Showing posts from June, 2019


Image You could almost hear the band warming up from the highway near by. The random blurts of the horn, the rhythmic strobing of strings drawing it back into play, the notes sounded one at time by the piano player and a few notes of music from the singer. All sounds played out from a small town just over the Nevada border between LA and Las Vegas.  A forgotten place except for becoming a Mecca for sun seeking seniors. Just a couple of casinos, a small downtown area and lots of desert style homes. The music emulated from the one great place to eat, Vince’s. Nestled against a picturesque cliff surrounded by palm trees, it looked very bit the part of an oasis. The long-standing owner whose name graced the place spared no effort in making it a true fine dinning experience. One he ruled with standards and routines he would not bend. It attracted a loyal following among locals and the wise traveler wh

THE PROMISE OF STANDISH (a desert tale) - Original Music by Michelle Murphy

Many roads lead to the high desert of Nevada. Route 395, a favorite of mine, first cuts through the picturesque Eastern Oregon Country then into a small corner of California before releasing you to the vast vistas of Nevada. The long drive leaves you anxious for any road that looks like a short cut. Standish at the intersection of 395 and route 139 appears on the map like it might have that promise. A small road in the middle of the town turned you directly South into Nevada avoiding the junction traffic a few miles to the west. It never really saved much time, but the promise was there. I learned over time that Standish had a story, a story of a larger promise. A spec of a place now with a population of 85. In once flourished in 1897, billed as the new Utopia of the West by the Associated Colonies of New York led by Miles Standish. The town by his namesake was one of two to be built on a European model for Utopia. Where the people would leave the town each day to work c


Breaker Boxes There are never any small accidents on the circuit. It’s always show time with flashes and smoke. It's one thing to create the power, but it is the meter that makes the money and the breaker that saves the day. They stand silently doing their work, gathering the art of the street over time... David Young


Steven stopped long enough to open some cat food for Oliver. It just sat there, its head in the air.  “Your just an ordinary cat, eat the food,” Steven said with frustration. Oliver took a few bites and then poutingly moved back to his corner. Turning toward his computer and work, Steven could still see the dent on the wall where Sarah smashed the vase, remembering seeing all the pieces on the floor.  That night still haunted him. Sarah’s angry words echoed one by one. “I’m leaving you. You don’t care anymore. I’ve just been a pretty vase on the mantle to you.  Now even that’s broken. You never spend any time with me. You just work, work, work. And what for, just some stupid ambition. To have more words on your business card. You cold ass hole.” Her bags were all packed. Dragging them to the door she turned and said, “I don’t know what attracted me to you. I thought you would change. That there was some softness there. When we found Oliver and brought him home, I hoped M


I am certainly not a great painter. I do surprise myself sometimes with a decent painting or two. My immediate reaction is to go out to buy new paint and brushes. Surely, they will lead to even grander art work. The “New” does not always get you to your goals. It is often the experimentation and creativity that springs from having to use the resources around you, limited as they might be. The left overs of your trade. Jean-Francois Chaigneau’s book “In the Studio” drives this point home. He cataloged photographs of great artists like Braque, Picasso and Chagall at work in their studios. All about them, in their often primitive looking studios, were scatter well-worn brushes and tubes of old paint. The faces of the artists show the angst and passion as they created new work using old art tools. I once took classes from the artist Allen Reamer. He always began his classes having students make color charts. Ones that laboriously combined first the primary colors then rend