All posts filed under: An Appreciation

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Early one morning…

  … on the Pearl River Delta… The atmosphere was so strange, to tis westerner’s eyes, during my time in Macau. The light was incredibly intense, and “contrasty”, yet you hardly ever saw the sun. With all the pollution blowing across from the mainland, plus the incredible amount of year-round humidity in the air, the light just bounced around from every which direction, and it became very difficult to spot a “direction” that the light might be coming from. The exception was during July and August, when a lot of the mainland factories scaled back, and people went on vacation. Which allowed the air to clear, a bit… especially around dawn… And because you could now see for dozens of miles, instead of one or two, the light now came in in a more recognizable fashion. And you could see things like the early morning fishing boats…   Golden Hour, indeed…      

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Happy Birthday…

  … to the man responsible for so many, many happy childhood memories over the years, and around the world. Today is the day on which remember the birth of A. A. Milne, the creator of Winnie The Pooh, Eeyore and so many others.   Always kinda related to Eeyore, myself… But the entire creation is one of astonishing simplicity, longevity and beauty…   A.A. Milne said: Promise me you’ll always remember: You’re braver than you believe, and stronger than you seem, and smarter than you think. If you live to be a hundred, I want to live to be a hundred minus one day so I never have to live without you. I am sure of this: that no one can write a book which children will like unless he write it for himself first. Is ‘The Wind in the Willows’ a children’s book? Is ‘Alice in Wonderland?’ Is ‘Treasure Island?’ These are masterpieces which we read with pleasure as children, but with how much more pleasure when we are grown-up. Some people care …

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Almost, but not quite…

  … totally unlike the Muscadine grape we used to find in the wilds of deepest, darkest Georgia, as we were scampering around in our pre-pre-pubescent, half-wild state. Playing Cowboys and Indians, or army, or sometimes even attempting to emulate superheroes, as we tore around the countryside on bicycles built more like Sherman tanks, than todays version of ultra-lite, would collapse under a reproachful glance versions. They had to be, given the abuse we put them through. We called the almost but not quite totally unlike the above pictured grapes Muscadines, or more usually Scuppernong’s… We pronounced it scupper-nahwn, by the way… I suspect the name “scuppernong” had a more pleasing sound to the semi-literate aural palate of those mythic denizens of the woods across the street from where I grew up. All day long we’d fly around upon our God-given Kryptonian ability, or swinging from a web that I swear I could almost see. Saturday morning television was also fertile feeding grounds for imaginary exploits… “Mightor…” Alas, the above picture is not from that far away remembered time, hidden in …