Haiku 1

I'm going to post haikus every now and then on a somewhat regular basis. How's that for commitment. Anyway, here's the first one.



white cup black coffee
cold rain sliding into ice
ghosts of spring calling

Happy New Year to All

Here's to hoping that the new year brings more peace to the world. Peace to all and take care.

New Reviews

I have a few new CD reviews up on Audiophile Audition that you might want to check out. Those reviews are Mighty Squirrel (which I posted below), a compilation CD of Ella Fitzgerald songs called Love Letters from Ella, and a classical piano CD from Christopher O'Riley called Home to Oblivion: An Elliott Smith Tribute. If you're interested in audio equipment, DVD, and music reviews, Audiophile Audition is a good site to bookmark.

Short Fiction: Fire Ants

The hot Mississippi air felt like boiling honey—a clinging hot mass that smothered as it boiled you alive. It was 10 o’clock in the morning and the air smelled of decay and was heavy with moisture. By noon, the crushed gravel and tar street in this new subdivision would start to bubble, adding its sharp chemical tang to the usual earthy tones—the grass lawns, the cow pasture behind the houses, and the nearby mud brown creek inhabited by slithering catfish waggling their way along the surface.

The twelve-year-old boy was on his belly, his feet straight behind him, his elbows planted in the grass, his chin cupped in his hands. His right foot flipped up and down, tapping a fast, erratic beat. He stared at a small mound rising out of the grass a couple of feet in front of him like a miniature mountain. The dirt of the mound had the texture of chocolate sprinkles, but was colored a coppery red. An anthill. Watching for signs of movement, his forehead was creased in concentration and dotted with sweat. His blue eyes flicked to the side as he heard movement behind him and he felt a shiver of recognition between his shoulder blades. He tried not to turn his head.

“You trying to get bit, boy? Them fire ants’ll make you wish you were dead.”

A tall man walked up carrying a gasoline can in one hand and a small shovel in the other. He gave the can a slow back and forth roll, listening to its hollow sloshing sound, and set it down on the ground. He was in his forties with a precise flattop and a dark tan, thin and lean, wearing a tight white t-shirt and faded army fatigue pants. A cigarette was stuck into the corner of his mouth. He took a long drag, not touching the cigarette, and let out a plume of smoke aimed towards the boy lying on the ground. The boy breathed in and held it as the tobacco smoke reached him. His eyes halfway closed, loving the smell of Lucky Strikes.

The man knelt down with one knee on the ground beside the boy, rubbing the boy’s buzz cut hair and then letting his hand rest on the boy’s neck. Just for a second. His head tilted to the left as he looked at the anthill. Using the shovel for leverage, he pushed himself back to his feet.

“Now careful, Bobby, don’t get too close,” the man said. “Get back while I take care of this. This is how my daddy taught me.”

The boy said, “I won’t, Daddy.” He scooted backwards without getting up, his eyes locked on the anthill.

Last week the next-door neighbor had tried to get rid of his own fire ant nest. Mr. Prescott was a small, doughy man, with the bottom-heavy shape of a bowling pin and nearly as white. Bobby had seen him next to a small honeysuckle bush in his backyard. The anthill had grown up around the base of it. Mr. Prescott was shaking the small bush, not as tall as Bobby, whipping it back and forth with his right hand while his left hand perched on his hip. Bobby asked what he was doing. Mr. Prescott looked up and said with some annoyance in a high soft voice, “I figure if I shake this here tree every day, these ants will just get tired of it and go somewhere else. I know I would.” Bobby thought he was crazy, which made sense since his daughter Carrie was touched or something, though kind of cute looking. She tended to stare a lot. But she was fun to tease because she never caught on. Slow. Bobby said to him, “I don’t think that’s going to work, Mr. Prescott.” Mr. Prescott hissed back at him, “Oh, mind your own business, Bobby Jackson. I take care of things my own way, not the way your daddy does. I don’t like killin’ things.” Mr. Prescott looked at him with narrowed eyes and went back to shaking the bush, not noticing that the fire ants were starting to crawl over his shoes. Soon, he would be dancing a jig. Bobby had smiled and stepped back to watch. It was funny.

Bobby’s dad set the tip of the shovel lightly against the mound. He pushed the shovel into the anthill and picked up a clump of the red granulated dirt and flipped it upside down back in place. Without pausing he set the shovel down beside him and snatched up the gas can. As he bent over with the anthill, the red ants boiled to the surface like the foam from a warm bottle of Coke—the ants ran in all directions, circling around the mound, piling up on top of each other forming a new hill on top of the old one. Daddy upended the can and poured gasoline over the wriggling mass. The smell of the gas was oily and vaguely metallic.

The boy raised up on his elbows and looked closer, his eyebrows climbing towards his hairline in anticipation. Between the heat of the day and the fumes of the gas, he felt a brief wave of dizziness wash over him. The boy looked up at his dad and saw him pull a box of matches out of his front pants pocket, take out a match, strike it against the side of the box—a bright yellow pop—and drop it into the middle of the anthill. Orange flames unfolded into the air. Bobby felt the heat against his face like a puff of air.

The man looked at the anthill, tilted his head to the right and squinted his eyes in concentration, and nodded approval. Bobby scooted closer to see what was happening.

The man said, “Mind yourself, boy.”

The boy whispered, “I’ll be careful.” He got close enough to the anthill to feel the flames on his face—little, random finger touches of heat—and saw the ants. The once red ants were now dark and black, curled up and laying in heaps on the surface of the ground, their legs warped and fused. Some ants crawled out of the ground from the depths of the anthill only to crisp and twist into new shapes. Hundreds of ants were locked together forming a lacey sculpture of ash and skeletal bodies. New ants continued to come out of the ground looking to battle the devastating enemy. Pursing his lips and sucking in on his cigarette, Mr. Jackson poured more gas on the anthill. The flames leaped up in a mushroom cloud and the heat softly slapped Bobby in the face. The heat began breaking down the bodies of the ants; the mounds of them started to settle to the ground slumping to the shape of the mound. No more ants emerged.

Bobby got up and stood next to his dad. He looked up at his dad and grinned. The man took a deep drag on his cigarette and blew out a long plume of smoke that mixed with the smoke rising from the mound of charred ants. He looked at his son and chuffed a soft laugh. One corner of his mouth twisted upwards in a half smile. He said, “That’s the best way to deal with ‘em.”

CD Review: Mighty Squirrel

It’s only natural for musicians and artists of any variety to be drawn to and draw from a number of sources. After all, there are a lot of different kinds of music out in the world, all equally wonderful. Why limit yourself to just one or two varieties, when you can sample from a worldwide feast? As an eclectic sort of listener myself (there’s not much that I won’t listen to), I can appreciate this in other people. And that’s what I love about this self-titled CD from the acoustic group, Mighty Squirrel. There’s more than enough variety to hold my interest, and every song is connected to each other by performance, instrumentation, and passion. And really, it’s the passion that shines through in each song.

The songs and musical influences come from all over the globe—Old time, classic country, folk, swing, gypsy jazz, Yiddish, Celtic, and French Canadian. And through it all can be heard a subtle seasoning of Bluegrass, which mostly comes from the traditional Bluegrass instrumentation of guitar, banjo, fiddle and mandolin. A fair description of the CD might be acoustic world music, though Mighty Squirrel describes itself as “old time music from around the world,” or “World Time” music. Anyway, you get the drift.

This diverse music is held together by the enjoyable and first-class performances of the accomplished musicians that make up Mighty Squirrel. Greg Spatz, who’s also the fiddler for the topnotch bluegrass group John Reischman and the Jaybirds, takes a turn on the octave mandolin (it’s pitched an octave below the standard mandolin) and also contributes some fiddle on a few tunes. His playing is facile, sensitive, and spot on, as always. David Keenan, formerly of Ranch Romance (one of my favorite Northwest bands), is the Jack-of-all-trades here, playing a variety of instruments including resophonic guitar, mandolin, banjo, and fiddle, as well as contributing harmony and lead vocals. His lead vocal work on the mournful and regret-filled “We Will Have Our Day” is devastating in its simplicity and honesty, providing a textbook example of “less is more.” Ivan Rosenberg, a veteran bluegrass musician, is most noted here for his perfectly rendered banjo work, restrained and beautifully lyrical. At the center of the group is Caridwen Irvine Spatz, doing the lion’s share of the lead vocals and fiddling. Her voice seems made for Celtic music, lyrical and ethereal, but she can also sing with an unexpected strength and a sly sense of humor. Her voice is expressive, flexible, and utterly charming.

All in all, this is an outstanding debut recording from a new group and a completely fun listen. I look forward to further efforts from them. You can find out more about Mighty Squirrel at their website here.

- Hermon Joyner

Mighty Squirrel – SQRL CD101 – 33:37 – ****1/2 (out of 5 stars)

A New Book is Out

The Arts and Crafts Movement in the Pacific Northwest, a book by Lawrence Kreisman and Glenn Mason (a friend of mine for many years), has been published by Timber Press and is available in time for the holidays. If you know someone interested in the Arts and Crafts movement, you won't find a better book. Congratulations to all involved. And of course, you can find this book at Amazon.com or order it through your local bookstore.

The photo to the right shows a display of the book at Powell's bookstore in Portland, Oregon. It also shows a couple of paintings I photographed for this book. I made around 75 images for the project, ranging from pottery to paintings. It's a great book, so be sure to check it out.

Movie Review: Spider-Man 3

There are a few themes working in Spider-Man 3. One, the dangers of receiving delayed information. Two, everybody needs help once in a while. Three, disco dance moves are downright evil. Well, I’m not personally sure about that last one, but it is in this movie. Anyway, overall I did like this movie, I really did, but it does fall victim to the dreaded Sequel Bloat Syndrome (SBS). There are too many villains, three if you count the blackened Spidey, not enough action set pieces (which is kind of weird in a Hollywood action/adventure movie), too much talking, and too long a running time (way too close to 3 hours). And then there is the infamous dance scene.

The story goes something like this. Peter Parker lets his fame as Spider-Man go to his head. Mary Jane Watson’s Broadway career goes downhill fast. Harry Osborn still thinks Peter killed his father (the original Green Goblin), starts sniffing green Goblin smoke and goes on a rampage as the New Goblin. A meteor from outer space with a hitchhiking glob of black goo lands in New York City, attaches itself to Peter, turns him evil and his Spidey suit black, and then teaches Peter leftover Saturday Night Fever dance moves (this is the infamous dance scene). Peter discovers that the bad guy he thought killed Uncle Ben didn’t do it, but another guy name Flint Marko did kill his uncle. Flint Marko escapes from prison, visits his crippled/sick daughter, and then gets turned into the Sandman, who visually reminds me of that bad guy from the Mummy movies. Eddie Brock tries to steal Peter’s job at the Daily Bugle, but only succeeds in taking the black goo, which turns him into Venom, a black, nasty, fanged version of Spidey. Oh, and there’s not nearly enough of J. Jonah Jameson, the Daily Bugle publisher. And Bruce Campbell has an excellent turn as a maitre d’. But it all ends with a lot of fighting, lots of falling walls, debris, and vehicles, lessons are learned, people die, and we get to hear a lot of screaming from Mary Jane. And believe it or not, that’s about it for the movie.

Any of the two main villains could have made a complete movie on their own. In fact, Venom is a very cool character and is shortchanged by an all too brief appearance. Topher Grace as Eddie Brock/Venom practically steals the movie with only a handful of scenes. Adding in the origin of the Flint Marko/Sandman muddies the water and not enough is done with that character either. Director Sam Raimi has always been careful to include as much character development as possible, but this movie could have cut back on that a tiny bit. The after a while, the trials and tribulations of Peter and Mary Jane begin to get tiresome after a while. Before I saw Spider-Man 3, I really though that director Sam Raimi would pull off a hat trick, but unfortunately he didn’t. He and his movie instead fell victim to SBS. Spider-Man 3 feels like most of the people involved are tired of the franchise and the characters. Though it is actually better than a god-awful, out of control monstrosity like Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Man’s Chest (an extreme and nearly unwatchable example of SBS), and I did enjoy watching Spider-Man 3, at the end of it all, I was a bit disappointed.

Hermon Joyner