Someone sent me a private comment how my husband and i were a ‘#hermit couple’ and this is one huge reason our nineteen-years of bliss were inspiring. Maybe. I mean i am a jungle hermit, but he was not. The man could not find enough in the day to make a difference for a better world by being in it up to his brainy witty perspectives and do-gooder acts – in total anonymity, or as country lawyer in #TheHamptons (so he could fish for #StripedBass). Yes, i was more (larger in heart) with him. Independent yet inter-dependent is a toughie to describe. It is rare in our species like a focus striving for purity.
Attributes of our intense intent coupling included (while awake) a plethora of discourse – talk it through – plus we left crappy attitudes at the front door (although the hut has no front door), and lived with courage of adventurous hearts against all odds including scary oceanic falling seas and American politics. We were at times oil and water mixed into a powerful potion. He was a lifelong GOP. I was a lifelong Dim. One non-negotiable common ground – we never discussed the #Vietnam War. He was a tweener never subjected to war as young men were – for this i am grateful. Hubbie two was too young for #Korea and too old for #Nam and every subsequent conflict of greed.
We were wordsmiths. He was succinct in writing and way too windy in tale telling and funny, always smiling and charming with one-liners people use to write down so they did not forget. I am windy in writing and barely articulate in person at this late stage of living as the widow on the hill.
Life serves up lessons by the plateful and at times the meal stuffs one to near barfing capacity. But, since I have an avid birder’s faith in a higher power, even epic drama eventually washes away or flies into the moonbeams. I am not into drama except in movie and novel scripts. Although, I seem to brush up against folks on the edges who prefer heated nutso scenes to serenity and stability (my survival preference).
The cosmos are damn wowie zowie but because of our tempered 60 beats per minute metabolism we require mega optics to catch a glimpse. Even when red giant Betelgeuse blows up it will not injure the precious blue marble. The living creatures of Earth will see its super nova self explode as it becomes the brightest light, after the moon, in our night sky. When will this cosmic event take place? Betelgeuse could go insanely wild tonight or maybe not until our species is long gone.
What a wondrous mysterious universe we inhabit as single acts, hermit couples, or in solidarity against the empire. Thank our lucky stars. Love does make the path smoother, if true to thine own self blessed with destined compassion.
Pensiveness is not morose, it is honor for what was, what is, and shiny stars a-coming.
The Bohemian Birder, is book one of a trilogy. The trilogy defines the depth of passions aligned with human love, creativity, home places, resonating wild creatures and wild habitats, and consciousness expansion. The innovative series crisscrosses eco-philosophy, contemporary culture, and love. Soul searching, crappy politics, justice seekers, along with extreme birding, fishing, and boating adventures define a really weird swirl throughout the enchanting series of one woman telling it exactly how it was and is. The consistent message of oneness as the basis to steward Earth and build community attempts to be strangely stylish for the forsaken and maybe the saved. The odd ending to the The Bohemian Birder as ethereal cereal challenges the reader to believe in the boundlessness of life. The finale in the series is up for discussion.
The 77,049-word count for the first book, The Bohemian Birder, wholly complete, includes footnote links to websites, YouTube, and supporting commentaries. The other two books are underdevelopment, in more ways than one, yet continue the author’s pattern of employing documentation as revealing sidebars.
Awesome Pt. Reyes, the glorious wilds of Old California (Thousand Palms Oasis, The Salton Sea, Humboldt Bay, etc.), the late 60s San Francisco Bay Area Love Generation happenings and horrors, a youth-bent psychedelic romance, and the birth of on-the-road rare birding are significant others to each other in the first tale. The storyline’s mega birder/shaman/naturalist Rich Stallcup, Dr. David DeSante, plus Bonnie, a mutant Tabby cat, a funky Buick, and the titans of birders are human harness in The Bohemian Birder.
Witty, super articulate super loved Capt. Arthur DiPietro, Esq. and his 41-year long career as country lawyer and communitarian in the Hamptons, NY, is the crux of the second book, The Hamptons Fisherman. A verbose second marriage while catching and fishing The East End of Long Island performing the sacred hunt for Striped Bass and community while hooked to a faithful sobriety makes up the new ruralism landscape. All are interlinked floating bubbles inside the The Hamptons Fisherman. Significant others not to be assigned lesser roles are hazy to noisy locals, dirty back porch provincial politics, the summer colony of the rich and the rude, the phenomenology of architectural graveyards, Cafe HeBird SheBird, Sophia the Italian Spinone, and Awful Arthur’s Bait & Tackle. Nearly nineteen years of togetherness concludes with the wonders and blunders of Costa Rica and a visitation by a Harpy Eagle.
Hesham Yeyha Attallah, creative genius sloshing around in the dreamy mud of The Nile, is the third molecular focus in The Outdated Egyptian. The tale covers the before and aftermath of the flailing Arab Spring with cultural inter-connections coming way out of left field. The mixer in this ancient Egypt redux of stony desert scenes, burning down businesses and poetry is cyber sensuality. At the entrance to the mystic cavern is a western/oriental simmering pot no one suspects – the limiting contrivance of social media. Yet, maybe this is how we devolve to a species of dimensional senses instead of mind gamesters hell-bent on wiping ourselves and other living beings off the planet pouring on more and more avariceness and fear mongering. At the threshold of The Outdated Egyptian is techno-tooled awareness in a subjective finding of how powerful love is, or is not, and if Nilo Dreams® is for real, or a sweet lover/ancient man’s indulgence.
Bonnie Davis DiPietro, writing as B. E. Macomber, is a former award-winning creative director in San Francisco and NYC. Bloodied by the stained-glass ceiling in the 80s she morphed into an international illustrator of stamps for banana republics and unsuccessful English mysteries. Her 70s baptism in AP/UPI journalism left a tangy bitterness so Bonnie did not return to unfeigned writing until 2007. Today living as an ex-pat in Costa Rica while operating Alfombra Bird Observatory is her perfected setting. She holds a decaying pile of professional accolades. Her daily joy is her last love and the wonder of exotic birding and inter-species communication. She is an ex-politician/politico but active eco-warrior who never gave in and never gave up.
This is her début as an author in the narrative non-fiction genre. She has published her eco-rants on and off the Internet for too long and in spite of herself. Her stories are informative, daintily droll, and some bravehearts dare to report sadly enlightening.