp,
The Man’s the gowd for a’ that.

What though on hamely fare we dine,
Wear hoddin grey, an’ a that;
Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine;
A Man’s a Man for a’ that:
For a’ that, and a’ that,
Their tinsel show, an’ a’ that;
The honest man, tho’ e’er sae poor,
Is king o’ men for a’ that.

Ye see yon birkie ca’d a lord,
Wha struts, an’ stares, an’ a’ that,
Tho’ hundreds worship at his word,
He’s but a coof for a’ that.
For a’ that, an’ a’ that,
His ribband, star, an’ a’ that,
The man o’ independent mind,
He looks an’ laughs at a’ that.

A Prince can mak a belted knight,
A marquis, duke, an’ a’ that!
But an honest man’s aboon his might –
Guid faith, he mauna fa’ that!
For a’ that, an’ a’ that,
Their dignities, an’ a’ that,
The pith o’ Sense an’ pride o’ Worth
Are higher rank than a’ that.

Then let us pray that come it may,
As come it will for a’ that,
That Sense and Worth, o’er a’ the earth
Shall bear the gree an’ a’ that.
For a’ that, an’ a’ that,
It’s comin yet for a’ that,
That Man to Man the warld o’er
Shall brithers be for a’ that.

Robert Burns

Rainbow Photos   2 comments

Rainbow Images (December 10, 2020) by kenne

After several months to little to no rain,
we received about one-quarter inch with some beautiful rainbows. 
We are thankful!

— kenne

Rainbow Connection — Willie Nelson

Jabberwocky Moon Over The Tumtum Tree   Leave a comment

Jabberwocky Moon Over the Tumtum Tree — Abstract Art by kenne

Jabberwocky

 
’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
      Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
      And the mome raths outgrabe.
 
“Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
      The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
      The frumious Bandersnatch!”
 
He took his vorpal sword in hand;
      Long time the manxome foe he sought—
So rested he by the Tumtum tree
      And stood awhile in thought.
 
And, as in uffish thought he stood,
      The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
      And burbled as it came!
 
One, two! One, two! And through and through
      The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
      He went galumphing back.
 
“And hast thou slain the Jabberwock?
      Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!”
      He chortled in his joy.
 
’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
      Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
      And the mome raths outgrabe.
 
— Lewis Carroll 
 

Houston’s Trudy Lynn   Leave a comment

Houston’s Trudy Lynn (October 24, 2002) at  Houston’s Photofest — Image by kenne

 

David Hidalgo – Cortez The Killer   Leave a comment

David Hidalgo, Los Lobos Guitarist — Photo-Artistry by kenne

Cortez the Killer
 
He came dancing across the water
With his galleons and guns
Looking for a new world
A palace in the sun
On the shore lay Montezuma
With his cocoa leaves and pearls
In his halls he often wondered
The secrets of the worlds
Oh, and his subjects gathered round him
Like leaves around a tree
In their clothes of many colors
For the angry gods to see
And the women all were beautiful
And the men stood straight and strong
They offered life in sacrifice
So that others could go on
 
Hate was just a legend
And war was never known
The people worked together
And they lifted many stones
They carried them to the flat-lands
And they died along the way
They built up with their bare hands
What we still can’t build today
And I know she’s living there
And she loves me to this day
I can still remember when
Or how I lost my way
 
Cortez, Cortez
He came dancing across the water
Cortez, Cortez
 
Came dancing across the water
 
Came dancing across the water
Cortez, Cortez
Dancing across the water
Dancing across the water
Dancing across the water
Came dancing across the water
Cortez, Cortez
Dancing across the water
Dancing across the water
Dancing across the water
 
— Neil Young
 
 

A Pala Valley October Visit   Leave a comment

Pala Casino, Spa and Resort Pool Area — Images by kenne

Since moving to Tucson ten years ago, we have annually spent Thanksgiving
with Joy’s family in southern California. However, because of COVID, this year,
we will be staying in Tucson. 

Instead of the usual big family get together (as many as 25 people), we decided
to meet two of Joy’s sisters (Jody and Jeri) at a neutral location, and of course, for them,
it would have to be a casino.

So, last Wednesday, we drove to Pala Casino, Spa, and Resort, which is located in
the mountains northeast of San Diego. Since I’m not into gambling, I spent time
around the pool, took photos of oranges, and listen to live music in the casino.
During past visits
, I usually spent time walking the 1.5-mile Pala Band of Indians
Cultural and Nature Trail behind Pala Spa. This time it was closed.

We returned to Tucson last Friday.

(During this time of COVID, we have found casino resorts to be relatively safe, keeping everything clean, requiring social-distancing and masks, except when eating and drinking.)

— kenne

My Introduction To Wallace Stevens   4 comments

Tom Turner (08/29/09) — Image by kenne

With so much of my knowledge of literature I was taught by my brother, Tom. In an April 26, 2003 note from him, he wrote:

“Hey . . . you
Metaphysical degenerates . . . 
Bantered alone by impulse . . . 
Here I am attempting to essay a few
coherent thoughts . . . God it’s risky!
‘God and the imagination are one.’

I am in the midst of trying to 
memorize a poem . . . ‘Final Soliloquy 
of The Interior Paramour’
by

Wallace Stevens . . . never mind why.”

Tom goes on to write about a piece by George Steiner
on memorization amid the technological revolution
where media is ubiquitous:

“The danger is that the text or music will lose
what physics calls its ‘critical mass,’ its implosive
powers within the echo chambers of the self.”

He continued — “I can really be in awe of
Shakespearean stage people in recitation
of exact lines!! Read closely . . .”

Our wills and fates do so contrary run
that our devices still are overthrown:
our thoughts are ours, their ends none of our own.
(The Player King’s Crucial Speech in the Play
Within the Play — Act 3, Scene 2, 183-209-Hamlet)

I probably don’t need to tell you that Tom
never memorized the Wallace poem.

Final Soliloquy Of The Interior Paramour

Light the first light of evening, as in a room
In which we rest and, for small reason, think
The world imagined is the ultimate good.

This is, therefore, the intensest rendezvous.
It is in that thought that we collect ourselves,
Out of all the indifferences, into one thing:

Within a single thing, a single shawl
Wrapped tightly round us, since we are poor, a warmth,
A light, a power, the miraculous influence.

Here, now, we forget each other and ourselves.
We feel the obscurity of an order, a whole,
A knowledge, that which arranged the rendezvous.

Within its vital boundary, in the mind.
We say God and the imagination are one…
How high that highest candle lights the dark.

Out of this same light, out of the central mind,
We make a dwelling in the evening air,
In which being there together is enough.

— Wallace Stevens

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