Sketchy Sunday, 08-25-2024

"Yell 'Oh!' River, Grey Sky"

 

Sketchy Sunday: 08-18-2024

 I call this one "You Can Call Me AI" ... Have a wonderful Sunday!

Sketchy Sunday, 08-11-2024

Think I'll retitle this one. but not sure what yet ... Happy Sunday!

 

Sketchy Sunday, 08-04-24

This reaction to some new pens I tried could also apply to the Olympics. Finally got to sit and watch some of the surfing from Tahiti today on Peacock. Thanks to San Francisco Chronicle columnist Bruce Jenkins for pointing me to the best day to watch, Monday, August 2. Spectacular surf, terrifying surf! No thanks to NBC for treating surfing as a form of comedy relief, with NO actual footage of actual surfing. 

And by the way, whatever happened to "writes smoothly, erases cleanly"? I tell ya we're on a highway to grammatical hell.

Sketchy Sundays 07-28-24

 Just messin' around with markers ... another dabble by the dabbling diletante ...

Spring Is Sprung

Time for breakfast,
toasted dreams
on a bed of thistles.
Play some tunes
on penny whistles.
Check the mail,
postage due.
Political ads,
a pungent brew.
A beautiful day,
Spring has sprung,
and right now
this song is sung.

Rainy Tuesday Reprise from 2010

I first posted this in April 2010, made one tiny revision of it and since today is, like the earlier 04-30-2010, a rainy Tuesday, am reposting ... this time while in Cannon Beach, OR.

The Top 500 Poets List

The Top 500 Poets list
awaits mouse or muse,
not sure which …
Is my mouse
my muse?
Does my mouse
in da house
inspire me
or does my spouse?
Does my mouse
in da house
make my poems click?
And then there are
the Classic Poets
all waiting
at the corner of
Hubris and Pride …
or is it the corner
of Rhyme and Meter?
Or Words and Wisdom?
Or simply a tiny back alley
in the guidebook
of literary history?
Rhetorical questions
posed on a rainy Tuesday
when neither mouse
nor muse seem interested
in doing much
more than this.

(c) Bob Loomis
04-30-2010

Another New Year and Back to The Future

     As Jerry Garcia and Bob Hunter wrote in the good old Grateful Dead song, "The wheel is turning and you can't slow down, you can't let go and you can't hold on, you can't go back and you can't stand still, if the thunder don't get you, then the lightning will."

    Well, you can only try to adapt to whatever conditions life presents. Since it appears the gradual erosions of old age -- I'm 84, hope to hit 85 in July -- seem to be increasingly constricting what and how much I can do, I've decided to try to make this blog a bit bigger part of my life, hoping perhaps I'll gain a few readers and provide some entertainment, if not wisdom. It'll be less strenuous than some other pursuits that are now out of bounds.

    I'll post my ruminations and some poetry here, plus any new episodes in my autobiography-endlessly-in-progress, Memoirs of a Music Addict. And any new songs, as I've done in the past. I'll start now with a poem in the style of a tanka, the classic Japanese poetry form:

    Like everything else,

    even this back pain

    is only temporary.

        Unable to sleep,

        Ah, but this sunrise!

    That gives an idea what I've been experiencing lately: lower back pain. Pretty bad a week ago, then it let up and I carefully began walking again. I was about to bump the mileage up to my usual every-other-day level when it kicked in again yesterday, less painful than the earlier spasms, but enough this morning to wake me up earlier than usual. This is not suffering of the magnitude millions of folks in dire global political or environmental straits are experiencing, but it's more than I want to have to endure. According to a Google search, four out of five people have it at some time or other. The positive: it adds to my empathy for other seniors whom I see hobbling painfully at the supermarket, in crosswalks and elsewhere.

    Before you suggest it, I should mention that because of age and existing medical conditions, I'm not supposed to take Ibuprofen or similar medications. The recommended alternative, Tylenol, has never been effective for me. The pain was so bad one day last week that I just went on ahead and gulped down two Ibuprofen. It helped a lot. But I need to avoid regularly using it.

    I find that avoiding soft cushions like those on our couch -- it was a mistake to spend 3 hours sitting there for the 49ers game yesterday -- and doing a couple simple back exercises, even just standing and flexing those lower back muscles, helps. As do a very limited amount of walking (no uphill stuff, mind you) and a hand acupressure assist now and then from my spouse Beverly. Next I'll try  some form of CBD ointment or capsules, at least at night.

    These bad back episodes aren't just a product of aging. They started when I was about 16 and had a Los Angeles Times newspaper route to help pay for my car. It paid $110 monthly, a princely sum for a teenager in those days, circa 1957. I had 250 customers. This was back when newspapers were still a big deal, culturally and literally. The Sunday papers were so big that the rubber bands the advisor provided often broke when you tried to put them on, especially on Sundays, when page count was massive. This could be painful in winter's cold and the broken ends hit bare skin. When you threw one of those bricks out the car window, the band often snapped, scattering the paper's sections like playing cards across a lawn or driveway.

    It was a 7-days-a-week job. Get up at 3 a.m. and go to a small department store on South Central Avenue where bundles were delivered by truck and several of us sleep-deprived carriers folded and rubber-banded papers. One morning when I was running late and rushing to catch up, I lifted three bundles of papers at a time instead of the usual two. I felt something pop in my back but it didn't really hurt till the next day. I could barely move.

    My stepfather, Dr. H. Brinton Allison, provided the antidote. As an osteopath, he was trained in what they called manipulation, what others call chiropracty. MDs don't get that training and used to scoff at it, but I am here to tell you, it was a miracle cure for me. 

    Brint took me to his office, had me lay down on a treatment table. He stood at the foot, held each ankle and foot in turn, and pulled hard several times on each of my legs.

    Then he got me up and put me in a half-nelson, lifted me off my feet several times and shook me. 

    Presto! Almost all pain gone, and by next day, totally gone! Alas, Brint's not around now. Until now, though I've had other episodes over the decades, some triggered by as simple a thing as twisting to reach for a teaspoon, I've never sought chiropractic help. Usually, episodes have departed within a day or three. For some, I've used hot pads and ice. I have no idea how I tweaked my back this time, but this is the second week of it and I'm on the verge of seeking chiropractic help if other, simpler steps don't work. It doesn't hurt today as much as the first time, nor as last week.

    But it's caused me to once again interrupt and delay my return to performing music. I'd hoped to play at a couple recent open mics but had to drop those plans. I've also missed one of the monthly performances by the Irish Newsboys, in which I play penny whistle and flute. We'd already had a long layoff during the pandemic so this adds to my frustrations.

    I'd hoped to write something more humorous as the first post of the New Year, not an old man's complaining. Forgive me, and thanks for reading. If you enjoyed it, hit the Follow button near the top right of this page. I'll hope to return with some laughs next time. Meanwhile, I'll try to stay ready for the next turn of the wheel. 

    

    

Dreamland, 08-13-2023

 

I am waiting to wake up

feeling 22 years old again,

morning dawning sunny

full of endless potential,

anything possible.

I no longer remember my dreams.

Do they remember me

somewhere in the Land of Dreams?

Do they say “Where did that young man

go? He’d better come back

and find his forgotten dreams”?

Thanks, Dreamland, I do recall

my early dreams, just can't

remember many recent ones.

I'm just trying to see clearly

what's right in front of me

Bob Loomis 

copyright 08-12-23

Today's Riff, 05-26-2023

 Two butterflies

doing the tiger-tail tango

in the garden.

Spring is indeed

busting out all over.

Bob Loomis,  May 2023

Sunday Funnies: 05-21-2023

Just a couple of quick 'toons done as I dip back into the inkwell of my comics dabblings, Da Boss and the probably politically incorrectly titled Miss Dish:

Copyright 2023, Robert Loomis

Today's Riff: 05-18-2023

Only memory's mirror 

resurrects
the sweet-singing violins
of lunches with Mom
at Clifton's Cafeteria.

Today's Riff: 05-11-2023

Cars backed up 

as far as the eye

can see.

How did we

arrive here?

TV news

all shootings

and mayhem. 

Overhead, the clatter

of a police chopper.

05-11-2023

Today's Riff: 05-06-2023

 My Music Bonanzas

Put 'em
on the list 
of things
that haven't quite
panned out.

More fun
than if
if they hadn't
happened
at all.

Enough
to keep 
me playing
my solo

back yard
house concerts.

So far
the neighbors
haven't
complained.

Occasional 

flashes
of gold
that feel like
Eureka!

Concord, 05-06-2023

Today's Riff, 05-05-2023

war     war     war
yet another war

even spring grasses

help hide

landmines

Today's Riff, 05-04-2023

two sparrows
hurry after tidbits
near the laundromat door
     a young couple
     flirts while folding clothes

By me, from a manuscript in progress titled "Concrete Seasons."

Today's Riff, 05-03-2023

More rain

expected this afternoon

as our drought
continues to end
at least for now.
Thank the weather gods
for long, hot showers
and flushing toilets
and geese honking
across the morning sky
and thank the universe

for another miraculous day.

Bob Loomia

Good-bye, Poetry Month, 04-30-2023

 It's the last day of poetry month, so I offer this tanka:

I miss my nightly wine

but it’s clear that I must 

be my own savior,

change it to water 

most evenings.

Robert Loomis, 09-09-2022

Keepin' On

Poetry Month is winding down, so here's a prose poem. I hope you enjoy it!

Keepin' On

It all came out better than might've been expected, blessed really, considering the constant squirming and mental chaffing against the reins of common sense. Could've been much worse. Now I pray for even more time outside the rat race. Vague guilt. What should I do to repay this sumptuous repast, this feast at life's vast table, this gathering of angels lost and found, this beast of all possible worlds, this many-versed blues ballad, this epiphany of joy and sorrow? Keep on singing, keep on playing, just keep on keepin' on!

By Bob Loomis, 2023

Poetry Month #2: Fan Man

Fan Man is a reference to a William Kotzwinkle novel that was very popular in the 1970s. More about that after this:

FAN MAN
By Bob Loomis
04-17-2023

I had a
good one
late
last night but
I let
it
get away.
Why do
I always
let ‘em get
away? OK
I confess:
a big streak
of yellow
do-nothingness
has always been
the spinal lack
in my
having done
so
little.
I tend to
drift away
into sleep
right when
The Muse
begins to whisper
in my ear.
I’m a regular
Fan Man
when it comes
to staying awake
long enough
to make
dream
reality.

From Wikipedia: The Fan Man is a cult comic novel published in 1974 by the American writer William Kotzwinkle. It is told in stream-of-consciousness style by the narrator, Horse Badorties (the titular "fan man"), a down-at-the-heels hippie living a life of drug-fueled befuddlement in New York City c. 1970. The book is written in a colorful, vernacular "hippie-speak" and tells the story of the main character's hapless attempts to put together a benefit concert featuring his own hand-picked choir of 15-year-old girls.

Horse is a somewhat tragic, though humorous, character with echoes of other famous characters in popular culture such as Reverend Jim Ignatowski of Taxi fame. In his inability to follow anything through to completion he displays symptoms of attention-deficit disorder though this could equally be drug-induced. His defining characteristic is his joy in renting or commandeering apartments which he fills with street-scavenged junk articles until, full to bursting, he moves on to his next "pad". The name "fan man" is a reference to another of his traits; the collecting and selling of fans of all shapes and sizes. The book's most memorably absurd section is the chapter titled "Dorky Day" which features the repetitive statement of the word "dorky" by Horse as a cathartic mantra to dispel the ennui of a dead-end day.