buddha · is

During the last unexpected downpour I was on the South Bank of the Thames river.

It had been overcast for the morning, but not unpleasant, a nice day to be out. Then the un-forecast showers began.

I absolutely don't mind walking in the rain, dependent on my shoe selection, but this was a pouring rain. To escape,I tucked into a small chain book store.

Having just finished a comfort read, Duma Key by Stephen King and re-reading a classic sci-fi favorite of mine, Childhood's End by Arthur C. Clarke, I felt an obligation to pick up something new in exchange for the shelter.
I thought I might choose a title I could proudly discuss at a phantom dinner party with big city smarties.

I took 'The Making of the Representative for Planet 8' by Doris Lessing from the shelves primarily because of name recognition.
She was the winner of the 2007 Nobel Prize in Literature. Until her win, she was completely off my reader radar.

The book is a short novella, science fiction in that it takes place in a fictional place and concerns fictional peoples.
The main thrust of the story is that of a civilization dealing with a sudden, and ultimately catastrophic, shift in their planet's climate.
Comes an ice age due to an unprecedented wobble of a distant star.

She's eloquent but wordy.
I like that she writes in a conversational, stream of consciousness sort of way, but it is often hard to follow her thought.
She is obviously a writer of her time and this is a story to be told aloud, from a stage or into a microphone for broadcast.

In substance the story explores a comfortable people, a people of a balmy lifestyle, whose experiences to date can not prepare them for unknowns such as ice or even frost, much less extinction.

A headier exporlation is made of the eternal survival of the soul past the existence of the species.
Is it enough to have existed in a universe so vast?

I give it a thumbs up, if you're a reader not easily distracted.
As I read, Amy Winehouse plays quietly and I begin to sing along.
Moments, verses and refrains pass and I discover my eyes unfocused on paragraphs far down the page, undigested.
I reset to the last memorable line, turn down the volume and jump in again.

I've had slow going with fewer than eighty-five of the one hundred ninety pages still ahead of me. Lucky is my situation, far from Burmese cyclones and military juntas, to be able to struggle with wordy, award winning fiction just steps from water on tap, to ponder the long term existence of an eternal soul rather than personal survival in the short term.

My personal photographic mentor Angela worked me an invitation to be contributor to the Arthouse 5X7 show in Austin.
The parameters are: submit two pieces of work in 5X7 and sign only the back.
The pieces will be auctioned off to raise money for Arthouse, the center for contemporary arts in Austin, Texas.

I decided that my two pieces would be two sets of five pieces each, ten photographs total, which would be connected by the theme 'Here and There'.

These are the ten which made the cut.

My least favorite kitchen chore had a little perk tonight.
While wet to the elbows and listening to audio commentary for a Seinfeld episode, I noticed a faint movement through the window.

Out in the dark two fox pups were flopping about with each other, having a wee bit of playtime.

Public service announcements in the UK are direct and effective.

The newest one, suddenly everywhere on the sides of city busses is simple, illustrative and to the point.
It offers three plain facts.
"A Chest Pain is Your Body Saying Call 999"
"Doubt Kills."
"Call 999 Immediately."

(For the Welsh, that's "Poen Yn Frest? Mae Dy Gorff Yn Dweud Ffonnia 999", though where it becomes a question escapes me.)

I thought it oddly significant that the campaign coinsides with a post my friend in NYC made about an experience he had on Sunday.

One having nothing to do with the other,
Prostitution isn't illegal in the UK except curbside, and there are apparently well visited brothels spread throughout.
Men's toilets in Nottingham and Westminster pubs are the site of public service posters on the issue of Human Trafficking.
Sex buyers are being challenged:
"If you're man enough, call Crimestoppers."
...should there be concerns over their service provider's well being.
It seems to me a bit weak, I prefer strongly worded headline of the poster.
"Walk in a punter. Walk out a rapist."

There is a toss up on my personal favorite "public service film", as they're known in the UK.

First were the "get unhooked" smoking television ads, which received more viewer complaints than any ad to date.



But then came the Know Your Limits campaign, which edged ahead for me.

Superhero, rockin' sountrack and grizzly finalé, who could ask for more?
The message, oh yeah, the message...

I miss the bamboo from our front yard in Austin, but in a "small world" moment we ended up with some in back of the tiny green area behind the mews. As poorly chosen bamboo is known to do, it has run over from a neighbor's yard.

A couple of weeks ago while it was still too cold for the spiders to have gotten very large, Jack and I crawled through the kitchen window and onto the embankment to tidy it up.
Neighbors of the past have used it as a comfortable dumping ground. Garbage bags of old paint cans and the left over wood from a deck long since finished lurked under the ivy.

As I went to prune and tidy a healthy stand of bamboo it was quite easily moved.
One of the runners from next door had made its way into a full, unopened bag of garden mulch which had been in place long enough to be covered by ivy.
I snipped the runner and separated the rhizomes, potting them in some cheap Ikea rubbish bins.

Some wheat seeded into the pots and now the balcony is awash in green, high and low.

Somebody took his first bus ride today. He didn't care so much for it.

He was in enough distress that a woman with a small child offered me her seat.
It wouldn't have helped him, I was already down low with him, but it was a kind gesture.

Yesterday was, among other things, the London Mayoral election.

Paper ballot, 45% turnout and 10 candidates (with only three getting any real attention in the media).
No election results will be made until Friday evening and the city media is waiting, salivating and ready to tear flesh from bone whomever wins.

More than once I've been asked to explain the basics of the american voting process, warts and all. It isn't easy and it's often embarrassing but I feel mostly confident in my understanding of the process.

In the London Mayoral election, you choose your candidate...

...then you pick your second preference.

I don't understand.

I'm currently having trouble with Flickr.

The photo uploading program starts well enough, but within 20% of complete, it vanishes along with all the titles, tags and descriptions I spend so much time fussing over.

Technically, flickr blames Virgin Media (and some other company who handles their traffic flow) who are 'tweaking their Squid proxy servers'. I couldn't care less about the reason, just that it will be finished and back to normal and NOW!
Since April 28th I've only been able to upload three photos successfully.

That being said, as a 'Pro' account holder I chose the option to gather statistics on the photo views for my account several months ago and love the feature.
LOVE IT!

You have no idea how often the internet search engines are queried for images of a "Ketchup Receipt" until flickr tells you...

Or Amy Carter?
Would I have thought there would be bi-weekly searches for the former President's daughter? No, I can't say I would...

A detail photo of the hair color I did for a client is my sixth most viewed photo and surprisingly has never once been found because the title contains the letters "BJ", while true to internet form, my most viewed photo gained its place because of the search popularity of the phrase "skinny dip".
I've decided that at 2000 views I'm removing that phrase from the mix to give "kidney stone" and "Cyndi Lauper" the chance to catch up.

I wonder what I might find by searching google for "tweaking their Squid proxy servers"?

One year in London, adjustments made, it's little things that seem most different.( I'm usually only lost and disoriented by them for a moment or three. )

Today is our anniverseries.

April 28th is both our 13th anniversary together and the one year anniversary of moving to London.

13 years ago we sat in a dry creekbed in Austin Texas comparing likes and dislikes during Eeyore's Birthday party.

One year ago we were being held in UK immigration because we entered the country two days early for our visas.

Oops... but it turned out well, in both instances.

Cherry blossoms drop
Drifts beautiful yet fading

Soon to wash away.

I just typed an email to my friend Donna in which I wished the temperature here would warm up just three degrees and only three degrees.
It's nice out, but three more degrees would guarantee the need for a light simple jacket rather than a coat.

I hit send and there was a flash followed by a biblical roll of thunder.
Then a wall of hail began to fall...

...and collect.

I began my email not to complain about the weather, but to pass on the news of the auction of a work by Lucien Freud, whom Donna and I love.

I cringed and drew all my limbs in to my body for psychic protection when I read the headline: Inglewood Worker is Pulled into Wood Chipper" .

I have ZERO reasons to answer the front doorbell when it rings at 8 am. There is no one with whom I have business who would be pressing that button that early unannounced and unplanned..

I did step out onto he balcony and look down.
This morning it was the neighbor from across the mews, angry at us that we would let the Fox urinate at his front entrance.
As we hadn't done any such thing, I couldn't be bothered.

I'm certain our plea of not guilty would be lost as he took spray disinfectant, a scrub mop and some backbone to the offending area, then splashing water over the suds to dilute the foul paste he'd created.

I did know the guilty party and knew it was just a matter of hours before I could prove it.

Grace, guilty as charged.

After watching the televised debate between three of the ten candidates for Mayor of London, I'd have to say Ken Livingston, the current Mayor, is the least angry.

While I was in Texas, rounding up the Fox, I took advantage of prices in US dollars and the Mecca of Target.

I loaded up on my favorite natural body wash at HEB, buying four bottles and the same with our toothpaste, deodorants and Jack's favorite bitter coffee, Café du Monde.

At Target there were 600 threadcount cotton sheets sets in king size for only $79! A bargin (and made in a democracy) so I grabbed two sets, which became a bigger bargin when Jack's mom wouldn't let me pay for them and picked up the tab herself.

I never ever feel the need to drag giant boxes onto planes or buy extra luggage for travel purchases as long as there are post offices. I packed everything smartly with liquids inside plastic ziplock bags, souviner Tshirst as well and the sheet sets in large plastic garbage bags.

What could go wrong?

I received a notice that a package 'too large to deliver' had arrived, so Jack and I walked several blocks this morning to pick it up.
There was no question when it was turned over to me that there was a problem.

Inside a giant plactic bag was a big, discolored box with the extra tape cocooning it closed.

Saddened, I tossed it over my shoulder St. Nick style and we walked it home... where we got a fairly odd surprise.

One of the body wash bottles had come open, it had completely emptied itself first into the open ziplock bag and then into the rest of the box.

The sheet sets were safe, except for a single pillowcase which was oddly outside the garbage bag. One can of the Café du Monde coffee was missing and in its place was a DVD of some fairyland Manga animé collection that I've never seen before, much less pack into this box.
One bodywash was completely gone and none of the incense I bought (Hinoki, yum) was there.

Some freak was in my box.

Hey freak, the dvd doesn't interest me, I want the second fitted sheet and my two tubes of toothpaste back! (but you can keep the coffee, I prefer Ethionian Harrar.)

More have opened.

There are at least two tulips on the balcony destined to live up to their promised glory.
The remainder are still a mystery.

Life could be worse.

Yeah, when the 'protester' tried to grab the torch in London.... it was on our corner, in front of the pub where Jack had his deluxe nachos.
In the snowy park a block away I think Fox relished the chance to hold a flaming stick in his chilly, chilly paws.

There was no holding him back as he shouted "Free Tibet" and lunged into the procession.

Tomorrow the Olympic Torch will run down the end of our block on its trek across the globe.

I'm not the biggest fan of the Olympics to start with, the first games I watched on television taught me the word "terrorist" and left me with more questions than my parents had answers.

This afternoon we walked Fox past the giant BBC complex and came across the first bit of grassroots Olympic dissent I've seen. It was a hastily applied poster on the wall of a construction site.

I decided long before Spielberg that the Chinese Olympics weren't for me, that I would not be watching.
I've exerted quite a bit of energy over the past 20 years doing my best to avoid products marked "Made in China" for one reason...

Democracy.

A country whose government murders its people for demanding democracy should never have been given the Games in the first place. Neither should they have a favored trading status on the world market, but these aren't choices I get to make as a single member of a representative republic.
What I can do is exercise my consumer spending and guide it as often as possible in another direction.

I don't need to walk to the end of the block to watch fire being carried toward a communist state with a 'one child per family' policy.
We saw it in Austin years ago.

I would have thought they'd hold the traffic for the runner.

Fox has adjusted just fine.

My only complaint so far is that he's been the only dog in the park every time we've gone, which has been three times a day!

That hasn't kept him from using it to his fullest advantage.

In September I bought three dozen "Queen of the Night" tupils at the Amsterdam floating flower market. That means I bought black tulips, though technically they're deep aubergene.

Last spring the courtyard of the V&A Museum was so beautiful that I wanted to recreate it to scale on the balcony.

The flower stalls had bags of a dozen ready to go so I grabbed three plus a bag of white for a pot on the upstairs balcony. A nice contract, one floor to the next, I thought.

By January we had tulips peeking out of soggy soil on two floors.

It was nearly Valentine's Day before the first bud appeared, with no real fast forward until I left for Texas to fetch Mr. Fox.
I resigned myself to accept the fact I would miss the high point of Tulip Bloom '08, especially after missing that first flight home and staying another week.
Perhaps it had been the last minute freeze, the dusting of snow across London that I missed, that held up the show.
Jack assured me over the phone that nothing had yet bloomed.

Fox and I got home in the rain and the top heavy flower buds were bent and droopy in the corner, but unbloomed.
The next two days dried out a bit more and the sun shone and all the stalks went more verticle.

But...
Color was starting to show on the first flowers, the ones that had been above the rest since February. The ones in the big blue pot of 36 black tulips.

But...

Once you plop your euros down, all bets are off...

First it was a gift hamper destined to be picked clean by Amy Winehouse and that was exciting enough.

But today the stalkerazzi captured the Whole Foods Kensington logo in breathtaking proximity to, well, to... EVEN BETTER!

I rarely have jet lag but I often have trouble resetting my body clock after travel.

Like father, like son.

At 3:45 am yesterday Fox and I were wide awake, leading to Jack being awake. By 5 am I thought we should take a family walk, introduce Fox to the neighborhood.

Jack doesn't care for dawn, but I think he'd have to agree that posing Fox fourteen different ways in front of the vintage Mini wouldn't have been possible at any other time of day.

With any luck by tomorrow we'll be sleeping until at least 8 am.