Category: field notes

Thanks to all the new Advent Poems visitors

Just wanted to say thank you to all the new visitors to this blog!

When I composed Advent Poems (or the 12 days of Christmas poetry) and other related posts and podcasts, I had no idea that they would be the most visited posts each year. For a single post to bring in thousands of visitors a month is amazing.

Again, much thanks to new visitors and hope you enjoy the seasonal poetry and podcasts!

Time to gather ’round the radio

maxresdefaultThe powder milk biscuits are ready. Rhubarb pie is cooling on the counter top. A bottle of ketchup is on the table. Getting ready for this week’s radio broadcast of A Prairie Home Companion with Chris Thile.

The family chatters about what to expect of the show. Jack White is on the show. Will they still have “Lives of the Cowboys” or “Guy Noir”? Will there be more music and less comedy?

The expectation is high for this family. Who listens to the radio as if it were the Super Bowl or something like that?

Cube bookshelf construction continues

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OR. This is not Minecraft, but there are a lot of cubes.

Can you have too many bookshelves? Well, by request, I built two more cube bookshelves from 1″x12″ and 1″x2″ pine boards. It was a fairly simple matter to draw out the blueprint for these shelves based on the previously built cube shelves.

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Managed to stain both shelves this past weekend. But as the outdoor temperatures cool, the drying time is longer. And I ran out of coffee. Plan to finish the cube shelves with a coat or two of poly.

Cube bookshelf expanded

Received a request for a cube bookshelf to fit under . . . read more ->

The final page


The final page of a sketchbook is a peculiar geography. . . read more ->

Singular possessive or plural possessive

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Do people still diagram sentences?[1] Is writing still important in . . . read more ->

Afternoon walk


Somedays a walk to the river is a remedy. Amid . . . read more ->

To make a cube bookshelf

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Because she asked for a bookshelf, I built one. A simple cube bookshelf was the plan. Nothing fancy. Something simple and useful. Something to fit under the window.

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To begin with, I visited the local lumber shop for 1″x12″s and 1″x2″ pine boards. Also, I picked up some screws and finishing nails. Already had wood glue, left over wood stain and finish in the garage.

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If I was a master craftsman, I would have made the shelf without screws and nails. Due to lack of equipment (like a proper workshop with a bunch of clamps, a router, and maybe a tenon jig) and time (the ever elusive weekend commodity), dado joint shelves were replaced with two-inch screws and Gorilla® Wood Glue. The only power tools used were a cordless drill/driver, a sander and a jig saw.

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After everything was glued, screwed and sanded, wood stain was selected. The Minwax can of espresso stain was half full, and was sufficient to cover the bookshelf. The stain dried quickly, but I let it dry overnight to let it set.

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Two coats of wood finish completed the project. The bookshelf was installed in our living space with a vase of roses atop it.

Request for a companion cube bookshelf arrived. More wood was purchased and cut. Request for bookshelf with a honey-colored stain finish followed. A quart of Minwax wood stain was purchased. And so on.

Best intentions

The intent was to watch the sun set and watch full, strawberry moon rise on the summer solstice.[1] But I fell asleep and awoke after 1 a.m. — cloudy, nighttime pondering of lessons in risk management.[2] A few hours later, I watch the light brighten the room[3] as I prepare for a morning walk.

NOTES:
[1] Bob Berman, “Summer Solstice Full Moon in June!,” The Old Farmer’s Almanac, accessed June 20, 2016 http://www.almanac.com/blog/astronomy/astronomy/summer-solstice-full-moon-june
[2] Gregory Orr, “Farther’s Song,” Academy of American Poets, accessed June 20, 2016 https://www.poets.org/poetsorg/poem/fathers-song.
[3] Charles Simic, “Secret History,” The Writer’s Almanac, June 19, 2016, accessed June 20, 2016 http://writersalmanac.org/episodes/20160619/.

Confessions : 12

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01. Monday: the yogurt was a wee bit past its edible state. I ate it anyway.
02. Tuesday: the milk was a starting to go sour. I drank it anyway.
03. Stomach produced loud gurgling disapproval for two days.
04. I threw out the milk and yogurt, and drank ginger tea all day.
05. Last week: wore mismatched socks all week. To the office.
06. No one noticed.
07. Or did not tell me.
08. I aced this silly test [link]. It felt good to earn the “A+” badge. But it also made me feel stupid that even took the quiz at all.
09. Most lunch breaks I walk through the city.
10. Or walk along River Walk.
11. Or walk to the lakefront.
12. Or sometimes find a coffeeshop and read ghazals.

Previous confessions: [1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6] [7] [8] [9] [10] [11]

Ever have one of those days

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Ever have one of those days (or weeks) when you know you should have spent a few dollars to fix a small problem to avoid larger difficulty? And you did not.

Okay, maybe it is more like this.

Ever have a month so crazy busy that all the small tasks that should get done are not completed? And then the phone does not recharge overnight. Which means the alarm clock app does not wake you up. You are late for work. With a smart phone is about as dumb as a rock. And panic sets in when you realize you have to drive more than 70 miles to work without a mobile device? How are you going to make it through the day? The week?

When will the blessed power cable arrive from the magical land of Amazon?

That is when you realize, you will survive. It is just like the 90s. Completely unplugged. (Just like Nirvana’s 1993 MTV Unplugged session in New York City.)

Springtime in Milwaukee

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Yes. It is snowing. In Milwaukee. On Maundy Thursday.

Milwaukee Fog, tea latte

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It is not on the menu, but if you ask a barista for a London fog tea latte, in most cases, he or she will know how to make it.

And since Milwaukee is cloaked in dense fog, I asked the barista for London fog tea latte. He looked at me twice, smiled and said, “Yeah, I can do that.”

Judging a book by its cover

coffeehousejunkie's avatarCoffeehouse Junkie

For me, every book cover I design begins with pencil sketches that eventually lead to ink drawings. Actually, I suppose it begins prior to that. The author receives a pre-publication questionnaire from me prior to the design process. The questionnaire asks the author what is his/her elevator pitch, what are the pillars of the book (i.e. what are three main concepts/ideas in the book?), and what is the book’s key audience? There are more questions that help me prepare for the design process, but reading through that document helps me form an idea of who the author is, what the book is about and how best to represent the book’s content with an attractive cover.

Then I receive the manuscript a few weeks later and begin reading the author’s work. This helps try to envision in my mind an iconic poster image. For me, a book cover is the equivalence of a film poster. At…

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Ice Circles

20160223-184201.jpgAn ice circle, or ice disc, forms in slow moving water in cold climates.

Imagine my surprise when I spotted several ice circles slowly spinning in the waters north of the art museum on an afternoon walk. Beautiful. Like gears grinding away rough edges into glistening discs in the afternoon sun. The delicate slushy, glassy sound reminds me of wind chimes. But there is no wind today. Flags like wilted flowers hang on the poles around the war memorial building. A hawk is perched on a lamp post.

The noisy hurly burly of East Town’s traffic and many construction projects is a dim echo to the mesmerizing music of ice circles.

I could sit here beside those circling ice discs the rest of the day. Or at least until the sun sets.

But only a few minutes remain of my break. And there is work to be done — projects to complete. Matters of consequence.

With hesitation, I leave the spinning ice circles to perform their tranquil charms to the neighboring ducks, gulls and the lone hawk.

Everyone is Polish on Pączki Day

So, it is Fat Tuesday.[1] Meaning it is almost Lent.[2] In Milwaukee. Meaning it is Pączki Day.[3] And the office fun committee made sure those special Polish pastries are available for staff in the lunch room.

Not from Milwaukee? Not Polish? A member of the fun committee smiled and said, “Everyone is Polish on Pączki Day.”

NOTES
[1] Fat Tuesday, also named Mardi Gras
[2] On Lent, fasting and feasting
[3] For a primer, OnMilwaukee provides a word on pączki and seven Milwaukee locations to enjoy the treat.

When you get to the top

20160128-164211.jpgSome days, I walk to Grand Avenue — or rather, The Shops of Grand Avenue — in the afternoon. It breaks up the work day. Offers exercise. Occasionally lunch. Or coffee.

My breath — a smoke signal

DSCN5088[sqr-basic-vintage-HKfilm]Yesterday’s afternoon walk was a bit chilly. Air temperature was around 10°F with wind chill of -7°F. Especially at the corner of Broadway and East Wisconsin. It was practically a wind tunnel. Crossing Water Street was not much better. But I finally made it across the bridge and to the River Walk. 

The river was not quite frozen. And for the most part, very few people are out for a wintery stroll. One woman pulled her faux fur lined hood over her head and quickly shuffled out of the Wells Fargo building to a waiting SUV. A couple guys, both dressed in thick dark coats, waited for a bus. There was a man waiting at the street corner smoking a cigarette. He wore a red flannel jacket and no gloves.

Funny how cigarette smoke is so distinct in the frigid air. The subtle distinctions between Camel Turkish Gold 100’s, Marlboro Red, Newport Menthol Blue and Chesterfield Bronze is almost as unmistakable as the scent of a fajita or a falafel. Wondered why he had no gloves.

There was a Tranströmer poem I tried to recall as I walked along the River Walk. My breath, thick clouds, attempted to signal a line of the poem. What was it about? A train? A couple in a hotel? Something about night? Or was it a horizon? The frozen river surface does not help. And forty minutes in the cold temperature sent me back to the warm harbor of the office building.

What is the best recipe for perfect hot toddy?

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So, the highways and roads were a bit slippery with tonight’s snowfall. Traffic was slow due to multiple auto accidents and road conditions.

But it is Wisconsin. And it is January. And it warmed up to 13°F — which is better than this morning at -8°F.

Glad to be off the roads. Time to warm up with a hot toddy. Awhile back I read this article from The Guardian on how to make the best hot toddy. My tonic is pretty simple: 2 ounces of boiled water, 1 ounce Knob Creek, 1 teaspoon honey, 1 teaspoon lemon juice, a pinch of nutmeg and 3 cloves.

But what if I am out of cloves?

Here is the big question for tonight, do I substitute nutmeg and cloves with a stick of cinnamon?  What is your recipe for the perfect winter night hot toddy?

Rainy river walk

20160108-133453.jpgIt is difficult to believe that it is winter in Wisconsin. The weather reports offer that snowfall is in the forecast for this weekend and sub zero temperatures. But for now, a lunch time walk along Milwaukee’s River Walk is a damp pleasure.

Serendipity, anonymity and photography

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Often, lunch time is in opportunity for a walk. It breaks the day up and offers a time to disengage from work-related tasks and refresh the mind. Walking also allows some exercise for the body. Or at least that is what I try to tell myself as I walk down Mason to Prospect in below freezing—but sunny—weather.

I brought my camera along to see if I could capture some construction site photos for an ad I am designing. Once I get to The Calling sculpture by the art museum, I start thinking about composing shots of the subject. It is a high-rise building under construction.

I remove the lens cover, select camera filters, and compose a shot; the sound of heavy machinery fill the lakefront. It is a sound of one clattering, moaning creature that rises into the sky. The sound from the building site can be heard blocks away—as far as Cathedral Square. Some days I get to the office early—before the construction site roars to life—and I hear the call of lake gulls echo off the crowded buildings of East Town.

I take a dozen shots before walking a block to get a different angle of the subject—new perspective, change of lighting, and so on. That’s when I notice her.

I had been scanning through the photos on the camera’s display screen and dodging patches of ice on the bridge walkway to the War Memorial Center before I noticed her. She stands to the south of the bridge in a space outside the War Memorial Center that overlooks Lincoln Memorial Drive.

She looks at me as she switches cameras. There is a vintage quality to the camera in her gloved hands. Looks like a Hasselblad 500C/M. The other camera looks like a Yashica-Mat. And a third camera looks more like mine—a DSRL. I slow my pace. Do I want to photograph the high-rise building from the same spot has her? Based on her gear, she knows what she is doing. I hate to disturb her shot.

But she packs her camera gear. We pass on the bridge. I take a dozen photos where she once stood. I cross the bridge, pass by the Cudahy Tower, take a few more shots on Mason Street and return to the office.

A thought follows me like a shadow. In anonymity we captured the same subject matter. On the same spot. The same day. During the same hour. We will both have a record of that moment. But we will never meet.

Top 10 blog posts of the year 2015

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For new visitors to the Coffeehouse Junkie site, here is a list of the most read blog posts of the year 2015.

10 (tie) – The purpose of thumbnail illustration  and Book cover illustration update

9 – It’s that time of year

8 – Behind the camera

7 – A moment with a stranger

6 – Say something creative

5 – Typewriter Poetry and blogging

4 – 5 reasons to support the poetry marathon

3 – Help Support the Poetry Marathon

2 (tie) – Poem: The Honey Bee  and Poem: Foggy Sunday Morning

1 – First Sunday of Advent poems

A moment with a stranger

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Sometimes you have to share a moment with a stranger.

The wind chilled my hands as I walked. Needed to stretch my legs after a long commute. I had watched the sky from the green space west of Oak Leaf Trail. Had not planned to compose a photo of the scene. Only enjoy it.

But the desire to compose a photograph won over and I moved closer to the walking bridge over Lincoln Memorial Drive. I stood for awhile watching the beauty of the morning unfold. There will never be another morning like this. Not in thousand years. Once a morning is spent, it can never be duplicated. I have read how the great masters of haiku captured moments in a few lines. Saved them for centuries. Could I do the same? With a photograph?

I do not know how long I stood there. But after I composed a few shots, I placed my camera back in my bag. I noticed an older man to the north. He stood near the walking bridge. I had seen him while walking, but did not notice him while photographing the scene.

We stood there for a moment together watching the sun rise, the clouds, the lake, the lights, the darks. Amid the roar of construction behind us and the wind, it was a quiet moment. My hands grew cold. I saw the stranger pull a mobile device from his pocket. He held it to the sky. Tried to capture the same thing I did. We tried to haiku a morning in a thousand pixels.

He still stood there when I departed and walked north on Prospect Drive.

Searching for lost confessions

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There is so much to confess. A thousand things must be confessed.

Thirteen moons since last I confessed.

What is confession? The admission of guilt? A written or oral disclosure of activity committed that requires reconciliation, restitution, and restoration?

Confessional poetry of the 1950s and 1960s (think of poets like John Berryman, Sylvia Plath, Robert Lowell) forever changed the course of American poetry. It was less of a religious expression and more of a psychological therapy for the poet(s).

When I first started posting confessions it was somewhere closer to a Japanese renga meets an American confessional poem meets to-do-list.

But those confessions, those poems, those lists, fell into my beard and the rain washed them down Jefferson Street to the Third Ward. I have tried to locate them…
in coffeeshops…
underpasses…
alleys…
and park lots…

Previous confessions: [1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6] [7] [8] [9] [10]