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April 15, 2000
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poopy scoppy You have to create an illusion to have a party. Picking up the dog s--- is part of that. Another part is picking up the stray magazines and books and putting them in out of the way places in the house. My office has the newspaper pile, the book cart that normally collects the overflow from the tables by our chairs. Said chairs are where the piano usually is, the piano (electric and moveable, thankfully) in front of the closets in the guest room. There are flowers all around. In the bathroom, too. Guest hand towels out. Kitchen counters cleaned of as much stuff as possible, stuff hidden away. Room made in the outside refrigerator for whatever the caterer might want to stick there. A case of white wine chills in there, too. In the wine cellar (OK, wine closet), a couple of boxes are labeled for comsumption. "Serve this first." "Serve this second and then ASK HOST!" The rental tables and wine glasses and plates and table clothes show up. All that stuff we won't have to find enough of or wash. The 'fluffer' (Laurie from across the street) gets out candles and all kinds of serious, well, fluff. She has put snails in the ponds to help clear them. In the heron pond, it seems to be working well. Nothing wrong with a little funk. The yard men come with giant mowers and serious trimmers and race through the yard. Parts of the yard are left 'wild' and let go to be 'forest floor' with volunteer trees and ground cover and whatever falls from the oaks this time of year. Which is a lot. Leaves and then these little fuzzy beard things. "What a lovely home you have," people often say. Well, yes. But it's an illusion in a lot of ways. I dreamt a lot last night. First in my chair, putting my own pictures to the black and white sci fi on the TV. In my dream there were 747's landing. When I awoke and saw the TV, the actors were looking at a very fakey looking video screen. In bed I dreamt a lot of travel dreams. And dreams of stuff. Natural when you have to get up and scoop the poop, both literally and the poop of everyday life...move the junk no one wants to look at out of the way. No dog walk this morning due to preparations. The skies are gray, it drizzles a little, the sun peaks out, goes back behind the clouds. It's always fun to do these things...and a delight when they are over. We ate Thundercloud for lunch (can't mess up the kitchen!) and, of course, are too busy entertaining to actually eat the wonderful food we are paying the caterer to prepare. For those of you who know the story and might blame me for the loss of John Bailey's journal, here is my side of the story. I thought it was a coincidence. The more I looked at it later, the less likely that really seemed. But anything is possible in this old world. You might have noticed that in this journal and on our home page you do not see a single © (well, excepting that one I just put in!). There is a reason for that. I thought about it. I really did. And I decided if someone wants to take my words and pictures and use them, they are free to do so. Now, if they want to pay me for them, well, sure. So...what if someone makes millions off a picture of my dog on a picnic table with the graffiti 'We Live in a Big Zoo' written on it? Fine. I'll be famous as the person who provided the million dollar photo...for free. Go figure. There are worse fates. Of course, things get trickier when I photograph art work. Even if it's my own. The original art work, that is. I figure if I own the original, the artist still owns the reproduction rights. (One artist once asked that I emblazon a statement to this effect on the back of the work. I refused. I didn't deny the artist's rights. But this statement tried to infringe on my right to sell the original. Too much trouble. I offered to return the work in return for my money. That ended that.) Barry George and Brian Frisbee have rights to the images of the band in the garden, in my view, even having given over the physical things. Some artists are uncomfortable about pictures appearing on the WEB, with or without a ©. I wanted to put up images of Doug Whitfield's paintings (the ones I own) but he wanted assurances and electronic signatures and junk. (Since he's not online, it took me forever just to locate him and ask.) My reaction to that is to not exhibit the work. Personally, I think he'd be better off with some exposure, but that's his call. (I rummaged through dogpile to find this, but it's hard to find anything about him on the WEB.) So my rule is that I put the stuff here, there's no copyright that I'm asserting but one ought to respect other people's stuff and if someone asserts a complaint, I remove the stuff. Now then...ownership is a tricky business, isn't it? My little dusty corner of the WEB suddenly seems bathed in light, doesn't it? Go figure. Figure I should say something about April 15 (although I think the tax man gave a reprieve until Monday). We paid. And paid. And paid. But for now we are square. It was also my Aunt Mary's birthday. She would have been 89. Wish she'd made it until now. The party is over. It was amusing. I wore a new, custom-made pink shirt and spilled red wine on it. (That's my destiny.) I wasn't feeling too well. But, for all that, I enjoyed the party and the yard looked good and the food tasted fine and the dance company amused. I enjoyed myself. Both at our house and up the street at Pete and Harriy's where the progressive party started. Often you are just in such a mood that you will enjoy. You will embrace your brief moment, like the candles which burn down in an evening, and just enjoy. I did that. And that's a party. It's a wrap. That's a day. The rental tables and chairs and glasses and plates are piled back in the gargage, the candles are extinguished or ran out of steam themselves. The guests are gone with their memories.
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"For such kind of borrowing as this, if it be not bettered by the borrower, among good authors is accounted Plagiarι." John Milton, Iconoclastes |
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banana tree catches the light
all fluffed up
she's mine and I took the picture but Brian made it (just her, not the trees)
let's dance with the lawnmower |
