When You Don’t Have The Internet, You’re Left With Your Thoughts

I’m on an internet diet.  Sure, it seems I’m busy momming and wifing and farming, beefing people and all that, but you’d be surprised how many minutes you can find looking at the interwebs.  So, I stopped.  I put myself on a diet. I do mail for beef and chicken sales.  I can blog.  And I also found, I can make videos.  Totally on the diet!  My cheats are watching video recaps of The Late Show with Steven Colbert and stand-up comedy.

When someone sends me a link, I’ll follow it.  Totally on the diet.  I’ve been so excited watching the development of Modern Dance in the mainstream media.  Videos, ads, comedy… all of it.  My husband sent me a great ad recently.  Great music.  Great film.  Great moves.  I can remember making those moves in real time with real dancers for real audiences a long time ago.  No video back then.  All I have is my memory of that experience performing or enjoying a dance performance.  And my poor husband sitting through all those performances.  Brother Teresa!

Dances were about the body and the lines of the body.  Not much choreography involved the face as part of the movement.  The face was neutral.  A friend of mine LOVED using the face.  I remember dancing for her and hating all this face stuff.  I did it, but I felt like I was dancing and doing a Haka for New Zealand Rugby at the same time.

Butoh ( Japanese dance theatre ) uses face, space and time to dance.  I’ve been to one Butoh concert in my life.  Here’s some advice: don’t have two glasses of Chardonnay before a Butoh concert.  … but the moments I enjoyed before I fell asleep were INCREDIBLE!  They take their time.  Your time is of no interest to them.  You can watch a scene for many, many minutes and then you’ll realize that it opened up to another scene before you realized it opened up.  … picture a time-lapse, slow motion video of a flower blossoming.

With my thoughts and inspiration we put together a farm video after Zelie got her new onesie.  Hope you enjoy …



Fair To Middlin’



Mom:  Hey John, How are you John?

John: Hi Gladys, Fair to middlin’

Mom: Me too, John, I’m fair to middlin’

Mom ( to me ): He’s always fair to middin’.  I am too.  I Don’t know what that means.

I asked the ladies who helped my mom what “fair to middlin'” meant … they didn’t know.  John is an old boy, so I assumed this must be a phrase along with “bee’s knees” and “when hector was a pup.”  Fair to middling means ” ok. average. meh.”  My brief googlpedia research rounded up a lovely piece on livestock or crop grade that goes in this order:  fine, through good, fair, middling, ordinary and least good.  So John and my mom were doing O.K.  Affirmed each day along with others at the residence at meal times.  A new expression for me while I visited my mom in America.

When I walked into my mom’s room for the first time, I was taken with all the photos and art she brought with her.  Most specifically the painting of some daisies in a pot.  When that painting was purchased, I was a teen off haggling with the vendors of Tijuana trying  to knock off a few pesos for some huaraches. My mom and dad were after something for our home.  We split up shopping in the Tijuana shopping maze.  My mom told my dad that she found something she loved.  My dad told my mom that he also found something perfect.  I can’t remember who went first, but when the first led the other to the painting they loved, they both smiled because it was the same painting.  A bunch of daisies in a pot.  So they bought it and it was in our home.  And there it was in my mom’s room.  I took a photo of it, but it came out a bit crooked.  Well, fair to middlin’.


Vacation Loves Not Matter


Always great fun to watch well known movies with French subtitles.  I believe the above is ” Summer fling, don’t mean a thing.”  But translated, “Love vacation is irrelevant” or “unimportant.”

“Quelles nuits” is when John T does his falsetto “niiiiHIGH….T”


And when the gang “shoo-bop-bop”‘s … in French it is ” shoo-bop-bop.”  They can totally do that.  I seen it at Karaoke night in the village.



Behold, The Jazz Flute Solo

Publishing words in the form of a blog is inherently narcissistic ( but enough about me … what do you think of me? ).  I’m not one to toot my own horn, but rather toot horns of other people that I find fascinating or thought provoking or too darn cute.  Today, it’s about me.  There’s no shame in my dark secret.  We all have one.  Thanks to Brent and Huey “Scooby Snacks” Morgan, I was hit smack in the face with a talent I had long forgotten.  I was a very good flute player or flautist, if you will.  First chair, all the juicy flute parts as well as the piccolo player.  Gina was pretty good, but damnit, I was better ( bitch ).  Yeah, I came a long way from my humble beginnings as the triangle soloist in Silver Bells ( you sing: silver bells – me: DING – you: silver BELLS – me: DING – It’s Christmas TIME in the city … and it goes on like that ). And yes, I did throw my mouthpiece across the room in a fit of rage leaving a small dent in my flute that I still have to this day. I am an artist, what else can I say. It runs in the family.

Brent listens to various BBC radio shows while he’s doing tractor time.  Huey is one of our favorites.  Huey has a good sense of cool ( or Kool ) that is fantastic to listen to while allowing your mind to runaway in thoughts of “who sampled this?” and “did he just play John Cougar Mellencamp?”  There I was, innocently taking a sit-down while Zélie napped when Huey played “Dazz” by Brick.  Fine groove.  Oh! A sax solo.  Nice.  Falsetto, good one.  As the song progresses your mind wonders with thoughts like “Dazz” … what the heck is that?  “Dazz Dance … Disco Jazz”  OH!  Disco and Ja – wait, what’s that?  A flute?   And there you are, after two minutes and change into the “Dazz” groove you are completely assaulted by a very long jazz flute solo.  It’s fabulous.

I put down my flute at age twelve and picked up some tap shoes and jazz shoes and ballet shoes and modern barefeet.  I didn’t see a future in flute playing.  I didn’t want to continue on in an orchestra or the marching band circuit.  I wanted to be in a REAL band.  But who does flute in a band?  Brick, that’s who.  Brent said that Huey was on flute solo junket the other day.   Flute solos just kept coming.  I remember practicing those jazz flute techniques when I wasn’t playing with the orchestra.  When no one was listening.  Me in my bedroom, tooting my own horn.  With nowhere to go as a woodwind player, I took to the performing arts like a tiger.  All my hours consumed with dance or drama or directing or singing or producing.  The flute, so cute, was shelved never intended to be revisited.

Today, I bring you “Dazz” by Brick via Brent via Huey.

My Sunflower


It’s true, I think it’s carried on the second X chromosome.  But I do love the sunflower.  I can’t help myself.  This year is a stellar year for sunflowers and we are surrounded by stellar crops of lovely golden beauties popping up imminently.  Brent has been steadily bringing our old vine fields into pasture.  We seeded an alfalfa and dactyle mix before the rain hit and watched and waited.  Things went wet.  Things went dry.  Things grew and it was time for Brent to mow it in for the next batch.  These are the things you do when trying to bring back fertility and good soil.  When we went out for a walk, I noticed a volunteer sunflower on the verge of bloom.  Brent mowed the next day, but left the sunflower.  My little sunflower.  It’s very beautiful.  I’m glad he left it.  I just want to cuddle it and call it Jorge.  Here is its view.

It can also keep an eye on the cows.  This little sunflower is not long for the world.  The strong, yellow bloom doesn’t last long and then it starts hanging its head ready for drying and harvesting.  The sunflowers bloom big through July and begin to droop through August.  When they are droopy and brown, you know its about time for school to begin, wood to be chopped and garlic/shallots/leeks/white onions/peas to go in.  Most of the fields are green with golden anticipation.  You can feel July in the air and in the fields.  Okay, but more importantly Spain/ Portugal are in penalties … gotta run.

I’m Lampin’ I’m Lampin’


and whoah, you must behold The Beast.  I’m sure it has a much better name.  I’ve been trying to take photos of it when The Beast first arrived many, many months ago.  It’s coy.  It’s mysterio.  It’s a bit dusty and cob-webby.

I love it.


It tucks us in at night.  It brightens our path as we (me, okay Brent) staggers down to make the morning brew.


It’s big.  It’s beautiful.


On occasion, it makes noise.  Which is more give from this lovely piece of art.  This beauty was designed by Katty.  She’s quite talented.  She is a One Foot Taller.  Someday, maybe I’ll grab that photo that does it justice.

What do he mean by suckas man?

Are You Brave Enough?

As I’ve said before, if you’d like to run a hit song in France, simply include the word “fuck” into your chorus and let FUN radio take it from there.  Today’s installment of “gawd I love France and how lovely is it they don’t censor,” I bring you “Peacock” by Katy Perry.  Sure, I’m prolly late to the game.  I’m a mama of four with cows and shit, so who can blame me.  It’s just when you’re dashing in the equivalent of Safeway for your milk or what have you, and “Peacock” is blaring as you browse in aisle nine, you can’t help but think, “hey! That’s Katy Perry!  What the heck is she on about?  Why is she talking about big cocks while I’m shopping?”  “oh!  Peeeacock she’s saying” how cute.  A song about Peacocks.  I love Peacocks.  Catchy tune.

and let me tell you right here right now, there ain’t nothin’ finer than a French person saying “Katy Perry”  as well as “Lady Gaga” and “Facebook.”  Absolutely rad.  “FAhZ-booook” is completely unintelligible out of context.