maybe a villain

Old Iron Heart
Struck fear into the hearts of children
With her shoes of skulls
And her gloves of sick man's skin
And her skirt of woven corpse's hair
She was gray, gray, gray
Like the clouds before they drop their rain
Like a mirror under a hundred years of dust
Like a pile of ashes after the fire burns out
But her eyes were two red cinders
Burning behind the smoky curtain of her hair
The Witch of the Wilds
Where the bears bellow
And the stags rut
And the little squirrels scatter the tree babies 
Over the open-armed bed of the earth
Her house was built of bones
And eyes lined every window
As a witch she needed no door
Her house was always moving
To where a weary traveller
Or wandering child
Could least expect
There was no sound in her realm
Not a crow cawed, not a fly buzzed
Everything was still, still as a deaf corpse in the grave
The unhappy traveller who finds her
Will never speak again

maybe a hero

Bloodyknife the hero
Protected his home and his folk
His heart beat stronger with outrage
When the enemies came
Thinking they could easily take what they wanted
Bloodyknife the brave
Fought off the invader
And led his kin to victory
That filled them all with pride and happiness
And the knowledge of their rights
They were not a rich, golden folk
They worked hard and were rewarded
The earth gave them bounty
Fleeting but replenished regularly
With their iron and steel
The pulled the fruits from the ground and the trees
And they loosed the spirits of their fellows in fur and feathers
To the life beyond
Always with need
And always with respect
To please the Watcher Overhead
They never thought they were unhappy
Or wanted anything more than what they were given
But when Bloodyknife was born
His mother had already given her spirit to the beyond
The baby pushed at the cold womb
And the midwife saw
She cut him out
With his father's deer knife
And he was given his name in sorrow
But also in hope, for he was strong and could survive motherless
He grew quick and smart
He grew loving and with a will to guard
The hound could not sense a fox
Without Bloodyknife springing from his place to chase it away
He did not kill them for sport or trophy
But only to end a threat
They were marked
On the tail; on the toe; on the ear; on the nose
When the marks ran out, the spirit was loosed
It was the only way for the Merciful but Stern
Bloodyknife the Warden if his family's life and land
He took a fascination
With fire
He burned his fingers many times
Trying to grasp it
He watched it change wood and grass and bone
To dancing light
Soon he began to help the smith in his tasks
Because he had the biggest, hottest fires
And there were sparks and rivers of metal to observe
Then Bloodyknife made his own sharp points
Not red with life sap
Red with the hot breath of the light
He made them sharp to pierce the hide and heart
Of great stags and bears and rams
Nobody thought like-lookers would be their targets
Or that points from far-off lands would spill the life sap
And loose the spirits in the village
Before the ice time ended

ink

Tattoos are fascinating. They are a strange blend of ancient and modern, being found on millenia-old mummies, but also seen as newly accepted in open (Western) society. The tools and pigments have changed over time, as well as popular designs and reasons behind the tattoo. From a social rite to freak-making operation to statement of individuality-just-like-everyone-else's, the tattoo has evolved over time to the personalized and portable work of art that many people consider it to be today.

Why do people choose to be tattooed? Why do we want a permanent mark on our skins, one that is even painful to have put there? In some cultures, the tattoo is a beautifying mark, much like pierced ears in modern Western society, and piercings are also a somewhat painful way of making oneself more attractive. Other methods of leaving marks on the body have become popular in the 20th century among some strata of our society, generally permanent and involving some discomfort, both in their application and the subsequent healing. These include branding, scarification, and piercing other parts than the earlobes.

The tattoo is possibly the most accepted form of permanent body modification today. It can be placed so as to be hidden in situations where it might be distracting or inappropriate. Many tattoos are beautiful, with a variety of patterns and colors, and can be considered works of art. However, the question arises again: why the permanent mark? Why go through an uncomfortable process, when a simple body painting could suffice? Temporary tattooing with pigments like henna often last for many days or weeks.


Most who undertake the chore of getting a tattoo say it represents some important event or idea in their life. Names and slogans tend to be easily deciphered, but images may be more obscure to the casual viewer. In a way, this is an advantage for the owner of the tattoo, whose views and ideas may change with time, and a pattern or picture can be reinterpreted more easily than words.

Part of the tattoo's appeal may in fact be the possibility of pain in its application. In other cultures, it has been applied to mark milestones in a person's life, achievements and growth in the
community. While the tattoo does not have that
universally recognized meaning here and now, to the willing canvas there may be a certain psychological fulfillment in having it done. The minutes, even hours spent, perhaps a process taking days to finish, then the healing...all this might stimulate the pleasure centers of the owner of the new tattoo. Add to this the enjoyment of showing off the picture to admiring or horrified
observers, and the tattoo is worth the money, time and discomfort for its fans.

This thinking can also be applied to more destructive activities such as cutting, which leads some mental health professionals to search for negative causes for tattooing, and to the publicizing of these views over other, more positive opinions.

Modern Western society is one of individuals and personal choices. We have the luxury of being able to dress and decorate ourselves distinctively, and the tattoo is part of the decorative cache for many people, even those who choose not to make use of it themselves. In our times of volatile mobility, the very permanence of inked skin may hold some attraction; the mark will remain for the rest of the bearers life, barring some serious intervention to have it removed. It can be modified, but will never disappear completely.

parks of madrid - juan carlos I

Photos from December 2009




Palms wrapped up for the winter













Dark skies across the river













A garden showcasing plants representing the three cultures of Spain: Jewish, Christian and Muslim






















































Olive trees from the old orchard. They were incorporated into the park when it was landscaped in the early '90s











Barajas airport on the other side of the highway. I was seconds too late to get a landing plane in the picture.












One of many sculptures

The Man

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I fluttered, weak and weary,
Over the many moldy mounds on the monotonous misty moor,
On I fluttered, nearly died, then suddenly I happ'ed to spy
A huge and hulking hoary house menacing the misty moor.
"'Tis a shelter!" I rejoiced, "beckoning me to its door!"
This I hoped, and nothing more.

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December
When each darkly feathered member left its life upon the moor.
Eagerly I came a-calling, but the scene there was appalling
When I peeped into a window of a room, from ceiling to floor,
Filled with volumes old and dusty never browsed since long before
My flight from off the muddy moor.

And the wobbly, weird, unwieldy way the gentleman did sway
While I watched him fume and fantasize about I know not what
Made me feel a bit uneasy and in fact I was quite queasy
But my daemon made it clear to me, and I could not ignore
Its urging to find an open door
To enter the house, and then what more?

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer
Swiftly did I flap my wings and enter through a broken door.
In the darkened halls I glided heedlessly through darkness like a
Velvet cloud of ink without a sign of wall or floor
Until I turned a corner and 'twas there I met a door
I flew into it, nothing more.

Deep inside the room I heard the man a-mutt'ring as he stirred
Shuffling, groaning, growling did he then approach the dismal door.
In my terror did I fly, returning to the breast of night
But my curiosity did stop me fleeing o'er the the fragrant moor
And I came with trepidation to a window and sensations
Horrible did me assail as I gazed upon the floor.

There inside the chamber scattered on the floor, around a ladder
Tomes and tomes and moldered pages lying on the filthy floor
Greeted my inquiring vision and I made a quick decision:
I must enter in that room and help this mindless omnivore
To rearrange his dwelling and forget this person called Lenore
Named by him, that ceaseless bore

So I tapped upon the pane of glass, which, slickened by the rain
Made me slide and shudder on the ledge brought up from depths of yore,
Placed against the moody mansion in some ill thought out expansion
Of its innards so to make it like a labyrinth 'round its core,
Then so suddenly that ass did open wide those sheets of glass
Almost did I fall upon the puddles of the muddy moor.
Muddy, moldy, misted moor.

But I did not fall. I stood, and elegantly as I could
I strode into the room to teach and tend to him as was my chore.
With a flutter of my wing and no other thought but sing
The praises of the world and wonders of the days of yore
So as to take from him his sorrow, give him hope of new tomorrows,
Free him of this hounded horrifying hold of woman named Lenore,
And I shouted, "Nevermore!"

Up I hopped and up soared, up to a bust of paste and board
That sat in silent, prim repose upon the wall, above the door.
Down below the man just stared in stupor, then he glared
And angrily he shouted at me like a stupid, vacuous boor.
Furious he was at that fact that I had come and sat
Upon his bust of dust and mustiness and fancy
Dropping bits of battered dreams and fantasies upon the floor
Was the bust then his Lenore?

Raging on he did me utter dreadful words from all the gutters
Of those slimy, dirty filthy holes of dust and smoke from o'er the moors
On and on he went, repeating phrases, labels, titles fleeting
Making out a vague mirage of what he must have thought my chore
Fists a-shaking, voice a-quaking, furiously squealed and howled he
Stomping petulantly on the floor
Fuming in his fluster did he fling out insults without pity
Stinging quick my helpful heart as I perched above his door
And I sputtered, "Nevermore!"

So I promised to the spirits without sorrow, without cheer, it
Would be my burden and my partic'lar chore
To see this man here eased of grief and pain; this, yes this is chief
Of all my cares at this dark moment while he rolls upon his floor
Hands to head and knees to trunk, he sobs and makes himself quite drunk
With useless memory and tears. I am quite sure of my business here:
It is to wipe away this demon succubus Lenore
And here I stay, never flitting, I'll be sitting, ever sitting
And till I have my satisfaction of seeing peace below this door
I shall flutter nevermore!