Earthtribe-Gather: Images of Tibet    
 Images of Tibet5 comments
picture26 Jul 2005 @ 05:10, by John Ashbaugh

For those who like Tibetan imagery,
Four pictures from
the eye and hand of one Liu Wei.
Composed from travel photos and digital tools.
Other innovative photo-digitalists are also at this site.

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7 Aug 2005 @ 12:43 by swan : Thanks John,
the works are beautiful.  

9 Aug 2005 @ 07:20 by koravya : Gila Tour
Second night out on the Gila tour. This is Cottonwood. Last night was Grapevine. This morning was the Gila cliff dwellings, and this afternoon included rainfall through the forest between Silver City and the Hwy 35 junction on Hwy15, with a ridge overlooking not one but two grand vistas of receding hill crests and mountain crests through mist under the cloudy sky. Then there is the old mining town Pinos Altos with quite a few of the original buildings from the 1860s, including the Buckhorn saloon, and the Opera House next door, still having performances. The old log cabin museum and trading post has rocks and jewelry and rugs and dream catchers and stuff in a setting as old inside as the building is outside. There’s a bearded fellow behind a counter talking to some woman about some jewelry. One middle-aged lady on the floor says hi, and I ask her if this is her store, and she directs me to the great grandmother sitting, clearly handicapped in her ability to walk; I compliment her on her store and she tells me the story of how her husband’s grandfather came over here from Germany in the 1860s, for there was a gold rush down here long about then, and built that log cabin that this museum is addended to.
Here she is reaching back through her memory to people whom she knew from 145 years ago. And for the minute and a half that it takes to tell this brief story, this is where we are, Pinos Altos in the time when it was beginning.
Grapevine was very nice after the long, and in its later reaches, very twisting road getting there. Driving down the rutted dirt road past one occupied campsite after another, arrive at the very end, the very last one, before the road runs into and becomes a rocky creek gully. This is mine and it is a gem. The gurgling river is right next to here in this cliff encircled canyon, and the nearest other campers are around a bend out of sight, and thankfully quiet, and the occasional passer-by is friendly, and six red-topped ducks find leisure amongst the rocks at mid-stream, and are not particularly bothered by my streambank visit. Clouds cross the sky in waves of covering, and the long arc of an edge between cloud and clarity opens the starry night with a rising curtain. The night in the forest is impenetrable darkness, and a few sticks of wood burn brightly and down into a cavern of embers. Here at the cottonwood tonight, old Tom down in number one directs me to a couple of logs when he sees me looking for wood. There are only four sites in this cozy nook that could reasonably pass for campsites, and up the mountain trail just a little beyond are four bicyclist campers. Here is a point in time, evening daylight in the campground. Cloudy sky, intermittent and persistent. The smell of possible rain filters through pine needles.
Sunday morning at the cottonwood, having made a little morning fire, just warm enough to warm a blue enamel mugfull of fresh ground coffee, and the sun is out and the sky is blue and the clouds are partially. Neighbors down the way, man, wife, and grown daughter, keep a conversational fire deep into the darkness, and I light my own when the darkness is full. Big solid chunks disintegrate into embers and fragments of embers and fragments of fragments of embers. As I was pulling into the campsite yesterday evening, there is a car with Missouri plates parked at the last site at the end of the trail, so I pulled in next to last, and start a little walk up the continuing trail, and don’t get but seventy yards or so and here comes a trim, tall, middle-aged academic and fit woman on her return from up the trail with a couple of little yellow flowers and a pair of fist sized rocks, one with little flecks of onyx scattered throughout, so she knows her rocks, and I ask her if that’s her car with the Missouri plates and find she’s coming from Kansas City but grew up in St. Louis, north county in fact, and we start naming streets and we know the names of all of ‘em in that sector of north city near north county, in fact some relative of hers is now living in Spanish Lake which is where my sister lives. Now she’s waiting for her boyfriend to come on down from up the trail. So the old neighborhood has come paid me a little visit on my campsite trekabout through the mountains and forests and wide empty spaces of Southwest New Mexico.
That was a six-hundred-eighteen mile circle tour, south from Albuquerque to Hillsboro, then along the winding, twisting, serpentine road to Kingston in the Mimbres mountains, down to San Lorenzo and up the Mimbres river valley to the Hwy 15 turnoff to the Gila Cliff dwellings. Then all the way south on 15 across the crest of the Pinos Altos range, stopping over at the village of Pinos Altos, on the way to Silver City. Then north along Hwy 180, through Cliff and Glenwood to the campground at the foot of the Brushy mountains. Then on through Reserve, and Apache Creek, to the Datil crossroads.
Stop off briefly at Magdelena before the final jaunt back through Socorro to the cabin in the Albuquerque wilderness.
Monday, August 8, 2005

12 Aug 2005 @ 04:52 by koravya : Teetering
Thursday evening after an afternoon at school going over resumes for the portfolio class, and planning a lesson for tomorrow’s Econ class, and writing two letters of Rec, and attending a faculty meeting where I almost destroy the CAD design and modeling project, which, it doesn’t get destroyed, so we can all laugh about it, but during those two seconds when I was leaning on something I shouldn’t have been leaning on, and it and I began following the laws of gravity, as I was twisting in whatever which way to regain my balance, while saving the teetering model, Wayne and Rick, right there with me as this was going on, they the two instructors in the school who have the most invested in this project, I’m sure for those two seconds, everybody was on autopilot making whatever moves deemed necessary to keep that model from hitting the floor. And we did. So there was a close one gone ok. Meanwhile, Kelly’s got h is game design project going through its final stages, bout ready to let some gamers have at it and five it a try and evaluate it, Joe and Matt are getting into the final stages of their Portfolio projects, and the atmosphere is hot outside. The word for the day is priorities, and keeping them in order, and attending to them accordingly. Another word for the day is adapt.

13 Aug 2005 @ 18:52 by koravya : Window
Saturday. Just to note a fragment of a dream, at the end, the final sets of thoughts, the conclusion, the completely empty room, somewhere between my childhood bedroom and the room from the white wooden house in Champaign, back there when I was twenty-seven, fresh back from India and my southeast Asia tour, in my first year of graduate school Anthropology; no, that house was during my second year when I was twenty-eight. That first year was in that third floor loft in Urbana. Anyway, I’m in this empty room this morning, and the large old fashioned double-decker window brings sunlight onto the wooden floor, and there is a king-sized mattress on the floor up against the center of one wall with a quiet yellow textured cotton blanket. All of this emptiness, light and quiet, following a whole series of goings-on with quite a few individuals, some sexual interactions and some intellectually involved, all leading up to this penultimate scene, in which these various individuals are getting into a couple of old thirties and forties style cars, as if leaving a beach after a picnic, and I am saying goodbye to them, like waving goodbye as they drive away, and I walk to my cottage by the sea, where is this room with the mattress with the soft-hued yellow blanket. And now in the corner of this room is a little pile of rumpled clothes, and I walk over and pick through them a bit looking for the shirt that suits my frame of mind.

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