May232014
May162014

Saddles captured during a lunch-time walk-about in Minneapolis, Minnesota, May 2014.

9AM
January152014

random snowmen, minnesota, january 2014

December312013
Cedric knocks on the door. I do not know Cedric. Not his face, voice or dreams. In this moment, as I hear his hand tap on painted wood, Cedric remains unknown, unfamiliar and unstoppable. He repeats his knock. I look through the window pane. Cedric stands at the bottom of the steps. I open the door and step outside. We make introductions. He shows me a Certificate of Identification. I note khaki pants, white shirt, tie. You worked hard for this house, he says. It’s not my house. But someone worked hard for it, he says. Yes, maybe someone worked hard. Yes, probably someone worked hard at some time. But you worked hard for what you have, he says. I pause. I think of what I have. I wonder. Have I worked hard? Yes, maybe I have. No coal mine, but some work, at times hard, most often not hard in the way hard can be, I say. He’s working hard, he says, to stay out of trouble. He travels the country and sells magazines to stay out of jail. He sold drugs, he says. I flash to a popular television show. Selling drugs would be bad, bad, bad. Probably hard, too. No, Cedric should not sell drugs, be locked up. He gives me the magazine list. I see some that I might read when I’m not working not so hard. Most people, he says, decline the subscriptions. They give money and ask for nothing in return. Not a donation, he says, but money to help him on his way, away from drugs and jail. He hears my dogs. A stranger on the steps, they say, with their barks, known, familiar, and unstoppable while I listen to Cedric tell his story. I miss my dog, he says. What? You have dog? Where is it? With my mom, he says. Yes, this is hard. Being away from your dog is hard, I say.

Cedric knocks on the door. I do not know Cedric. Not his face, voice or dreams. In this moment, as I hear his hand tap on painted wood, Cedric remains unknown, unfamiliar and unstoppable. He repeats his knock. I look through the window pane. Cedric stands at the bottom of the steps. I open the door and step outside. We make introductions. He shows me a Certificate of Identification. I note khaki pants, white shirt, tie. You worked hard for this house, he says. It’s not my house. But someone worked hard for it, he says. Yes, maybe someone worked hard. Yes, probably someone worked hard at some time. But you worked hard for what you have, he says. I pause. I think of what I have. I wonder. Have I worked hard? Yes, maybe I have. No coal mine, but some work, at times hard, most often not hard in the way hard can be, I say. He’s working hard, he says, to stay out of trouble. He travels the country and sells magazines to stay out of jail. He sold drugs, he says. I flash to a popular television show. Selling drugs would be bad, bad, bad. Probably hard, too. No, Cedric should not sell drugs, be locked up. He gives me the magazine list. I see some that I might read when I’m not working not so hard. Most people, he says, decline the subscriptions. They give money and ask for nothing in return. Not a donation, he says, but money to help him on his way, away from drugs and jail. He hears my dogs. A stranger on the steps, they say, with their barks, known, familiar, and unstoppable while I listen to Cedric tell his story. I miss my dog, he says. What? You have dog? Where is it? With my mom, he says. Yes, this is hard. Being away from your dog is hard, I say.

December182013
I thought you were going to take a shower. You said I didn’t have time to shower. No, I didn’t. Yes, you did. No, I said I don’t mind if you take a shower. I asked, do I have time to shower. No, you didn’t. You said mind, not time. No I didn’t. I said time, not mind. Oh, I heard mind, not time. I don’t know if you have time to shower. If you have time, take a shower. I don’t mind. (Image caption: Cathay, Minneapolis, MN, December 2013; Image credit: Lynette Nyman.)

I thought you were going to take a shower. You said I didn’t have time to shower. No, I didn’t. Yes, you did. No, I said I don’t mind if you take a shower. I asked, do I have time to shower. No, you didn’t. You said mind, not time. No I didn’t. I said time, not mind. Oh, I heard mind, not time. I don’t know if you have time to shower. If you have time, take a shower. I don’t mind. (Image caption: Cathay, Minneapolis, MN, December 2013; Image credit: Lynette Nyman.)

October302013
I’m thinking that War of the Worlds would sound just right on my 1933 Zenith tombstone radio. I’m also thinking that my dad probably heard the program on this radio when he was an Iowa farm boy in 1938.

I’m thinking that War of the Worlds would sound just right on my 1933 Zenith tombstone radio. I’m also thinking that my dad probably heard the program on this radio when he was an Iowa farm boy in 1938.

October222013

HEY, Floyd, SETTLE DOWN !

October182013

A few things observed during a recent walk around Hyland Lake Park Reserve in Minnesota.

October72013
If I had a gun I’d blow my head off, he says. He sits on a couch in a living room. A living room with walls he made by hand, posting timber, pounding nails. He sits on a couch alone in the dark. Is that what you want, she says. His wife sits at a kitchen table in the light. She sits within hearing distance, surrounded by walls he made. Their voices, not their eyes, make contact. His words respond to her words, her angry words for the cancer that kills him, that’s killing him now. What else can I do, he says. That’s not very nice, she says. He has months, maybe weeks. He wants life. He wants walls. He wants timber and nails. She sits under a lamp at a kitchen table smoking. One cigarette, then another and another. Her face appears in a cloud that follows her and kills her years later. Unaware of death inside her she sits by herself in the light near the dark where he sits by himself holding his head near the walls holding him up, near the walls that he made by hand, posting timber, pounding nails. In a hall against a wall that he built stands a girl, their daughter, listening in the shade between them.

If I had a gun I’d blow my head off, he says. He sits on a couch in a living room. A living room with walls he made by hand, posting timber, pounding nails. He sits on a couch alone in the dark. Is that what you want, she says. His wife sits at a kitchen table in the light. She sits within hearing distance, surrounded by walls he made. Their voices, not their eyes, make contact. His words respond to her words, her angry words for the cancer that kills him, that’s killing him now. What else can I do, he says. That’s not very nice, she says. He has months, maybe weeks. He wants life. He wants walls. He wants timber and nails. She sits under a lamp at a kitchen table smoking. One cigarette, then another and another. Her face appears in a cloud that follows her and kills her years later. Unaware of death inside her she sits by herself in the light near the dark where he sits by himself holding his head near the walls holding him up, near the walls that he made by hand, posting timber, pounding nails. In a hall against a wall that he built stands a girl, their daughter, listening in the shade between them.

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