Remembering Varnish John

Repairing a Pot Pie Skiff

It’s an old joke, but it still gets a laugh:

“What’s the difference between a boatyard and a bar?”
“In a bar, someone might actually do some work.”

It’s true anywhere, I suppose, but it’s a fact that boatyards do shelter a certain number of reprobates: scam artists, hustlers and hard-drinking, hard-living sorts who aren’t necessarily subscribers to the Protestant work ethic. Skilled but not always schooled, they drift through coastal towns like so much social flotsam and jetsam, rarely noticed or remarked by those who comb along life’s beaches.

On the waterfront, where skilled craftspeople and under-employed shrimpers, undocumented workers, refugees from corporate boardrooms and just plain boat junkies ebb and flow with the tides, there’s room for the hard-living and hard-drinking in the easy-going camaraderie that develops. When the idiosyncratic and quirky, the lazy, the obsessive, and the mysterious get thrown into the mix, the fun only increases. (more…)

Theo Jansen: Walking on the Mild Side

Theo Janssen, walking his rhinoceros

Perhaps walk isn’t quite the right word. March, perhaps. Or trek. Perhaps even creep would do, despite the word’s slightly passive connotation.

Whichever word you choose, watching Dutch artist Theo Jansen’s kinetic sculptures trundle across a beach is akin to witnessing some strange, primordial creature emerge from the mire and muck of a forgotten world and make tracks for higher ground.

His creations, called Strandbeests, or beach animals, are constructed from PVC pipe. Through a progression of refinements, including the addition of lemonade bottles, he’s helped them evolve into mobile, wind-powered creatures that seem filled with life. When first encountered, they astonish, compel, and amuse: scuttling over the landscape like giant, improbable crabs.

Knowledge and Love

The Big Green Guy ~ Photograph by Steve Schwartzman
(Click image for greater size and clarity)

This two-inch marvel, munching away on a guara leaf and clearly unwilling to interrupt his meal in order to tidy up for the camera, has been tentatively identified as the larva of a white-lined sphinx moth: Hyles lineata. Scientific classification aside, he’ll forever be known to me as The Big Green Guy, a pet name I gave to him when we were introduced.

The first time I saw the creature, I dissolved into giggles. His vulnerable chubbiness, his tiny, multi-purpose feet, his air of concentration, his apparent lack of embarassment at being revealed as a messy eater: all evoked a response of absurd protectiveness.

Unable to help myself, I emailed his image to friends. Without exception, they reached the same conclusion: “It’s a caterpillar.” “Yes,” I said. “It is a caterpillar. But it’s not just any caterpillar. It’s an Alice-in-Wonderland, let-me-look-you-in-the-eye-and-ask-you-some-questions caterpillar.”

As For the Front of the Fridge…

The Poem on the Fridge
Paul Hostovsky

The refrigerator is the highest honor
a poem can aspire to. The ultimate
publication. As close to food as words
can come. And this refrigerator poem
is honored to be here beneath its own
refrigerator magnet, which feels like a medal
pinned to its lapel. Stop here a moment
and listen to the poem humming to itself,
like a refrigerator itself, the song in its head
full of crisp, perishable notes that wither in air,
the words to the song lined up here like
a dispensary full of indispensable details:
a jar of corrugated green pickles, an array
of headless shrimp, fiery maraschino cherries,
a fruit salad, veggie platter, assortments of
cheeses and chilled French wines, a pink
bottle of amoxicillin: the poem is infectious.
It’s having a party. The music, the revelry,
is seeping through this white door.

Comments always are welcome.
For more information on poet Paul Hostovsky, please click HERE. 
For Allan Burns’s “Refrigerator Haiku,”  more illustrations by his wife Theresa, whose cover art is shown above, and information about the Haiku Foundation,  please click HERE.

Old Fridge, New Life


  in time; crisp
 folded fabric;
 jarred buttons and thread
in meticulous rows.
Patterns tied up with firm bows
of intention replace the sweet
mango, the orange juice, the cheese ~no more
butter or eggs, but the choices still please.

Comments are welcome. To leave a comment, please click below.
For more information on the Etheree, a syllabic poem that, in its basic form, contains ten lines and a total of fifty-five syllables, please click HERE.

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