Journal of an Urbane Gorilla

La Purisma, La Prurisma I adore you

When I heard that La Purisma Mission might be closed in July, I begged Big Guy and Grams to take me up there so I could take some pictures of it. So, off we went with a picnic lunch and my new DSLR.

I’ve always loved this mission since the first time we went there. It’s not located in an urban or suburban setting as most of the other missions are. Well, San Miguel isn’t too crowded in, but it is right next to the highway.

La Purisma is set in a little canyon area with woodlands and fields around it. Now, it’s true that mission was almost completely reconstructed by the CCC in the 1940s (it was re-dedicated on the morning of 7 December 1941). But, I have to think that the re-creators were fairly historically accurate.

It was warm on the day we went there, but inside the adobe walls it was a good 20 degrees (F) cooler. Everything was in bloom and it never felt crowded. Going through the mission, you can see just how the mission operated. They had to grow their own fruit, grain and veg and raise their own cattle. Then, they had to turn those into food and clothing and furniture. They also had to supply food for the Presidio in Santa Tourista where we live.

It wasn’t just the padres and the Chumash Indians. There was also a platoon of Spanish soldiers. So, there was plenty of work to go around. Most of it, of course, fell on the backs of the Chumash. You can really tell the pecking order in the accommodations.

If you would like to see more of these pics, you can go to my Flickr page.

A dopo e Moochas Smoochas,

Please give what you can to Médecins sans Frontières (Doctors without Borders) and support Kiva.

And, of course

平和 に 働 き

(heiwa ni hataraki: work for peace)

hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys and reels, put life and mettle in their heels . . .

We walked down a little lane to the Brig O’Doon in the town of Ayr. I never knew what the Brig O’Doon was exactly. I hadn’t delved into the writings of Robbie Burns, so when Marian explained that it was the Bridge over the river Doon, it all made sense.

There’s a sign next to the bridge that tells the story of Tam O’Shanter and how he got away from the Cutty Sark witch on his horse Meg. Meg lost her tail to the witch, but saved Tam O’Shanter. Well, that’s settled now.

Big Guy, who worked at MGM where the movie “Brig O’Doon” was filmed, loved walking over the real bridge. The only one he’d ever seen before was the one that had been re-created on Lot 2 at MGM in Culver City, California. When he saw the real thing he said that he could really appreciate the research that went into creating the magic in the movie.

Looking down on the river Doon, we saw the beautiful garden below.
After lunch in the Brig O’Doon Tearoom, I took the picture of the garden from the other side, looking toward the bridge. I couldn’t get over all the shades of green and the Japanese maple right in the middle. Isn’t it gorgeous? The tearoom is located under the Brig O’Doon Hotel – are you sensing a theme here? The tearoom serves a very fine meal. The pea soup tasted as if the peas had just been picked. Grams had pâté. I gave her the ‘look.’

We strolled back to the minivan full and happy and, in honor of Robbie Burns, singing, Auld Lang Syne. “And we'll tak a cup o kindness yet, for auld lang syne!”

A dopo e Moochas Smoochas,

Please give what you can to Médecins sans Frontières (Doctors without Borders) and support Kiva.

And, of course

平和 に 働 き

(heiwa ni hataraki: work for peace)

Folly is as folly does

Portmeirion is an Italianate Folly that was built in the early part of the 20th century. Grams has wanted to see it for years because one of her favourite TV shows was filmed there: The Prisoner. It was a kind of existential spy drama. The main character was an ex-spy whom the government wouldn’t allow to quit. So, he was kidnapped and put in this strange little town and followed about by a big ball and watched over by CCTVs everywhere he went (how prescient!). Anyway, she used to watch faithfully back in the olden days (the 60s) and drool over Patrick McGoohan, the star of the show. So, we had to go there.

It is an amazing place. I had the camera. Bronwyn was busy with Declan (AKA, the child). He was into everything. It was an incredible day filled with sunshine and warmth. Portmeirion really ought to be seen that way. We had ice cream cones and strolled.

The estuary is one, like so many in Wales and England that empties completely at low tide and has a tidal surge when it fills again. While we were there it was empty. Grams was hoping to see a tidal surge, but there was none to be had. She’s also hoping to see the Northern Lights while we’re in Scotland, we’ll see.

Portmeirion is atypical of Wales, but the eccentricity that created is endearingly Welsh. Near to Portmeirion is town called, Porthmadog. Legend has it that in the 1100s Madog, a Welsh prince, embarked on a sea voyage with his followers and actually discovered the New World. It seems that they intermarried with the locals; which is why some Mandans had red hair. They also had some Welsh phrases in incorporated into their native tongue. It may be true, or not; but it makes a darn good tale.

Today, Porthmadog is a tourist town and Portmeirion is known the world over for its crockery. You can buy seconds in the town. There are accommodations in the town, but evidently no one actually lives there. It’s kind of a storybook land. The hotel looks like the one in the movie, “Separate Tables,” only nicer. There are cottages all over the village for guests. They even have a swimming pool overlooking the estuary. The rates are quite high. You won’t see the Gweeds staying there anytime soon.

A dopo e Moochas Smoochas,

Please give what you can to Médecins sans Frontières (Doctors without Borders) and support Kiva.

And, of course

平和 に 働 き

(heiwa ni hataraki: work for peace)

“The spearman heard the bugle sound, And cheerily smiled the morn"

This photo always puts me in a thoughtful mood. I took it in Beddgelert, in Wales. Beddgelert is a town in Snowdonia Park. It’s right in the shadow of Mt. Snowdon. The name ‘Beddgelert’ means ‘the tomb of Gelert.’ As the story goes, Gelert was a hunting dog of Llywellyn, a nobleman of Wales. This was back in the 1200s. So, it would make him contemporaneous with King Edward I of England, who at that time was busily trying to subdue Wales. Notice that I didn’t say ‘conquered.’ Wales has never been conquered, just occasionally subdued.

So, Llywellyn went hunting one day without his faithful hound, Gelert. When he returned he saw Gelert covered with blood. Worse than that, Lleywellyn’s baby son was missing. Lleywellyn immediately assumed that Gelert had killed the child. So, he killed Gelert.

Just then, Lleywellyn heard a baby’s cry. In the bushes was his child in his cradle, and next to him was the body a huge wolf. Gelert had obviously killed the wolf to save the child. Lleywellyn was devastated. He rushed to hold the body of his lifeless dog in is arms. But no amount of sorrow or tears would revive Gelert.

There is even a statue of the brave Gelert in Beddgelert. There’s only one problem: the fable was made up by savvy townsfolk, probably in the nineteenth century; who were trying to bring tourism to the town. The real Gelert was a saint, of the human variety, who lived there in the sixth century.

Well, it’s a nice story and the town is beautiful. Marian and Emlyn decided to bring us here because the Grams had been listening to the BBC on the internet and she had heard about gales and the flooding of Beddgelert. She had picked up the phone and immediately called Marian and Emlyn. We arrived a few weeks later and nature had recovered, as you can see.

Dying for no reason, is there anything worse?

A dopo e Moochas Smoochas,

Please give what you can to Médecins sans Frontières (Doctors without Borders).

And, of course

平和 に 働 き

(hewa ni hataraki: work for peace)

Micheangelo's Garden

We had been in Rome for a few days when Grams said, “Let’s go look at the Baths of Diocletian!” It was within walking distance of our hotel so we bundled up and hit the road.

Reading from the guidebook as we strolled, we found out that Diocletian was not a nice fellow and had gang-pressed several thousand Christians into building his pleasure domes. He was so bad that he had to, eventually, flee Rome. Diocletian’s Baths were the biggest ever built. They could accommodate 1,000s of people at once (except those Christians that helped build them – it was probably too hard to remove the shackles).

The Baths were, unfortunately, falling down that day. Literally, they were falling down. Nets were hung from the ceiling and across the open spaces. There were signs everywhere in Italian apologizing for the inconvenience and warning us of the danger. “Watch your head! The ceiling could collapse any second!” This did put a damper on our enthusiasm for the place: it’s hard to enjoy something when you’re afraid that the whole thing will come down around you any second.

The thing that we weren’t prepared for was the garden next to the Baths. The garden was designed much later by Michelangelo. It’s right in the middle of a busy city and yet it’s still a place of quiet and amazing calm. We relaxed and wandered through the garden. Of course Michelangelo’s influence can be found everywhere in Rome. Our next surprise came as we left the compound.

As we walked out to the Piazza della Repubblica, we saw a church carved into a rocky cliff. It looked as if it would be a dark solemn place, but we were gobsmacked by what we saw. It was a Baroque masterpiece filled with light. It looked as if angels might come down from the ceiling (though the ceiling looked quite safe). It turned out that the church had originally been designed by Michelangelo, but it had been rebuilt in the 1700’s. That explained the Baroque, but we did wonder what it looked like before.

We stumbled back out into the light of the Piazza and wandered back to the hotel. It was another adventure that only happened because our curiosity got the better of us.

A dopo e Moochas Smoochas,

Please give what you can to Médecins sans Frontières (Doctors without Borders).

And, of course

平和 に 働 き

(hewa ni hataraki: work for peace)

They used to tell me I was building a dream*

Grams has taught me how to appreciate WPA murals. I had never really noticed them before – I mean they’re everywhere, but who really looks at them? Well, she loves them. Not because they’re great art, because they aren’t. She loves them because they express the true feelings of people in the midst of a great crisis: the Great Depression. She calls them, “folk art,” and she says that they still exist amazes her.

This particular mural is at the Coit Tower in San Francisco. I suppose that you could call it subversive, but it was expressing honest feelings of hungry people at the time. Needless to say, not everyone in the WPA arts program was an artist. My favourite is the mural at the old Terminal Annex Post Office in Los Angeles. It’s tells the history of California from pre-historic times, through the conquistadors, to the American conquest. Grams showed it to me and said, “What do you notice?” I looked for a long time, walking down the hall. Then, it hit me: everyone looked alike. Natives, conquistadors, men and women; they all looked alike. “What’s the deal? They all look like they were separated at birth” I said.

“Actually, they all look like the man who was the supervisor of the project,” she smiled. I looked back at the mural, “So, they were buttering up the boss?” I asked. “Or blowing smoke,” she laughed. Grams’ favourite mural can’t be seen anymore. It was in the dining room of the Natural History Museum in L.A. It purported to tell the history of eating. It went from cavemen at one end of the room and wended its way around the room through Henry VIII and the introduction of flatware, up to modern day. She used to go to that dining room just to see the mural and then, one day; it was gone; covered up with panels. Her second favourite was the mural that was in her high school auditorium. That mural told the story of the history of the theatre; starting with the Greeks and all the way up to motion pictures.

Being in one of the alphabet government projects in America during the Great Depression saved many people from starving. Whether it was the WPA or the CCC, building Boulder Dam or the TVA dams; people were finally free from the fear of starving and were being treated with dignity. We take a lot of what came out of that time for granted. Many folks assume that there was always Social Security and laws to protect labour. We can’t imagine what it was like back then. Grams took me to an exhibit about “The Grapes of Wrath,” and then she showed me the movie. “It was all true, Gweeds,” she said and patted me on the head.

I’ve made a slide show of the Coit Tower mural for you. If Bubbleshare is down, they'll come back on line. The next time you see a WPA mural, let me know, okay?

This album is powered by BubbleShare - Add to my blog

A dopo e Moochas Smoochas,

Please give what you can to Médecins sans Frontières (Doctors without Borders).

And, of course

平和 に 働 き

(hewa ni hataraki: work for peace)

*"Brother, Can You Spare a Dime,"
They used to tell me I was building a dream, and so I followed the mob,
When there was earth to plow, or guns to bear, I was always there right on the job.
They used to tell me I was building a dream, with peace and glory ahead,
Why should I be standing in line, just waiting for bread?

Once I built a railroad, I made it run, made it race against time.
Once I built a railroad; now it's done. Brother, can you spare a dime?
Once I built a tower, up to the sun, brick, and rivet, and lime;
Once I built a tower, now it's done. Brother, can you spare a dime?

Once in khaki suits, gee we looked swell,
Full of that Yankee Doodly Dum,
Half a million boots went slogging through Hell,
And I was the kid with the drum!

Say, don't you remember, they called me Al; it was Al all the time.
Why don't you remember, I'm your pal? Buddy, can you spare a dime?

Once in khaki suits, gee we looked swell,
Full of that Yankee Doodly Dum,
Half a million boots went slogging through Hell,
And I was the kid with the drum!

Say, don't you remember, they called me Al; it was Al all the time.
Say, don't you remember, I'm your pal? Buddy, can you spare a dime?

- lyrics by Yip Harburg, music by Gorney Harburg (1931)

Put a cork in it

I was waiting for Grams yesterday. She works half a day at the library and Big Guy and I come to collect her every day in time for lunch. I was standing outside the library and thinking about the world gone mad.

People around the world are being whipped up into frenzy over some pretty reprehensible religious/political cartoons that mock the prophet Mohammad. Meanwhile, in the parts of the world that are not Muslim, people can’t understand why Muslims don’t understand that right to free speech means the obligation to defend that which we abhor. Whether or not it was Voltaire who said, “I disapprove of what you say, but will defend to the death your right to say it,” it had enough resonance to inspire ordinary Americans to insist that the framers add amendment #1 of the Bill of Rights to the newly ratified Constitution.

Most of the irate Muslims live in countries where the press is controlled by the state. So, it’s natural that they would think that if a newspaper prints an offensive cartoon then it must be the policy of the state. People in the U.S. and western Europe are so habituated to their right to say what they want that they can’t understand the current Islamic fury.

Tolerance is such a tricky thing. I asked Grams once if you have to forgive people. “Oh yes, you have to forgive, but you sure as hell don’t have to forget. No one ever said that you have to lie down in the road for someone to steamroll over you. Got that?” Oh, I got it. But, the next step is co-existence. To co-exist you must have tolerance.

There just doesn’t seem to be a lot of tolerance these days. Seems like everyone needs to be right, needs to have the last word, needs to get even. What happened to just letting the other person have the last word and then just walking away? It’s called turning the other cheek – not lying down in the road, just turning the other cheek.

So, there I was waiting for Grams and I noticed this tree for the first time. It’s always been there, but I had never noticed it before. It’s a cork tree. It’s so cool. I’ve never looked at a cork tree close up before. Then, I thought about corks. Then, I thought about all of the turmoil in the world. Then, I thought, “Oh put a cork in it can’t you?”

A dopo e Moochas Smoochas,






Please give what you can to Médecins sans Frontières (Doctors without Borders).

And, of course

平和 に 働 き

(hewa ni hataraki: work for peace)

Sacred ground

There is one place in this world that stops me in my tracks. I can’t move past it without taking some time to stop and think. My heart breaks all over again every time I see it.

It’s what is left of the World Trade Center. It isn’t the Trade Center building that I mourn, it’s the souls of everyone who’s still there. I can feel them. They plead with me to look and to not forget.

The World Trade Center subway station has an art installation that heightens the effect. An Italian artist has made mosaic eyes that stare at you as you walk down the hallway. At the center, there’s a mosaic of the continents with a huge eye in the middle. The first time I saw the eyes I knew who they were. Then, as I approached the pit that was the Trade Center; the eyes followed me urging me not to forget.

Buildings will be built there. Speeches will be orated. Monuments will be dedicated. People will go about their daily business. But, the souls of those lost will always be there. It is sacred ground.















A dopo e Moochas smoochas,

Please give what you can to Médecins sans Frontières (Doctors without Borders).

Remember, remember the fifth of November

Remember, remember the fifth of November
Gunpowder, treason and plot.
I see no reason, why gunpowder treason
Should ever be forgot.

I have found a way to distract the Grams. I reminded her that Guy Fawkes Day is upon us.

Back in 1605 a group of Catholic men decided that they wanted England to proclaim its fealty to Mother church and the Pope. So, they decided to blow up Parliament and King James the 1st along with it.

So, these fellows rented a house next door to Parliament and dug a tunnel (sounds like that Woody Allen movie, right?). Unfortunately for Guy Fawkes, he drew the short straw: he was left to light the fuse on the dynamite.

To add to his misfortune, someone in on the plot wrote a little billet doux to a certain Lord Monteagle (great name, huh?) warning him to stay away from Parliament on the 5th of November.

Guy Fawkes, Guy Fawkes, 'twas his intent to blow up the King and the Parliament.! Three score barrels of powder below, Poor old England to overthrow:! By God's providence he was catch'd With a dark lantern and burning match.! Holloa boys, holloa boys, make the bells ring. Holloa boys, holloa boys, God save the King! Hip hip hoorah!

You can guess what happened next, when they broke in on Guy he was trying to strike a match on his bum. He was tortured until he squealed like the rat that he was. Of course King James didn’t condone the torture. However, he did write to the inquisitors:

et sic per gradus ad mia tenditur (which basically means, gradually increase the torture until he squeals like the rat that he is).

So, the tradition of Guy Fawkes Night (or Bonfire Night) was born. Old Guy is burned in effigy (though originally it was the Pope) and people cook jacket potatoes and other goodies in the fire. In addition to the baked potato, parkin (combining oatmeal and treacle), hot soup, cocoa, gingerbread men, treacle toffee and toffee apples are also consumed. And there are fireworks, too!

Grams loves this drawing of the conspirators: Guy is called Guido, which is of course my given name.

A la prochaine.

Moochas smoochas,
Gweeds

Try to remember the kind of September when life was slow and oh, so mellow.*

Remember those who went before their time. Make your time here count for something positive.

A dopo e Moochas smoochas,

Please give what you can to Médecins sans Frontières (Doctors without Borders).

*Try to remember the kind of September
when life was slow and oh, so mellow.
Try to remember the kind of September
When grass was green and grain was yellow.
Try to remember the kind of September
when you were a tender and callow fellow.
Try to remember, and if you remember,
Then follow.

Try to remember when life was so tender
that no one wept except the willow.
Try to remember when life was so tender
that dreams were kept beside your pillow.
Try to remember when life was so tender
that love was an ember about to billow.
Try to remember, and if you remember,
then follow.

Deep in December, it's nice to remember,
Although you know the snow will follow.
Deep in December, it's nice to remember,
Without a hurt the heart is hollow.
Deep in December, it's nice to remember,
The fire of September that made us mellow.
Deep in December, our hearts should remember
And follow.

Follow, follow, follow, follow, follow,
Follow, follow, follow, follow.

From The Fantastiks
Music: Harvey Schmidt, Lyrics: Tom Jones