Except as noted, all images copyrighted by and should be attributed to E. Bourland Hawley.
I had become many eons ago a traveling literary gnome, inquisitive about places I had and had not visited,
walking the same paths of peoples from the past, through places once grand and still grand,
photographing images that now show me the places about which I still dream . . .

Tuesday, July 31, 2007

London Seems All the More Wonderful in the Company of Friends


At home, my Mr. Mallory's grandfather clock, which is as old as I am, chimes in a similar manner as Big Ben. Admiring Big Ben from my hotel window, I noted that its ninth chime sounds as flat as my Mr. Mallory's clock. There is a difference, of course, in that though much older, Big Ben's chimes sound as if it pounds harder, as if it demonstrates the feisty courage of the people who live and grow all around it; yet its ninth note sounds as improbable as the one made by the grandfather clock at home. Having heard the Big Ben, the all mighty of Westminster chimes, I will return home to hear our grandfather clock, and rather than wonder why the Clock Doc gives me a puzzled look when I ask him to fix that note, I'll cherish hearing it for having to sound flat at all.

I sat on one of the front steps at the entrance to the British Library. Occasionally, I raised my camera to look at a scene through its lens, composing, make adjustments to its settings that depended on the lighting created by the passing cumulous clouds; or I sat feeling perfectly content to watch the people around me. People walked past me in a determined manner. Perhaps they headed toward the same exhibit I went there to see with my friends. "Sacred" is the largest gathering of holy books in one place, beautifully exhibited by the British Library and the reason that took me there.

Lovely cumulous clouds gave a picturesque background to possible images: the spires of the Pancras station reaching above the conference center wing of the library; a young woman wearing a "peace and love" t-shirt munching on food from her bowl; an older couple sitting on a bench to rest from their journey to the library before entering the building; and then, there they were, my friends Jim and Lynn walking toward me, making another image to remember, with the sun shining on their faces and their arms up and waving at me as I looked in their direction. For the first time I was able to put into words something I have long noticed, that they both have beautiful smiles beaming under bright eyes. What a treat that they joined me to view the exhibit of holy books.

The exhibit seemed as remarkable as I had imagined. So was, I thought, sitting at a sidewalk cafe sipping coffee and tea with Lynn and Jim. It seemed, and I'll always remember it this way, a marvelous interlude in my journey to Kenya.

Sunday, July 29, 2007

Gnome on the Way

I phoned my Mr. Mallory three times this morning on my way to DFW airport. I just could not say "I love you" enough, and I relished hearing him tell me he loves me -- we cooed together all morning over the phone.

Going through security seemed easy, compared to what I expect on Tuesday at Heathrow on my way to Nairobi.

One fun and grand part of this trip will be to see Lynn at the British Library. We will meet tomorrow at 1:30 p.m. to study the exhibit "Sacred."

Wednesday, July 25, 2007

Gnome Loses Friend

Bye, Babe, and thanks.

Albert Ellis, 1913 - 2007.

Sunday, July 22, 2007

Girls Having Fun: Third in the Series

Click the title above for the direct link. I copy/pasted this report -- this small report -- from the New York Times Online:



Newly Elected Indian President Pratibha Patil in New Delhi, Saturday, after the announcement of poll results.
India Elects First Woman to Be President
Prakash Singh/Agence France-Presse — Getty Images

Saturday, July 14, 2007

Gnome's London

Keeping and eye on London . . . via London Cam on the EarthCam site: http://www.earthcam.com/uk/england/london/

Dress for Success


The woman pictured here caught my eye with her fashion. She's obviously one who believes in having fun. I say, indeed, let us enjoy life as well as we can, while we can. My heroine.

Wednesday, July 4, 2007

Gnome Steps Off Boat, Steps Into Stream



Take me to a stream, a river, a slowly flowing body of water where the trout can cavort with one another, spawn, and later sip my fly from the surface of the water. Matt drove us to Bartlett Lake this morning. We boarded a small, metal boat, and slowly made our way around the bank. I cast toward the edge of the weeds that live under the surface and provide hiding places for trout and other critters, in addition to a good place for feeding on insects. Initially, the trout ignored my Chernobyl ant pattern. And three other patterns we tied on my tippet. For a couple of hours I did not do much more than cast to the edge of the weeds , watch and wait. Fishing began to seem less torturous when I saw some jumping into the air. I cast in that direction and mostly caught them. Other times I cast and watched . . . and hoped a trout would pass somewhere near my fly, happen to glance up, and decide to open its mouth. All the fish we caught today were Brown trout – beautiful Browns. Since I release my fish, Matt did not touch them. I kept the fish on my line until it felt too exhausted to fight any more, then Matt would reach down and hold the tippet, and with his hemostats take the fly and with a quick twist of his wrist flick it off the lip of the trout. I prefer not to touch the fish, and as my hero Leo Wulff used to say, "A good gamefish is too valuable to be caught only once. The fish you release is your gift to another angler." After a while the wind became troublesome for Matt because it pushed the boat as easily as it would push a sail. Matt moved us to the opposite side of the shore where the lake had more protection from the wind provided by the mountain, but the trout had hunkered down for a while and I cast . . . and watched . . . and waited . . .
Thankfully, time passed and we had our lunch at the picnic table where more chipmunks came to see if they could have a chip from Matt, and some lettuce from me.
Thunder and lightning looked remarkable in the distance. Somehow we avoided the strong rain, but hail fell on our vehicle as we drove to the Governor's cabin for a quick photograph and then headed back to the lodge.
I look forward all the more now to stream-fishing now that I have a boat fly on my fly fishing hat.

Tuesday, July 3, 2007

Between Trout Catching, Gnome Bears Treed Bear


My guide, Matt, drove our Ford F250 to Munn Lake. We arrived there during a moment when the water looked like glass, and it reflected Ash and Vermejo Peaks. I cast a Chernobyl Ant before anything else, then changed to several different patterns during the next hour or so.
Something on my neck, crawling and feeling moist, distracted me from my fly. I reached behind my neck and took between my thumb and index finger the little insect that had somehow come to my neck. It was a Blue Damselfly nymph. I showed it to Matt, who then tied on my tippet a damselfly nymph pattern, and then the trout began to bite. I had seen cruising around me two Palomino trout, so when I saw one again I cast at it. After a third cast it took the damselfly nymph pattern. I had said to Matt, "We should try to catch one of those," referring to the Palomino, which is an un-godly cross between a Rainbow and a Californian Golden trout.
"We should catch any trout," he replied.
Across the lake, while I tried to identify a clump of brown as a beaver house, I pointed at it for Matt, who right away, with his trained eye spotted a Cinnamon bear several yards from the clump of wood. For the next hour or so we glanced up at the bear as it made its way around the lake. Eventually, though, it decided to turn around and walk around the lake to disappear into the woods at the foot of the small mountain called the Wall.
Another bear, a much smaller one, sniffed a bear catcher near the trucks. It frightened a woman who fly fished along the bank with tall weeds. In a panic she flung her fly rod into the tall weeds, removed hastily her fly fishing vest, and began whistling madly at the bear. The bear, startled, began to move away from her. At the same time, Matt sprung into action – he ran toward the bear yelling, "I'm going to tree it! I'm going to tree it!" He ran towards the startled bear waving and yelling. If I were a bear, I would run away, but it lept into a large Ponderosa pine and climbed it half-way. Matt still rushed toward it, and the woman still blared her whistle in between saying, "BEAR! Won't have any of that!" "BEAR! Won't have any of that!" The bear climbed the tree farther up the trunk. I approached feeling distraught about the bear. Obviously we had caused it some distress by harassing it up the tree. I did, though, lower myself to aim my 80-200mm f2.8 to photograph a bear in a tree – and took a couple of bad images. We climbed into our truck and left to find a stream to continue my fly fishing. I do not care to know what people did to that bear after we left. I hope they left it alone to climb down from the tree and continue its routine sniffing for food somewhere far from humans.
At Costilla Creek I fly fished for the Rio Grande Cutthroat trout. I used a small hopper pattern successfully. The trout are beautifully colored.
We drove farther up the mountain. Our mission was to reach the top above the tree line. Since the road is less travelled, we were thrown around in the truck, sideways and upwards. We saw perhaps three to four hundred elk on our way up there. The skyline looked stormy over Colorado, and lent interest to photographic images.
I felt exhausted when I phoned my Mr. Mallory, but my loving interaction with him re-energized me enough to present myself at my dinner table, set for one, and enjoy a good meal before collapsing in bed for a deep sleep.

Let Lovely Turn of Phrase Begin

Give Me a Kiss to Build a Dream On

Listen, will you? I think that . . . literature, poetry, music and love make the world go round . . . while mathematics explains things; I fill my life with them, then go walking in snowy woods.
Let us go then, you and I
like two etherized patients floating
through life, together feeling prufrockian.
DDB Jr. makes my world go 'round; during his absence, Pachelbel fills it up.
One summer I sailed across the Atlantic Ocean, then through the Gulf of Finland to reach Saint Petersburg; I pursued Joseph Brodsky in its alley ways. I dream of making that two summers.
I read “Biking to Electra;” found my way in a Jaguar car, and glanced at the flashing steel grasshoppers at sunset. I’ll follow K.O.P.’s footsteps after he followed N.Scott Momaday’s; find warmth and inspiration on a rainy mountain.
Throw chinese coins for the I Ching.
Save the whales, the spotted owl, the woman in toil.
Cast a fly for trout; my memories of fly fishing under the sunny blue Colorado sky remain; I yearn to build more . . . with more trophy Browns.
Listen for the swan’s calls on the Baltic Sea. Feel KKII's joy, his arms spread wide in Yazilikaya.
Good night, Jimmy Durante, where ever you are.