Under the watchfull eyes of my friends...

In my absence Mojave county is cleaning up my place, the old gas station in Chloride. Since I never operated it as a gas station and since those who did, have passed away, they call those UST (underground storage tanks) "Orphan Tanks". A couple of yeas ago I signed up for the program, but the county ran out of money. While I was in Chloride they contacted me asking whether I was still interested in getting those UST out. Of course It was a bit scary to have such work done during my absence, but my friends talk (Dori among others) to the good people doing the work, send pictures (Irene, thank you) and all. Since cleaning up the environment is the goal, the soil will be tested for pollution. If it is contaminated they will dig out the polluted soil and replace it with good dirt. I am grateful that I can help cleaning up old contaminations of the past and have a small part of the old mining town unburdened by the past.
Thank you all for helping with this.

No internet but a lot of nice things... in Ruhrort

Having been on the road in North Rhine Westphalia I rediscover the world without Internet and the world of hyper security: not one open hot spot, nothing coming in on my phone... Yet a lot is happening there in the region where artists and writers seem to flock. A bunch of "mafia knitters" are trying to soften this rather masculine environment where the rogue TV policeman Schimanski had his job cut out in getting the bad guys. In wool with flowers and gentle colors they soften this place of steel and stone.
And of course water is abundant  at the confluence of Rhine and Ruhr. It is a downtrodden area with cheap rent. The empty shop windows can be rented easily as a showplace for one's work. Of course there are improvised parties, people bringing food and drinks, grill on the roof in the old town. There is a proposal to classify Ruhrort as cultural heritage since many of the houses in 'Grunder style' still exist. Of course all the water most cellars are damp... On Easter Sunday among others these people will perform as poets or exhibit their art. I saw a beautiful cooperation where one hustled a tent ( there was a strong wind, but we were spared the rain), where another brought a small scene to stand on. Some brought enough food to share... I thank all.

Louise Erdrich: The Plague of Doves

Having read several of Louise Erdrich’s books I was thrilled at the airport in Washington to find her latest book: The Plague of Doves. The circumstances not being quite right I had a hard time getting into it. Yet at a certain point I got involved in the different narrators pushing on the novel which has a marvelous layered complexity. Events are described with their own momentum and at the end there is a kind of closure by the search for and discovery of the truth. In the interwoven settings of the reservation and the small town of Pluto, the weight of historical injustice comes to light through the conjunction of many different elements, as well in an historical setting as a contemporary. Themes are: religion, the unsolved murder of a family, a stamp collection, a violin, burning love, racism, family, the reservation and an untold past.

Read it, take your time over this intricate tapestry and achievement of Louise Erdrich.

Quotes:

Unable to sleep, he lighted a candle stub and paged through the Meditations until he found the one he needed, the one that told him no longer to wander at hazard or wait to read the books he was reserving for old age, but to throw away idle hopes (Louisa!) and come to his own aid, if he cared for himself and while it was in his power.

As I look at the town now, dwindling without grace (....) (Yet there is something to the love and knowledge of the land and its relationship to dreams – that’s what the old people had. That’s why as a tribe we exist to the present.)

The Indian women I knew were shy and very studious, although a couple of them swaggered around furious in ribbon shirts with AIM-looking boyfriends. I didn’t really fit in with anybody.

Like Anaïs, I reviewed every thought, all visual trivia became momentous, my faintest desire a raving hunger.

My consciousness is fragile ground, shaky as forming ice. Every morning, when I open my eyes and experience my first thought, I am flooded with relief. The I is still here.

The Ohio in Cairo on it's way to the Mississippi

Cairo, desolate, crumpling, abandoned, poor,  strange beauty... At the Fat Boy bar and grill  there were 3 $ margaritas and a few other drinks at a good price for the cinco di Mayo. The signs in town point to the mental health institute, the rehab, in house, half way house, in the hospital.
No hotel nor motels, not even outside of town were the Day's Inn had the door open,  one car parked and further total emptiness. The booze shops are busy and are extremely well stocked. The few official buildings are grand and well kept.

 The Ohio River runs clean and with majesty, is being fished, yet a restaurant was not to be found either.

 A strangely attractive atmosphere of decay contrasts with the few spruced up buildings and churches.

And yes another abandoned gas station... and as you will see  tomorrow bridges to cross from Illinois to Missouri, over the Ohio and the Mississippi. Daily life must be hard here, yet people have a good time, masking their hardship, surviving the grand history of their place.