Among other interesting things about the life of a bluet, the female will walk along a twig or branch into the subsurface of the water to lay her eggs, while the male will remain on the surface keeping watch. They live along brackish water.
Nikon D3200, aperture priority, ISO 400, 55-300mm, auto WB.
Steven Schroeder came to town bearing the gift of poetry. His daughter, Regina, brought a gift, too, of lessons in paper-making. I would not miss a minute of any of it.
Schroeder named the event "from page to poem, with music," presented by the Wichita Falls Literature and Art Review. Antuan Simmons, Sheri Sutton, James Hoggard, and Kenny Hada also contributed to the event. The Dutchess provided food and wine for the audience.
The two-day event began with Regina's paper-making workshop.
Sift the cotton in the frame, gently, firmly, until it looks glassy.
I arrived quite late, having enjoyed a pleasant lunch visit with Claudia, John, and Jesse. Jesse treated us to chocolate chip cookies for dessert. Normally, I do not eat sweet foods or desserts of any kind, but out of politeness I discovered a world of taste I had missed by denying myself before . . . the chocolate chip cookie. My first bite made a discovery which I know I will remember for a long time. I ate the whole cookie, then, and decided to treat MyMrMallory with one later in the week.
I could hardly wait to draw and paint a chocolate chip cookie, relishing the memory of its taste -- AND the memory of a pleasant, relaxing lunch with some fine people.
My relaxed feelings slipped off my back as I hopped on my bike to rush to the Forum, having missed two hours of Regina's paper-making workshop. No worries, she indicated, "Come up to my studio in Boston any time." I admired her calm demeanor.
After plunging my hands in the water to swirl the cotton fibres, I scooped them up in her frame. I felt the cotton, the water, the heavy wooden frame, and the copper that held it together, and felt convinced that I would indeed travel to her studio in Boston to experience more in depth the endeavor of making paper.
In the evening, Antuan Simmons read his work first. I have noted his work to uplift the spirit of the reader. Simmons contributes to our world with a new website BlackmobileTV for smartphones, and Black History Films in the online version.
Simmons read at the event from page to poem, with music.
The next day, Schroeder held a poetry workshop, also at the Dutchess. Students sipped coffee and tea. Since we celebrated Ellen's birthday the day before, and I had left my share of the cake there, she sliced it in several pieces to share with the students. That was the second time in two days that I learned that denying myself sweet foods had kept my taste buds from reveling in life.
The passionflower vine continues to thrive in the small amounts of rain. Its three flowers yesterday caught my eye, and as I admired them, I noted something else thrived in the garden. Flitting from plant to plant, flower to flower, disappearing and reappearing from behind foliage, their colorful wings glimmering in pockets of sun underneath the great oak tree, dragonflies and butterflies landed and then took off. I ran for my camera.
MyMrMallory sat in a chair minding the coals in the old grill, preparing to cook our supper of grilled eggplant, glancing from fire to our garden as I dashed after a monarch (Danaus plexippus) butterfly. "He's behind you now," he would say, as I stood up from behind the lantana bushes, looking all around me for the butterfly. The insects provided me with fine exercise and a show for MyMrMallory before our meal.
Taken with a Nikon D3200 set on auto everything and a 55-300mm lens.
Cropped during fearless and shameless post-processing with the dodge tool in the digital darkroom.
The monarch stood still enough for my camera to finally focus on it, rather than the surrounding foliage.
Do hunter's with rifles have this much fun?
Here is the same butterfly sitting on a turk's cap leaf in the shade.
No post-processing except for cropping.
Elsewhere in the garden, more challenges:
A skimmer alighted on the buds of a turk's cap plant.
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.