“NEW YORK (AP) — U.S. life expectancy fell by a year and a half in 2020, the largest one-year decline since World War II, public health officials said Wednesday.” Covid accounts for 11 percent of the drop. Drug use, homicides, overcrowding and lack of healthcare accounts for much of the rest. See the facts HERE.
Photo by Sharon Wheat. Photos of other felted creatures may be viewed by clicking on link below.
My friend Sharon is an absolutely fabulous artist in every genre she tackles: mixed media sculpture, photography, jewelry, food art, fabric art and stitchery and now in these incredible felted figures. Check them out at: https://sharonwheat.zenfolio.com/p994516379
Note from Leslie: This is my favorite photo of late because as soon as I saw this tree as I walked around this lake I instantly thought she was lifting her skirt so I could get by.
Note from Judy: Leslie wrote one of my favorite books, available in print, Kindle and audio versions. You can read more about it here: http://www.lesliejohansennack.com/
Above are photos taken yesterday morning (May 3.) What looks like a bank of clouds is actually smoke from a fire that has been raging for five days on the slopes of Mount Garcia, the extinct volcano across the lake from me.
The grainy shot above (taken with my phone, so not the best photo) was taken at about 1 a.m. this morning, May 4th, from my rooftop terrace. If you want to get a better view of the fire, have a look at the time-lapse video for the past 24 hours on this site: http://www.ajijicweather.com/lakecam.
When Forgottenman suggested I write about the fire, I reminded him that I actually had written about fires on Mount Garcia many years ago, and he further suggested I reblog that blog, so, always willing to please, below is a link. The Maria Phoenix restaurant I mention, which became a favorite of mine after this first visit, has since been sold to new owners, but still, as regular as clockwork, Señor Garcia (as locals fondly call the mountain) continues to wear his yearly sombrero of smoke. Here is the link to my poem about the fires eight years ago:
Since I couldn’t send you all a May basket on this first day of May, here are some old ones:
Because my startup disc is nearly full, I don’t have access to any new photos, so I’m reposting some flowers from the past until my problem is fixed. These flowers were made from egg cartons, glue and paint and included in May baskets I took to friends that year. I remember I couldn’t resist eating the caramel in this one, so had to go buy another on the way to my friend’s house to deliver it. The first is a basket made of shredded paper and white glue formed over a custard cup and peeled off when dry. The second is cut out of tissue paper–a pattern shown to me by my mother.
NaPoWriMo’s assignment for today was to find a word in The Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows and to use it to prompt a poem. I chose the word “vellichor.” Here is its definition:
n. the strange wistfulness of used bookstores, which are somehow infused with the passage of time—filled with thousands of old books you’ll never have time to read, each of which is itself locked in its own era, bound and dated and papered over like an old room the author abandoned years ago, a hidden annex littered with thoughts left just as they were on the day they were captured.
Since I wrote a poem about vellichor just two months ago, I’m reblogging it here.
Who can pass a bookstore door
and fail to note the vellichor
or fail to feel within their heart
the message of a piece of art?
A poignant poem or pithy quote,
well-loved and thereby learned by rote,
is a means by which we might denote
that part of us that we devote
to what we can’t repudiate—
that part of us that is a gate
to a special way of seeing—
the heart’s eye of a human being.
Here is the link to The Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows.
Here is the link to today’s NaPoWriMo’s prompt.
If I were made the ruler of
this universe I rue and love,
the one thing I would not let “be”
is the force of gravity
in respect to just one issue.
Namely––my mammary tissue!
For, though you may feel dubious,
each year, I grow more boobious!
I do not like them hanging there
where once they used to thrust the air.
Where once each strained against its cup,
It seems like now they’ve given up.
Listless and flat, downward they droop.
Sad Sack replaces Betty Boop.
They have no personality.
They’ve lost elasticality!
The result is truly tragic,
so this is why I need some magic.
Please, gods of nature, give a cure.
There must be some way to inure
my breasts from force of gravity.
Now that I rule, hear my plea!
Tell gravity that it is best
to loose its hold upon each breast
so they are perky once again,
thrusting out below my chin
instead of hanging in two vees
somewhere down around my knees!
Restore my pride. Dispel my frown.
I want them hanging out, not down!
Is it cheating that this is a poem I wrote six years ago? More true now than then!!!!