For Your Edification or as Fodder for the Banshee Gristmill

I highly suggest you watch, listen, and read (see link below). I realize for some of you it is easier to perceive I am standing on a sinking palm-less island of my own making belting out ego tunes and/or delusions. I am not. I gratefully move in circles with others who objectively as possible witness and report. We maybe old Macomber silver in the antique box but we polish up as sparkling as a summer’s starry night in Alfombra, Costa Rica.Image 

Those who prefer posting memes (mostly not even your own) and other kiddy pool stuff than understand the dire straights are species has gotten itself into I have no more time banging the drum in front of your blurry eyeballs. Otherwise, remember this one simplistic statement from me, a sober woman who has no reason to lie or trick you – I am not shaming you or blaming you. Such immaturity was never in my m.o. but be aware, i also am not going to roll over and sit in a delicious ginger and heliconia bed while Earth and life is murdered. 

I have never been a Chicken Little the sky is falling blabbermouth. I witnessed enough of these faked rants bleated out by the guilty trust baby children of the environmental movement, for decades. But, we are here and now way beyond Chicken Little the sky is falling. It happened in a wink of a Blue Whale’s eye. It is beyond complicated and comprehensive in its planetary impact. 

Every single active field biologist and ornithologist I know is shocked by current failing numbers in kind and count of species. We are not talking about a small percentage of mass deaths anymore as these former stats are no longer relevant as benchmarks. Species are migrating not for regular seasonal weather conditions and breeding opportunities. We believe they are on the move for species survival. I am not a prep’er, doomsayer, or conspiratorial nonsense bull corn artist. Everyday for 32 years I collected data and recorded same about birds on my patch. I am well aware of long term changes within a habitat and species alternations in relation to same. Facts do not lie.

I resided in The Hamptons, NY, power enclave for 16 years as an active politico and communitarian running my local design firm, being an elected committeewoman in the Democratic Party, a campaign manager and candidate, an activist for Main Street business and the local marine environment, a birder, surf and boat angler for Striped Bass, a communications marketer for a Maritime Museum, and eventually operated our third place, a beautiful and organic espresso house I built, designed, and operated alongside my husband’s four decades as a local private attorney and politico and my design concern. 

Before this stint i had a career as an international illustrator out of Manhattan, and before this luck of the draw I was a VP/creative director for HBO and JWT. Yet, i started as an activist/journalist and here i am once again.

You can throw whatever crap you want at me because believe me it is nothing compared to sitting in the back seat while your driver and translator get their heads shot off and one is spattered with gray matter and pings of flesh. I left field correspondence work because i could not stop gagging every time I heard a bullet fired.

You wanted my pedigree, here it is. Oh, and for the record I grew up in beautiful Napa Valley with an organic garden, a fantastic mother (who worked her whole life), a genius for a brother, and while I was stuck in a gifted program from the fourth grade until college my childhood was exceptional.

I graduated magna cum laude from University of California at Berkeley. My first paying writing gig was for the Daily Californian. I wrote a regular column called, Ain’t This Some Sh*t, about what was going on in the back rooms of the peace movement. I also hold a graduate degree from Humboldt State when it was still cork boots and Scottish games. I thought i was going to be an art therapist but a summer at the Hoopa Indian reservation as a crisis intervention worker reordered this optimism.

I left to plug around and bird in Mexico and ended up working for Associated Press, on assignment. When i returned to sanity I worked as a public information specialist for Sonoma County govt. and this led me to working at the Press Democrat Newspaper, the largest daily in Northern California. During these stoney times was a duty call working at Rolling Stone Magazine when it was still published on newsprint. 

Got it? My homes were shabby elegant if not poor little creative girl chic as is my cabina here at Finca Vigia. I impaled myself into the stained glass ceiling and slivers of the cathedral of ego and greed cut my wings. I made more money, if this is any measure, during the 30th year of my like than most people make in a lifetime. Today, me and Pete Coyote share the same monetary status quo, as in barely solvent although I own everything free and clear with only one debt to dear published author Aunt Jane of $10K. I was considered a girl wunderkind in image advertising and docu-news producing. What I reaped from these career choices was how to slug down Pink Cadillacs faster and faster and who to call to send a car above 110th Street for a pickup of snow.

If I was to get involved in politics again it would be for my own candidacy because quite frankly I do not trust most who select politics as a path toward doing the work for the greater good. Of the substantial number of politicians I have worked with (envelope stuffer, appointee, writer of environmental white papers, campaign advisor and manager, and speech writer) only three humans stand out as worth the effort, and one of them was my brilliant witty husband Arthur. 

Anyone of you who wants to spar another round with me, I offer this Arthurism, one more friggin’ time, “Never do battle with an unarmed man.” And sweet chops, I am not talking about me.

This whammy announcement was probably a waste of keyboarding yet as it concludes my heart is no longer heaving so it served its purpose.

Power to the People. Freedom, justice and bread. Earth legal rights. 

The Tri-Love Logs or Cogs?

60s poster

60s poster

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.