Tribes

I sometimes wonder how so many  people can live together in cities.   I got an answer of sorts this weekend at the different festivals that were going on:  people split up into tribes.  The first tribe I visited were the lovers of motorbikes.  There were lots of them, split into the various sub-tribes:  Leather wearers, old guys on expensive bikes, young guys on cafe racers, etc.

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Next up there was Juneteenth,  an African-American holiday.   When the Civil War started, many slave-owners took people to the Republic of Texas, to avoid having to free them.   News of the Emancipation Proclamation took 2 1/2 years to reach there, and this event commemorates that day.  This is a festival with food:  bbq ribs, chicken, hot links and sides and it was delicious.  It had rained right before I took the picture, so there weren’t very many people around.

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There was a Celtic festival in a nearby park and it was fine excuse for men to break out their kilts and bagpipes.   There was plenty of beer and whiskey to be had, and Miss P and I had a delicious sausage roll.

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There was also a group playing football (soccer),  and they looked to be immigrants.  (I guessed this because they were not speaking English, and they were playing football.)

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There was yet another tribe at the park, skateboarders.  They are there with the most frequency because they have a permanent structure.

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This is just a small sampling of the many tribes from around here.  You don’t need a sorting hat to figure out which one you belong to, just show up.  And of course you don’t have to belong to just one tribe.  You can find me on the outskirts, looking in.

May Flowers

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April showers are alleged to bring May flowers, but here in the high altitude of Colorado it works a little differently.   April may have rain or it may have snow or there may be nothing.   This May had a blizzard and plenty of hailstorms, so the flowers are only starting to come out now,  in the middle of June.   Miss P is posing at the high altitude iris testing grounds over by the library.

One Problem Limit

I have had some health problems before and since I went to England.  But when I went to my doctor he was in a hurry and told me that I only got one problem, the most recent one.   “One problem”, I was outraged, I expect value for my money and I always have more than one problem.   But then I started thinking about it in the larger context of life.

When me and my friends were teenagers we talked endlessly about our parents: how stupid they were, expecting us to behave, etc. etc.

When we were young couples we would talk endlessly about our friends who were still single (definitely an immature state).   They needed to grow up and act responsibly.

When friends had children we would talk behind their backs about what brats other friends kids were.

Then there were the career years, didn’t really talk much about anything except work.

Now I’ve realized I’m in the doctor years .   Yes those years when every conversation includes bits about the latest problem and the doctors that we see.  I have my group of doctors that I like and I live in fear that they will retire because some of them are my age.  When I see a young doctor I always think ‘I have fillings in my teeth that are older than them’.  “You’re only as old as you feel”, “50 is the new 40”, etc. are the lies we tell ourselves to disguise  the facts of aging.

Then next stage of life is the one where you talk about the funerals that you’ve been to, and fortunately I’m not really there yet, although it is fast approaching.

So why did I only get one problem?  My doctor was being taken to court by one of his ex-wives for more money, so HE had one problem.

p.s.  That I got bit by a dog was my problem.   And on my next visit I did get more than one problem, so I’m happy.

Fry Bread Dog

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Miss P and I were out and about today when we decided to go to the pow-wow.   The first thing they said to me at the entrance was “Is that a service dog?”  I looked down at her.  She’s a labramutt wearing an ordinary collar and a gentle leader because she pulls.  No sign of the special harness of a service dog.  “No” I said, “She’s a fry bread dog and she is here to get some fry bread”.   They looked her over for a moment and then said, “Well, in that case she can come in” .

 

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So, we ordered a Navajo Taco to share, which is fry bread topped with pinto beans, meat, lettuce, cheese and salsa.  And it was delicious.   What is fry bread you might ask.   Depending on the treaty, the United States Government is obligated to give Native American tribal members certain things, like cloth and bacon, and very often flour.   Again, depending on the treaty, the government does this to this day.  Fry bread has become traditional at pow-wows, thanks to this policy.   It’s a simple dough, made with flour, water, baking powder and salt, then fried.  Sometimes it’s served with honey or icing sugar on top as a sweet.

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There were wolves from the wolf sanctuary there, and Miss P does not like wolves so we left before the dancing started.   Also as usual the drum was late, so it was going to start on Indian time.

Art and Grief

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I just had time for a quick pop in at the National Gallery.  Not to see the currently flogged exhibit of giant pictures of celebrities, just to breeze through the other portraits.  First up, I was face to face with Richard III.  I can’t say I was very familiar with him before they dug him up.  History is written by the victors and he lost.   But he was the subject of one of my very first blog posts, written on my late husband’s site.   I admired that he was a king who led his troops into battle himself, not waiting  on the sidelines and telling others to go out there and get the job done.   Further investigation showed that he was actually a rather good king rather than a villain: removing arbitrary taxes started by Edward IV, supporting personal, property and mercantile rights, allowing bail for the accused rather than immediate confiscation of property.  I did a selfie with him, now we are intertwined.

The next gallery was even more exciting.  Anchored by portraits of Elizabeth I, the young and the old, there are lots of bog standard portraits of people looking rich and snotty.   But in among them is the most amazing portrait, done in the style of a graphic novel.  With Death on one side, and fame on the other it shows the story of a man’s life.  The sitter would have no doubt preferred a more conventional portrayal, but he was dead and this painting was ordered by his widow.   Grief takes you to unexpected and unknown places, and she wanted a different kind of picture of her husband.   It’s a remembrance of a life lived, proof that she did the right thing in giving him a good send-off and it’s her tribute to their love.

 

Art and Fear

The creation of art comes from the desire to express experiences in tangible form, transformed into something else.  Fear comes from the idea that the emotion could be recognized and judged.  This is a blog about random events:  life mostly, art sometimes, events, ephemera,  memories and absurdities.  This blog is for my friends from blogging class and I hope to publish once a week or so.