The month of purple flowers dawns
On the Alta Mira Calendar, on the morning of Feb. 1, the sun rises out of the top of the head of the Bust of George Washington. Below you see our old friend, the Mummy of King Tut, at the right side of the photo: his head, then his folded arms, then his feet poking up. His feet are pointing at the Bust of George Washington, whose head is at the left edge of the photo, and then his torso.
On Dec. 21, the morning of the Winter Solstice, the sun rose out of Tut's eye, below, and then began its long trek northward across the planet's face and, as we see it from the porch, across the features of the Alta Mira Calendar.
This morning, we reached Feb. 1 on that trek, and the sun rose out of the head of the Bust of George Washington. I can hear you thinking, why do I give a rat's patoot where the sun comes up from the porch of a doofus living in California? Well, I too wish the Alta Mira Calendar had some sort of Stonehengian oompf, that the sunrise on Feb. 1 lined up with something eerie or important. But it doesn't. At least as far as I know. I do think it is cool that the Alta Mira Calendar has been accurate for millions of years, patiently waiting for a doofus with a camera to come along and prove it to a waiting world. Something else I think is cool. When the sun first peeks over the ridge, for a long instant or two, you can look straight at it and note its brilliance. It looks exactly like a blazing, bazillion-carat diamond. I see it as a diamond on the rim of the world, connoting the marriage of the sun and the earth, together about to create another day and all the life that goes with it on this tiny dot in the universe.
Among those creations, around here anyway, are streams of purple flowers, a variety of iceplant or succulent that goes nuts in February, cascading like bridal trains across our hillsides and highways. It is the Southern California version of the Texas bluebonnets, which will be hiding from the icy northern winds for another six weeks or so. These are outside our front door. I wanted to get Gulliver in the shot, but you know about dogs and holding still.
On Dec. 21, the morning of the Winter Solstice, the sun rose out of Tut's eye, below, and then began its long trek northward across the planet's face and, as we see it from the porch, across the features of the Alta Mira Calendar.
This morning, we reached Feb. 1 on that trek, and the sun rose out of the head of the Bust of George Washington. I can hear you thinking, why do I give a rat's patoot where the sun comes up from the porch of a doofus living in California? Well, I too wish the Alta Mira Calendar had some sort of Stonehengian oompf, that the sunrise on Feb. 1 lined up with something eerie or important. But it doesn't. At least as far as I know. I do think it is cool that the Alta Mira Calendar has been accurate for millions of years, patiently waiting for a doofus with a camera to come along and prove it to a waiting world. Something else I think is cool. When the sun first peeks over the ridge, for a long instant or two, you can look straight at it and note its brilliance. It looks exactly like a blazing, bazillion-carat diamond. I see it as a diamond on the rim of the world, connoting the marriage of the sun and the earth, together about to create another day and all the life that goes with it on this tiny dot in the universe.
Among those creations, around here anyway, are streams of purple flowers, a variety of iceplant or succulent that goes nuts in February, cascading like bridal trains across our hillsides and highways. It is the Southern California version of the Texas bluebonnets, which will be hiding from the icy northern winds for another six weeks or so. These are outside our front door. I wanted to get Gulliver in the shot, but you know about dogs and holding still.
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