Glodon had a problem with spontaneous pixelation. Glodon didn’t tell anyone. No one knew. Not a soul.

One day, while raking the colorful autumn leaves, Glodon slipped around the corner for a smoke, pixelated, and then just disappeared.

No one knew where Glodon went. No one looked because no one cared.

Meanwhile, Glodon had slipped into a place where there was no space. Glodon’s conscience defined his existence. At any given moment in a universe without time anyplace becomes every place if there is an awareness of space.

Glodon liked it. It made his nonexistent heart go fast.

Glodon learned to control his pixelation. All he had to do was slip around the corner to have a smoke while raking colorful autumn leaves–flash-flash- he was pixelated.

Glodon would do things while he was pixelated. He was there. He was in a space within a space that used no space inside of the space it was in. In a place where everyplace is everywhere anywhere can easily lead to anyplace. Time is just a place where time is all the time all at once.

Glodon would create poetry while he was in this pixelated state. Here he could be a poet. He would write poorly contrived and awkward little rhymes;

Not blue
Not blue

. . . and he was happy.

Strange & Jagged

This is a strange and jagged land. Its motives are clear; to do this and that. That always has been the purpose–this always will be the purpose.

While you are here – To be. To exist. Which means also to flow, this way and that, as needs and forces dictate. This will always be the purpose in this strange and jagged life.

W.Feller/J. Wilkendorf

Chaotic Heart

This red thing
This arrhythmic thing
This beating heart
Pounding and pounding, pounding
Torn from the chest and held high
in infrangible grasp
in wild eccentricity
This beating heart
erratically pulsing wave after wave of deep, red light
& silver, dull gray, ungreen
under these painted skies
Pounding, pounding, and pounding
in wild eccentricity
This Chaotic Heart
This arrhythmic thing
This red thing

On the Road

I was out one day by wherever it is I was and shooting photos of the ‘this stuff’ and ‘that stuff’ out there and here comes this near-perfect little Volkswagen beetle. This car is just humming along, then all of a sudden it pulls over and this old guy asks where he can get some old-fashioned film developed. “Is there any place that still does that?” It took me a second (I’ve been shooting digital since the mid-90s) then I said “Walgreens” and that was kind of an ‘Aha’ moment.

So we start talking and I find out this guy was an engineer on the aqueduct and he would survey elevations along the channel because the ground moves nearly continually out there in the far western part of the Mojave. It doesn’t move much but if the water in the aqueduct breaches the side it could get nasty and catastrophic and such. This was so engineers could regulate the flow and all that.

We talk more. After a bit longer I find out this guy is Hugh Hefner’s first cousin. I think that is so cool and I mention the Baseball Hall of Famer Bob “Rapid Robert” Feller is my grandfather’s first cousin. That’s the best I got. He said he does not own a television. I ask if he reads a lot, is a writer or artist or how he stays occupied? He answered me with, “my equations.” How cool is that? So what he likes to do to relax is to try to work out cold fusion. I told him I like to take pictures and tell stupid jokes. And that is the day I met Hugh Hefner’s Cousin

Carol Highsmith’s Barstow

Highsmith, a distinguished and richly published American photographer, has donated her work to the Library of Congress since 1992. Starting in 2002, Highsmith provided scans or photographs she shot digitally with new donations to allow rapid online access throughout the world. Her generosity in dedicating the rights to the American people for copyright-free access also make this Archive a very special visual resource.

Here is her photographer’s eye on Barstow, Ca. — 2012

Barstow, California

Every Woodland

Slip quietly through every woodland.

There is the wind which may swirl through saplings and their parents
and the tall grasses and dried flowers.

Bird wings flutter, mostly away.
Scratchings and rustling beneath the lowest branches and in the thick brier.
Delicate colors as in a painter’s palette, aside, muted and subdued in a landscape held back.

The memory flutters.
The words choke well before reaching the tongue.
So say nothing.

~ Walter


11-year-old Kass, a desert girl born and bred, looks into a natural stream of water (Cajon Creek) for the first time in her life. She was amazed that there was so much life going on right in front of her–everything she could see was living!
looking into Cajon Creek
She pointed this all out to me as it was happening. She has such a wonderful sense of Nature. I’m so fortunate to have experienced this with her.

Updates: Generally Speaking

I’ve been going through updating sections like popular pages in the glossary. I am hoping to get things uniform and reasonable to navigate.

The important thing with this update is that I’ll be blogging future updates here instead of continually editing and uploading a static page.  Over the years it has become cumbersome and I tend to just let journal updates go. For now I’ve put a notice on the “Features” page redirecting to the “Updates” category  here on the Desert Gazette.

Just my thoughts – #34

If the Mojave Desert were a candy bar, it would be chewy with lots of nuts, and sometimes sticky, and melted most of the time like it was setting on the dash too long. It probably wouldn’t be too popular, but that’s okay because there would only be one, and we’d probably be best off if we shared it with those who would savor and enjoy and appreciate it instead of giving it away to those who would greedily gobble it up, poop it out, and go somewhere else to do the same thing to another candy bar.

Thanks for looking!