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.)
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
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!
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.
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
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.)
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.
“Into the Mystic” in Van Morrison’s 1970 Moondance Album
We were borne before the wind Also younger than the sun Ere the bonnie boat was won As we sailed into the mystic Hark, now hear the sailors cry Smell the sea and feel the sky Let your soul and spirit fly into the mystic And when that foghorn blows I will be coming home And when the foghorn blows I want to hear it I don’t have to fear it and I want to rock your gypsy soul Just like way back in the days of old And magnificently we will flow into the mystic When that fog horn blows You know I will be coming home And when that fog horn whistle blows I got to hear it I don’t have to fear it and I want to rock your gypsy soul Just like way back in the days of old And together we will flow into the mystic Come on, girl Too late to stop now
“Into the Mystic” — the words and melody ethereally flowing together as one — is about a spiritual quest. But over the years the song has become much more — an affirmation of life for me, and I would like to think for my generation, as well, should we choose to embrace its sentiments, an anthem of lives lived as we float down that stream, merrily or otherwise, after leaving this mortal coil. I am honored that my path intersected with friends departed, and I am a better person because it did. The fog horn has blown for them and they will be coming home.
On Friday, September 18, 2020, District Ranger conducted a guided tour for Partner members ahead of the Scheduled Reopening of Sabino Canyon Recreational Area on September 21, 2020. Fifteen Partner members, five each from:
Friends of Sabino Canyon Sabino Canyon Volunteer Nationalists Santa Catalina Volunteer Patrol
In addition to the following video, images of the Drive-thru are in this Flickr Album.
In 2010 we experience our first Sonoran Desert monsoon season. There was lots of rain, wind and lightning. This year’s monsoon season has been a nonsoon! So far we have had only 2 inches of rain. This weekend’s forecast was for heavy rains and flash flooding — somebody stole our rain!
So, for this monsoon season the best I can do is revisit an August 31, 2010 posting. — kenne
Catalina Foothills, Tucson, Arizona — image by kenne
During this summer’s rainy season, many storms have provided much-needed rain to southern Arizona. However, when it comes to rainfall, not all areas are treated equally. We had received little rain till the other evening, so when the rain began, it was a time to rejoice. So much is special about the desert. I wrote a poem and produced a video. You can read the poem below and/or in the video.
Desert’s Rainy Season
Desert’s rainy season is A product of summer highs Mixed with atmosphere lows Bringing a refreshing brief break To her blue-skied summer heat
Desert’s wide-open spaces Provide panoramic views Showcasing threatening clouds Only too often breakup Before reaching your sky
Welcoming rains come Only at Desert’s well Playing havoc with forecasters Never seeming to learn She does not keep time
Wind shaking the trees, Olive, palo verde and mesquite Shadowed by rains wetness Shining with each lightning flash While drinking of life’s fountain
Olives falling from twisted branches Rolled by wind over wet flagstones Pounding rain leaving behind puddles As rainwater exits through openings In old pueblo walls
Wind chimes dance wildly Ringing out in nervous joy Desert’s unlocked sounds Composing a melodic refrain Proclaiming Desert’s delight
Share this:
Like this: