We've been aware of pesticides in the water, antidepressants, hormones, other medications and caustic chemicals for a while, but cinnamon? Vanilla? Nutmeg? Caffeine? Yep. What goes in, must come out and it's definitely effecting the water and all that live in it.
Go here to read more.
Tuesday, December 26, 2006
Sunday, December 10, 2006
Falling Red
Falling red, closed honeysuckle-like blooms
Beneath child’s light tapping toe.
Mother turns to look,
fewer footsteps beside her gait.
Soaking in small daughter
Tapping on hop-scotched sidewalk,
Returns by way of mortar
And concrete houses’ gates.
Two lowered heads tasking,
Popping vine’s red fallen blooms
To crackling morning’s crispness
On a hundred afternoons.
Beneath child’s light tapping toe.
Mother turns to look,
fewer footsteps beside her gait.
Soaking in small daughter
Tapping on hop-scotched sidewalk,
Returns by way of mortar
And concrete houses’ gates.
Two lowered heads tasking,
Popping vine’s red fallen blooms
To crackling morning’s crispness
On a hundred afternoons.
Friday, December 01, 2006
On Cheung Chau Island
Down the street, through the alley,
drifting scents of grease and jok.
Onions in a barrel.
Entrails on a hook.
Turn left, off the hill
between hovel houses
and shackled doors,
roofs no higher than a father's head.
Look! A monkey!
A temple.
Smokey joss stick prayers waft up.
A thousand angry gods grin down.
The little gwai-lo, white ghost girl stands,
still.
drifting scents of grease and jok.
Onions in a barrel.
Entrails on a hook.
Turn left, off the hill
between hovel houses
and shackled doors,
roofs no higher than a father's head.
Look! A monkey!
A temple.
Smokey joss stick prayers waft up.
A thousand angry gods grin down.
The little gwai-lo, white ghost girl stands,
still.
Morford on Meat
(http://sfgate.com/columnists/morford/)
An old but good topic written in a new light. Sometimes he hits right on. This excerpt is particularly fabulous:
See, meat is, for the liberal progressive trying to cultivate something resembling a deeper conscience, a bit of a paradox, inside a conundrum, wrapped in a dilemma and grilled over fine mesquite on a sexy little $600 Eva Solo grill. To eat red meat with anything resembling joy in the most liberal and environmentally conscious and vegetarian-happy part of the nation is a bit like being from Salt Lake City and claiming you really love anal sex. In church. While sipping absinthe.
An old but good topic written in a new light. Sometimes he hits right on. This excerpt is particularly fabulous:
See, meat is, for the liberal progressive trying to cultivate something resembling a deeper conscience, a bit of a paradox, inside a conundrum, wrapped in a dilemma and grilled over fine mesquite on a sexy little $600 Eva Solo grill. To eat red meat with anything resembling joy in the most liberal and environmentally conscious and vegetarian-happy part of the nation is a bit like being from Salt Lake City and claiming you really love anal sex. In church. While sipping absinthe.
Tuesday, November 14, 2006
Dr. Jekyll & Minced Meat Pie
I eat potato chips
after a work-out.
Sometimes I sneak
a smoke.
On tired nights I refuse
oral hygiene.
I get cavities.
Often, I don’t cook
for my kids.
I trim my own bangs
and harbor my own thin line
of resentments.
I yell at the dog.
I shove the cat
on better days.
I pick my teeth
and the walnuts
out of my chocolate chip cookies.
I don’t make my bed.
But then, I do.
And in case you were wondering,
it’s true:
I speak ill of my friends
and my parents
and my children
and everyone they know.
But I pass, sure.
A proletarian to some.
A Samaritan for many.
A terra cotta statue,
a Chinese brush stroke
a faux finish
a bas-relief.
Listen to my tone, now!
A perfect pitch,
harmonious hum,
the tongues of angels.
I lift.
But listen for the bells;
the sound of the alarm.
There comes the time
to alleviate the weight—
lighten the load—
unleash the burden
to prevent chronic fatigue;
repetitive stress.
My house is in shambles,
my body a mess,
my thoughts huddled,
shivering in a murky brine.
Friend, won't you carry my bundle a while?
Brother, can you spare a spine?
after a work-out.
Sometimes I sneak
a smoke.
On tired nights I refuse
oral hygiene.
I get cavities.
Often, I don’t cook
for my kids.
I trim my own bangs
and harbor my own thin line
of resentments.
I yell at the dog.
I shove the cat
on better days.
I pick my teeth
and the walnuts
out of my chocolate chip cookies.
I don’t make my bed.
But then, I do.
And in case you were wondering,
it’s true:
I speak ill of my friends
and my parents
and my children
and everyone they know.
But I pass, sure.
A proletarian to some.
A Samaritan for many.
A terra cotta statue,
a Chinese brush stroke
a faux finish
a bas-relief.
Listen to my tone, now!
A perfect pitch,
harmonious hum,
the tongues of angels.
I lift.
But listen for the bells;
the sound of the alarm.
There comes the time
to alleviate the weight—
lighten the load—
unleash the burden
to prevent chronic fatigue;
repetitive stress.
My house is in shambles,
my body a mess,
my thoughts huddled,
shivering in a murky brine.
Friend, won't you carry my bundle a while?
Brother, can you spare a spine?
Sunday, November 12, 2006
Winging it
One by one they’re flung
by an enormous catapult.
The elephants land with only a small, distant thud.
Is this too much?
Metaphors should be savored—
Stirred slowly, gently, not shaken.
Elephants, Darling, fling far too easily
as we rapidly thrust toward middle age.
Forgotten promises.
Loves unkempt.
Tossed resentments, larger than life.
This is not your mother’s Almost-Forty
or what granny always said would happen.
Cry, “Freedom! Incoming!”
unabashed.
by an enormous catapult.
The elephants land with only a small, distant thud.
Is this too much?
Metaphors should be savored—
Stirred slowly, gently, not shaken.
Elephants, Darling, fling far too easily
as we rapidly thrust toward middle age.
Forgotten promises.
Loves unkempt.
Tossed resentments, larger than life.
This is not your mother’s Almost-Forty
or what granny always said would happen.
Cry, “Freedom! Incoming!”
unabashed.
Saturday, November 11, 2006
In the News—Profile Wendy Tokuda
If you're a Bay Area local, Paul Kilduff (interviewer extraordinaire) has a great piece in the Chronicle this morning on KRON's anchorwoman Wendy Tokuda that's worth a read:
http://sfgate.com/cgi-bin/article.cgi?f=/c/a/2006/11/11/HOGG9M7UVS1.DTL
http://sfgate.com/cgi-bin/article.cgi?f=/c/a/2006/11/11/HOGG9M7UVS1.DTL
Friday, November 10, 2006
In the News—Fast Food Nation
I missed this and would've loved to have seen Pollan and Schlosser on the same stage discussing the corporatization of our food chain. This Cal Berkeley piece sums it up:
http://www.berkeley.edu/news/media/releases/2006/10/20_fastfoodnation.shtml
The movie comes out November 17. See it
http://www.berkeley.edu/news/media/releases/2006/10/20_fastfoodnation.shtml
The movie comes out November 17. See it
Fall on the Suburban Farm
Hark! Arise! Chicken time is here!
The late angled sun sounds the alarm.
Morning ablutions begin, hours later than yesterday.
Corn mash is poured for the pecking—
fowl devotees of the lay-pellet god.
The bees begin morning rounds—
Zen-monk workers of the harvest.
Sunflowers, peas, corn, tomatoes dead on the stalk,
yanked in preparation
for the Winter goddess.
Let the wet cold nights begin
their evolution into compost!
Garlic cloves stand in the wings,
waiting for the line,
the cue to be pressed into frosted soil
and begin their spicy journey
to fruition.
The newspaper’s been tossed on wet grass.
Lumbering diesel behemoths circle,
collecting waste and refuse.
The pizza man’s called for an early lunch.
A plane lands on schedule,
a Suburban comes to a stop in the driveway.
The late angled sun sounds the alarm.
Morning ablutions begin, hours later than yesterday.
Corn mash is poured for the pecking—
fowl devotees of the lay-pellet god.
The bees begin morning rounds—
Zen-monk workers of the harvest.
Sunflowers, peas, corn, tomatoes dead on the stalk,
yanked in preparation
for the Winter goddess.
Let the wet cold nights begin
their evolution into compost!
Garlic cloves stand in the wings,
waiting for the line,
the cue to be pressed into frosted soil
and begin their spicy journey
to fruition.
The newspaper’s been tossed on wet grass.
Lumbering diesel behemoths circle,
collecting waste and refuse.
The pizza man’s called for an early lunch.
A plane lands on schedule,
a Suburban comes to a stop in the driveway.
Wednesday, November 08, 2006
In the News—Headlines
A list of articles worth checking out. Particularly the Mother Jones piece by Julia Whitty.
The 13th Tipping Point:
http://www.motherjones.com/news/feature/2006/11/13th_tipping_point.html
Environmentalist wins in Tracy: http://sfgate.com/cgi-bin/article.cgi?f=/n/a/2006/11/08/politics/p011220S99.DTL&nl=top
One dog per family in Beijing:
http://hosted.ap.org/dynamic/stories/C/CHINA_ONE_DOG_POLICY?SITE=NCKIN&SECTION=HOME&TEMPLATE=DEFAULT
The 13th Tipping Point:
http://www.motherjones.com/news/feature/2006/11/13th_tipping_point.html
Environmentalist wins in Tracy: http://sfgate.com/cgi-bin/article.cgi?f=/n/a/2006/11/08/politics/p011220S99.DTL&nl=top
One dog per family in Beijing:
http://hosted.ap.org/dynamic/stories/C/CHINA_ONE_DOG_POLICY?SITE=NCKIN&SECTION=HOME&TEMPLATE=DEFAULT
Monday, November 06, 2006
Funk Junk
Raked over hot coals of discontent.
A dying worker bee struggles across the threshold,
trapped yet again inside the house.
Honey season's over, Darling.
Time ticks out the remaining moments.
"How does it feel to want, Baby?" she asks.
"Delicious," I lie.
A wanting woman may gather no moss
but she aches just the same—
A deep dark residue of shame from the
white hot glowing embers.
A gasp.
A breathless plea.
A slow burn.
A fine tuned instrument; discordant hum.
A dying worker bee struggles across the threshold,
trapped yet again inside the house.
Honey season's over, Darling.
Time ticks out the remaining moments.
"How does it feel to want, Baby?" she asks.
"Delicious," I lie.
A wanting woman may gather no moss
but she aches just the same—
A deep dark residue of shame from the
white hot glowing embers.
A gasp.
A breathless plea.
A slow burn.
A fine tuned instrument; discordant hum.
In the News—Bring it Home
This morning's environmental news in the SF Chronicle:
Plastics, floating in the ocean are harming and killing all sorts of marine species from whales to sea plankton. Although I can't help but flash back to that episode of The Simpson's where Lisa gets bit by a dolphin while freeing it from a plastic six-pack ring, I'm finding it heartening that these news items are coming at a furious pace.
Friday's piece on fish species extinction was interesting on a few fronts: 1. that scientists now have fairly conclusive evidence that makes them confident to project an earlier date for the disaster, and 2. that this piece was picked up by papers of all stripes. It was widely circulated. Nice.
When I began my year of sustainable living in January, I remember seeing environmental articles on global warming, soil erosion, peak oil, the food chain, every once in a while. If you have an RSS feed, go subscribe to the APScience wire. Every day, most of the articles have to do with these issues.
Although the elections are looming and our attention here is pretty focused on the national level, we're also reminded by the growing number of articles that it's mighty important to keep local issues and the concept of relocalization in the forefront, too. It won't bring our boys and girls in uniform home from Iraq, but it will help address many of the larger issues that oil and globalization have caused.
Bring it home.
Meanwhile, The Boy turns 15 on Thursday. How could this be?
Plastics, floating in the ocean are harming and killing all sorts of marine species from whales to sea plankton. Although I can't help but flash back to that episode of The Simpson's where Lisa gets bit by a dolphin while freeing it from a plastic six-pack ring, I'm finding it heartening that these news items are coming at a furious pace.
Friday's piece on fish species extinction was interesting on a few fronts: 1. that scientists now have fairly conclusive evidence that makes them confident to project an earlier date for the disaster, and 2. that this piece was picked up by papers of all stripes. It was widely circulated. Nice.
When I began my year of sustainable living in January, I remember seeing environmental articles on global warming, soil erosion, peak oil, the food chain, every once in a while. If you have an RSS feed, go subscribe to the APScience wire. Every day, most of the articles have to do with these issues.
Although the elections are looming and our attention here is pretty focused on the national level, we're also reminded by the growing number of articles that it's mighty important to keep local issues and the concept of relocalization in the forefront, too. It won't bring our boys and girls in uniform home from Iraq, but it will help address many of the larger issues that oil and globalization have caused.
Bring it home.
Meanwhile, The Boy turns 15 on Thursday. How could this be?
Sunday, November 05, 2006
A Tuesday
Sheets tugged taut,
Under chin, over thigh.
A lump.
A bump.
A grind.
Bird taking flight,
Southward migration.
Ballooning.
Lifting.
Arching.
Reaching.
“Can you do this forever?” she asks.
Shudder.
Thrill.
His eyes—richly longing.
Breathless, declarative “Goddess.”
Folded.
Drifting.
Limp.
Under chin, over thigh.
A lump.
A bump.
A grind.
Bird taking flight,
Southward migration.
Ballooning.
Lifting.
Arching.
Reaching.
“Can you do this forever?” she asks.
Shudder.
Thrill.
His eyes—richly longing.
Breathless, declarative “Goddess.”
Folded.
Drifting.
Limp.
Like Being New to This
The clouds parted crystal sky.
Unearthed longing.
Another hand takes my heart
molding it into unharnessed breath,
that breeches and breaks charted waters.
Unearthed longing.
Another hand takes my heart
molding it into unharnessed breath,
that breeches and breaks charted waters.
Divining the Urban Labyrinth
First step: Follow the path of least resistance
through knotted grass, unkempt,
dried from the past season.
Wind around back
behind desolate monuments
erected once to the might of man.
Shifted ground, cracked court.
The power of green—
advantageously reclaiming its land
through rips in the three-point zone
of the concrete arena.
At the heart of this wrecked military shrine,
a circle, girded by neglected trees.
A sacred spot,
tucked away,
forgotten,
on which to plant the flag,
build the spiral.
Begin the Journey.
through knotted grass, unkempt,
dried from the past season.
Wind around back
behind desolate monuments
erected once to the might of man.
Shifted ground, cracked court.
The power of green—
advantageously reclaiming its land
through rips in the three-point zone
of the concrete arena.
At the heart of this wrecked military shrine,
a circle, girded by neglected trees.
A sacred spot,
tucked away,
forgotten,
on which to plant the flag,
build the spiral.
Begin the Journey.
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