[this appears to be a book list of all the books I had on the shelf up there, including stuff I'd read before and brought up to think with. I can definitely pick out a large section of the list as being books I read for the first time up in the tower]
Psychology/Cognitive Science, etc:
Bly, Robert; Iron John
A Little Book on the Human Shadow
Pearson, Carol; The Hero Within: Six Archetypes We Live By
Maslow, Abraham; Religions, Values & Peak Experiences
Toward a Psychology of Being
Jung, Carl G.; Memories, Dreams, Reflections
Septem Sermones Ad Mortuos
Sinetar, Marsha; Ordinary People as Monks & Mystics
Fritz, Robert; The Path of Least Resistance
Dennet, Daniel C.; The Mind's I: Reflections and Fantasies on Self and Soul
Buscalia, Leo; Personhood
Mindell, Arnold; Riding the Horse Backwards, working with the dreaming body
Working on Yourself Alone
Harner, Michael; The Way of the Shaman
Highwater, Jamake; Primal Mind
Physics:
Zukaf, Gary; The Dancing Wu Li Masters
Capra, Fritjof; The Tao of Physics
Poetry:
Erdrich, Louise; Jacklight
Cummings, E.E.; 96 Poems
Budkowski, Charles; The Last of the Great Earth Poems
Barnard, Mary (trans.); Sappho
Mitchell, Stephen (trans.); The Selected Poetry of Ranier Maria Rilke
Bly, Robert (trans. editor); The Kabir Book
News of the Universe: Poems of Twofold Consciousness
Leaping Poetry
Rexroth, Kenneth (trans.); One Hundred Poems from the Chinese
Love and the Turning Year; One Hundred More Poems from the Chinese
Snyder, Gary; The Backcountry
Riprap and Cold Mountain Poems
Turtle Mountain
Myths & Texts
Rothemberg, Jerome (editor); Technicians of the Sacred -- Shaking the Pumpkin
Jeffers, Robinson; Selected Poems
Lorca, Federico Garcia; Selected Poems of Federico Garcia Lorca
Elliot, T.S.; The Wasteland and Other Poems
Ginsberg, Allen; Howl
Cardenal, Ernesto; Homage to the American Indian
Rich, Adrienne; Dream of a Common Language
Gibran, Kahil; The Prophet
The Forerunner
Literature, prose & essays:
McCarthy, Cormac; Suttree
Blood Meridian
The Orchard Keeper
Kingston, Maxine Hong; Woman Warrior; Memoirs of a Childhood Among Ghosts
Hemingway, Ernest; In Our Time
Eisley, Loren; The Immense Journey
Abbey, Edward; Desert Solitaire
Lopez, Barry Houston; Desert Notes
River Notes
Winter Count
Crossing Open Ground
Stafford, Kim; Having Everything Right
Hammill, Sam; A Poet's Work
Bowles, Paul; A Distant Episode
Calvino, Italo; Under a Jaguar Sun
Cosmicomix
Leopold, Aldo; A Sand County Almanac
Dillard, Annie; Pilgrim at Tinker Creek
Holy the Firm
Pound, Ezra; The ABC of Reading
Silko, Leslie Marmon; Ceremony
Hill, Ruth Bebe; Hanta Yo
Welch, James; Fool's Crow
Mombaday, N. Scott; House Made of Dawn
Erdrich, Loyise; Tracks
Schneebaum, Tobias; Keep the River on your Right
Barry, Wendell; What are People For?
Paz, Octavio; On Poets and Others
Goldberg, Natalie; Writing Down the Bones
Wild Mind, Living the Writer's Life
Hesse, Herman; Siddhartha
Narziss & Goldmund
Potok, Chaim; My Name is Asher Lev
Chatwin, Bruce; The Songlines
Cocteau, Jean; Les Infants Terrible
Burroughs, William S.; Nova Express
Interzone
Miller, Harry; Sexus
Borges, Jose Louise; Labyrinthes
Mythology/Comparative Religion:
Radin, Paul; The Trickster
Han, Thict Nat; Being Peace
Campbell, Joseph; The Hero with a Thousand Faces
Myths to Live By
Tedlock, Dennis (trans.); The Popul Vuh
Arguelles, Jose; The Mayan Factor
Earth Ascending; and illustrated treatise on the governing of whole systems
Native American Interest (what wasn't scattered in other categories):
Neihart; Black Elk Speaks
Erdoes, Richard; Lame Deer; Seeker of Visions
Castaneda, Carlos; The Teachings of Don Juan; A Yaqui Way of Knowledge
Journey to Ixtlan
Storm, Hyemeyohsts; Seven Arrows
Way of the Heyokah
Mails, Thomas; Fool's Crow; Wisdom & Power
Foster, Steven &
Little, Meredith; The Book of the Vision Quest
The Roaring of the Sacred River
Sun Bear; The Path of Power
Earth Astrology
Boyd, Doug; Rolling Thunder
Metaphysics:
Twitchell, Paul; Tiger's Fang
Bailey, Alice H.; Initiations, Human & Solar
Consciousness of the Atom
Ponder on This
Two Disciples; The Rainbow Bridge II, link with the soul
Keyes, Ken; Starseed; The third Millineum
Return of the Bird Tribes
Alli, Antero; Angel Tech: A Modern Shaman's guide to Reality Selection
Hyatt, Christopher; A Modern Shaman's Guide to a pregnant universe
Millman, Dan; Way of the Peaceful Warrior
The Sacred Path of the Peaceful Warrior
Purse, Jill; The Mystic Spiral
Monday, May 10, 2010
Monday, May 3, 2010
July 25, Dream -- Bear fat
Something about sitting around with a couple of men in a big room with a bunch of young kids, having ordered pizza.
We were sitting around talking about "what did you do with your bear fat?" "I froze it. " "Might as well eat vasoline."
We were sitting around talking about "what did you do with your bear fat?" "I froze it. " "Might as well eat vasoline."
Friday, April 30, 2010
Nadir
1:34, Had Nadir experience -- or inverted plateau.
You.
Dark, Low, Wide, receptive.
Dark cave poolswim.
Cold mud boot walking.
Wet rain walk.
Drink mist shadow night.
Wonderful.
You.
Dark, Low, Wide, receptive.
Dark cave poolswim.
Cold mud boot walking.
Wet rain walk.
Drink mist shadow night.
Wonderful.
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
Saturday, April 17, 2010
After a bit of sickness
[This post happens after a whole lot of writing exercises, and some mention of not being able to keep food down. Also, mention of nearly zero visibility in the tower -- basically completely fogged in with clouds.]
I feel better, and still haven't eaten or drank. I took a fucking *walk*, that's all.
This whole month, inside the mind (tower) not having anything to see, no visibility (only because I was "above it all") is too easy an analogy. Like when K. [an older poet friend from the bay area, somewhat of a mentor] called out, derringer in hand, "give me a sign, that's all i ask, a sign to know you exist." God sends? A man, out of nowhere, carrying a sign, "Jesus loves you." The sufi's say" It's closer than your Jugular." And I believe them.
(I must find this woman Cynthia, the one whose eyes are blue, jaw square, and has lived the life of the mendicant)
I'm going to write a letter to my sister. Bye for now. Much love.
I feel better, and still haven't eaten or drank. I took a fucking *walk*, that's all.
This whole month, inside the mind (tower) not having anything to see, no visibility (only because I was "above it all") is too easy an analogy. Like when K. [an older poet friend from the bay area, somewhat of a mentor] called out, derringer in hand, "give me a sign, that's all i ask, a sign to know you exist." God sends? A man, out of nowhere, carrying a sign, "Jesus loves you." The sufi's say" It's closer than your Jugular." And I believe them.
(I must find this woman Cynthia, the one whose eyes are blue, jaw square, and has lived the life of the mendicant)
I'm going to write a letter to my sister. Bye for now. Much love.
Reminder to self -- between July 23rd and July 25th
Write on the snake in the pit full of rusted cans sometime.
Monday, May 5, 2008
Surprise find on a hike, continued
Later, on another walk, I smiled and picked up the egg again. I began to polish it carefully on the skin of my palm, and it shone blue and porcelain-y.
Then it broke. Stunned, I looked into my palm to see the sunflower-orange yolk speckled with bits of white & blue shell, like broken China. A brief volley of relief to see no defenseless blue-eyed fetal embryo -- not even a red dot of intention on the yolk. I let the clear and yellow egg drip off my onto the ground. I wrung my fingers like a baker with her hands covered in dough. Using the dewdrops off a fern bough, I washed the last sticky remnants off my hands & let the water drip, again, onto the same spot of ground.
I walked down the road, the smell of raw egg strong in my mind, and on my hands. I crouched at a red-silt pothole in the road, I scrubbed my hands with wet gravel & mud, then rinsed them. Almost afraid, I smelled them. Cold, muddy earth -- clean. I trust them back into the pockets of my thick green wool trousers and walked down the road. Seasons change, cycles turn, life ensues.
Then it broke. Stunned, I looked into my palm to see the sunflower-orange yolk speckled with bits of white & blue shell, like broken China. A brief volley of relief to see no defenseless blue-eyed fetal embryo -- not even a red dot of intention on the yolk. I let the clear and yellow egg drip off my onto the ground. I wrung my fingers like a baker with her hands covered in dough. Using the dewdrops off a fern bough, I washed the last sticky remnants off my hands & let the water drip, again, onto the same spot of ground.
I walked down the road, the smell of raw egg strong in my mind, and on my hands. I crouched at a red-silt pothole in the road, I scrubbed my hands with wet gravel & mud, then rinsed them. Almost afraid, I smelled them. Cold, muddy earth -- clean. I trust them back into the pockets of my thick green wool trousers and walked down the road. Seasons change, cycles turn, life ensues.
Monday, March 31, 2008
Surprise find on a hike
[This entry appears to have been worked a bit before it hit the journal. By the language (suddenly florid, then normal -- jerky) I think I may have been trying to bring it up to a "real" writing piece but hadn't finished]
July 23:
Walking down a rocky forest service road, mostly stream, anomaly caught the side of my eye. Down in the red cushion of fir needles and small ferns. Not believing the image, I walked back to the spot and confirmed -- a perfect sky-blue egg; fallen from some wind-thrashed limb above. It sat, cold, amongst the flat ground you find under conifers.
We stood around it, like the crowd at the manger, full of awe and indecision. We cruched, hugging our knees.
Too perfect this thing. A beautiful, unreal blue -- a little elliptical globe sitting like a king in the leaves, or a planet.
Not believing what I did, I watched as my hand reached across my gaze and picked it up -- as though it were made of blown gauze, and my pulse would be strong enough to crush it.
Heavy, like a stone. And so blue. A white & green smear of birdshit confirmed its terrestrial origin, relieving both of us, I'm sure. Like turquoise, it sat in my crisscrossed palm. It picked up my heat, cooling the center of my hand.
Its appearance had thrown us into Dream. It was too powerful -- our brains couldn't avoid mythology and hologram. We stood, transparent as thought, held by its powerful gravity.
Briefly, I thought I should take it back with me, pierce it -- blow it out & send it off to my grandfather, who has a penchant for these things. He would look it over carefully, through glasses & over pipestem -- wander to a shelf, pulling carefully a book. After he identified the species, making sure in his head it was correct for my bioregion & elevation and season, he would place it on a shelf, above his stereo, next to the tintypes of my great grandmothers, and and old-yellowed lamp globe. It would sit, dusty & pristine, amongst fossils and rocks, in my grandfather's house.
The weight in my hand, the smell of the trees, and the density of the wet earth under my bootsoles returned; and I decided to put it down.
My companion and I continued our cold, grey walk -- returing to find it, solid, on top of the gravel pile where I had hoped it would be easy to spot.
We returned it to its cold nest of wet needles, with a roof of fern boughs.
Later on, we returned and took pictures of it where it lay, and in each other's hand -- even that felt tenuously incorrect.
We laid it carefully back, wishing it to a roving skunk's teeth, or bobcat.
----- [to be continuted]
July 23:
Walking down a rocky forest service road, mostly stream, anomaly caught the side of my eye. Down in the red cushion of fir needles and small ferns. Not believing the image, I walked back to the spot and confirmed -- a perfect sky-blue egg; fallen from some wind-thrashed limb above. It sat, cold, amongst the flat ground you find under conifers.
We stood around it, like the crowd at the manger, full of awe and indecision. We cruched, hugging our knees.
Too perfect this thing. A beautiful, unreal blue -- a little elliptical globe sitting like a king in the leaves, or a planet.
Not believing what I did, I watched as my hand reached across my gaze and picked it up -- as though it were made of blown gauze, and my pulse would be strong enough to crush it.
Heavy, like a stone. And so blue. A white & green smear of birdshit confirmed its terrestrial origin, relieving both of us, I'm sure. Like turquoise, it sat in my crisscrossed palm. It picked up my heat, cooling the center of my hand.
Its appearance had thrown us into Dream. It was too powerful -- our brains couldn't avoid mythology and hologram. We stood, transparent as thought, held by its powerful gravity.
Briefly, I thought I should take it back with me, pierce it -- blow it out & send it off to my grandfather, who has a penchant for these things. He would look it over carefully, through glasses & over pipestem -- wander to a shelf, pulling carefully a book. After he identified the species, making sure in his head it was correct for my bioregion & elevation and season, he would place it on a shelf, above his stereo, next to the tintypes of my great grandmothers, and and old-yellowed lamp globe. It would sit, dusty & pristine, amongst fossils and rocks, in my grandfather's house.
The weight in my hand, the smell of the trees, and the density of the wet earth under my bootsoles returned; and I decided to put it down.
My companion and I continued our cold, grey walk -- returing to find it, solid, on top of the gravel pile where I had hoped it would be easy to spot.
We returned it to its cold nest of wet needles, with a roof of fern boughs.
Later on, we returned and took pictures of it where it lay, and in each other's hand -- even that felt tenuously incorrect.
We laid it carefully back, wishing it to a roving skunk's teeth, or bobcat.
----- [to be continuted]
Thursday, March 13, 2008
Conceiving of a play part two
July 22nd, continued:
A man, shaggy-haired & in white buckskin -- a bear-claw necklace around his neck -- bright lights, a stage (maybe a podium -- but to the side). he's talking, a voice calls rudely from the audience, interrupting him, "First you called it 'ethos' then you called it 'mystique' and then you called it 'charisma,' but what I want to know is, what are you going to call it next!"
The audience hushes.
The man paces slowly back & forth on the stage, pulling patiently at his beard, looking down. "look, son. If that's the way you heard it I'm not oging to dispute about it. But really, it's like a joke. If you haven't got the point by this time, you never will." Laughter.
-----
Maybe I'd have him doing a "new" lecture, but have it a collage of all the transcripts I could get a hold of. I'd want biographical explanation,
"They wanted me to introduce myself, so I will. I was born in the San Joaquin valley..."
Maybe we coudl pull a handpress on stage -- light it during a certain part of the performance -- have him pace around it.
We'd need an older man -- someone who really looked like him. I'd want as much of Prodigious Thrust as i could get my hands on.
I'd want to quote him directly as much as possible -- and when not, just splicing whatever writing I could get. After I had a good amount of stuff togther, I'd want to --
I could attend the University of new Mexico and write the play, while attending college there. I'm willing to do that.
I can easily see myself doing this. I'd want first to contact Lee Bartlett.
and see what kind of reaction I get out of him. I'll go from there.
Saturday, March 8, 2008
Conceiving of a play part 1, (and starting this blog up again )
July 22nd:
Wouldn't it be great to do a play, one man, of William Everson.Some of those lines he had against his detractors would be perfect! ("Listen son, it's like a joke -- if you don't get it -- you never will) paraphrase.
His bear-claw necklace - etc.
You could use people in the audience, actors, to heckle & ask questions. Break up the audience/stage barrier.
I'd need to work with Lee Bartlett. He's at UC Davis I think, where I'm applying anyways... interesting.
----
Lee Bartlett is now at University of New Mexico -- pursue B. pursue!
----
Notes, collaborators: Studio Z collective -- Lane Savadove & EgoPo. The Daring Young Theater Ensemble -- the arts space too, they've invited me to join up again if I return to San Fran.
Also, John White in Austin Texas, the Shakespeare guy -- such a great director and actor, him too.
[to be continued]
Wouldn't it be great to do a play, one man, of William Everson.
Some of those lines he had against his detractors would be perfect! ("Listen son, it's like a joke -- if you don't get it -- you never will) paraphrase. His bear-claw necklace - etc.
You could use people in the audience, actors, to heckle & ask questions. Break up the audience/stage barrier.
I'd need to work with Lee Bartlett.
He's at UC Davis I think, where I'm applying anyways... interesting. ----
Lee Bartlett is now at University of New Mexico -- pursue B. pursue!
----
Notes, collaborators: Studio Z collective -- Lane Savadove & EgoPo. The Daring Young Theater Ensemble -- the arts space too, they've invited me to join up again if I return to San Fran.
Also, John White in Austin Texas, the Shakespeare guy -- such a great director and actor, him too.
[to be continued]
Monday, August 13, 2007
Wind velocity readings, lookout style
When the wind is out of the West, and I pee off the catwalk to the East, I notice that you can track windspeed via landmarks. Wind 0 - 5 mph -- hit the grass. Wind 8-12 mph -- hits rhododendron. Wind 15 - 20 mph -- hits edge or over the edge of the butte.
Monday, August 6, 2007
Journaling a streaking incident after too many days cooped up, continued.
As I wrote that, the wind picked up -- it might be 20 Mph. It's teasing though, it dropped off again as I stopped writing, picking up again as I start writing now.
As, as I walked back, I wanted more & more to take off my clothes; the more it rained the more I wanted my shirt off. I saw the lookout tower in the distance -- always reminding me of Thai architecture with its winged-hat look.
I got to the top of the stairs of the tower, the wind stronger up here, and rain; and I stripped in the doorway. The soaked backpack & timer by the propane heater.
HA! I got out there on a good gust in between sentences --
Ok -- soaked backpack in front of the propane & wool pantlegs too. I debated whether I should head down naked, or carrying shorts. Just in case a truck headed up the road when I was downstairs. I'd decided to go down & grab a full water container in either case. Eventually, I wrapped up a pair of shorts & stuck them in my mouth like a Pika carrying grass. I dove out the door into the howling wind and rain.
It was just like cold-water swimming. Once you were in, you were fine. I jogged downstairs,m ridiculous with my shorts in my mouth. I walked around in the dewy grass for a minute, the wind not so strong down there, and then put one of the 5-gallon water container on my head. I ran back 7up the stiars, my shorts in my mouth, and my water balanced on my head w/one hand like a Haitian.
What a great time.
As, as I walked back, I wanted more & more to take off my clothes; the more it rained the more I wanted my shirt off. I saw the lookout tower in the distance -- always reminding me of Thai architecture with its winged-hat look.
I got to the top of the stairs of the tower, the wind stronger up here, and rain; and I stripped in the doorway. The soaked backpack & timer by the propane heater.
HA! I got out there on a good gust in between sentences --
Ok -- soaked backpack in front of the propane & wool pantlegs too. I debated whether I should head down naked, or carrying shorts. Just in case a truck headed up the road when I was downstairs. I'd decided to go down & grab a full water container in either case. Eventually, I wrapped up a pair of shorts & stuck them in my mouth like a Pika carrying grass. I dove out the door into the howling wind and rain.
It was just like cold-water swimming. Once you were in, you were fine. I jogged downstairs,m ridiculous with my shorts in my mouth. I walked around in the dewy grass for a minute, the wind not so strong down there, and then put one of the 5-gallon water container on my head. I ran back 7up the stiars, my shorts in my mouth, and my water balanced on my head w/one hand like a Haitian.
What a great time.
Wednesday, July 18, 2007
Getting out in the rain after too many days cooped up, no date
Think I'm gonna dress up & take a walk. I've huddled in this propane-warm cabin too long -- I'm going outside for a walk. Got 2 hours before the next check-in. I'll take my radio just in case. I wanna get wet and cold, come in & watch the steam rising from my drying wool pants, and enjoy myself.
And this time I remembered to close windows to keep out brave, fat chipmunks.
****
Man -- I feel GREAT! just took a walk down about a mile or so to see what I could see. I feel so much better now.
On the path/road not 1/2 mile from here I found carnivore shit. Looked too big for coyote. Maybe Cat? I pray -- it's not far if it is.
Further down, after doing a second radio check to make sure I was still in contact w/ Mt. Hood Dispatch, I walked down the 400 Rd. I made about 1/2 mile -- no grouse by the way -- and it started to drizzle. I headed back, joyous as ever. I was just dripping with joy. When I turned around, the road looked completely different. Now uphill, now curving to the *right* -- so I didn't put my slingshot away -- who could tell if there were any grouse on *this* road or not?
On the way down -- I'd found some lichen that was in the road, blown off a tree. It was so seaworthy -- shaped just like some sea lettuce I've seen. My mind raced -- sea -- up here -- evolution.
I walked back, and it started to rain seriously, and I smiled at the change. I forgot all about the electronics in my backpack -- didn't worry about them at least.
I came to a boulder overhanging a ledge, headed Southwest -- into the wind. I walked out & stood, arms to the side -- huge smile. I felt *so* good, it felt so good to have the wind strong against me, reminded me of the times when I've felt the sentience of the wind -- when I related to it as a spirit. I walked back -- happy.
[to be continued]
And this time I remembered to close windows to keep out brave, fat chipmunks.
****
Man -- I feel GREAT! just took a walk down about a mile or so to see what I could see. I feel so much better now.
On the path/road not 1/2 mile from here I found carnivore shit. Looked too big for coyote. Maybe Cat? I pray -- it's not far if it is.
Further down, after doing a second radio check to make sure I was still in contact w/ Mt. Hood Dispatch, I walked down the 400 Rd. I made about 1/2 mile -- no grouse by the way -- and it started to drizzle. I headed back, joyous as ever. I was just dripping with joy. When I turned around, the road looked completely different. Now uphill, now curving to the *right* -- so I didn't put my slingshot away -- who could tell if there were any grouse on *this* road or not?
On the way down -- I'd found some lichen that was in the road, blown off a tree. It was so seaworthy -- shaped just like some sea lettuce I've seen. My mind raced -- sea -- up here -- evolution.
I walked back, and it started to rain seriously, and I smiled at the change. I forgot all about the electronics in my backpack -- didn't worry about them at least.
I came to a boulder overhanging a ledge, headed Southwest -- into the wind. I walked out & stood, arms to the side -- huge smile. I felt *so* good, it felt so good to have the wind strong against me, reminded me of the times when I've felt the sentience of the wind -- when I related to it as a spirit. I walked back -- happy.
[to be continued]
Wednesday, July 11, 2007
Prose poem description of the cabin etc. (no date)
Here I sit, quivering with Poems. Rexroth's "Signature of all Things."
I put down the book, some of Snyder's
poems have quieted me.
I look slowly around the sky cabin,
not expecting.
Olive-yellow trunk box (full of wire & cable, I know),
A couple of old wood chairs on either side of the
glass-paneled door --
Socks on one, towel on the other,
drying.
The spotting scope -- black, matte black.
The podium holding Osborne Firefinder atop,
A photo of cattails in a pond,
A painting of a medicine man,
A face of a hawk -- both images cards
Received from male relatives
In the post this summer.
A 5-gallon, square, opaquish water jug,
1/5th full,
Kettle (aluminum) and flowered enameled pot,
Bean stains varnishing the outside where it boiled over.
An aching back or a turned-in butt on 2 pillows.
Dripping rain and wind outside,
Catwalk dark with wet.
Wind sounds like a tundral howl,
"Howa, Howa -- Whoooooo ---" whistles off.
An eagle feather,
Speckled white fading into brown --
A little but of white down,
Hanging from an eye-screw placed
Perfectly
In the middle of the ceiling.
Olive-yellow tongue-in-groove ceiling.
2 light bulbs I can't afford the electricity to use,
A 2-way radio on the desk,
And this penned hand,
Writing.
"Signature of all Things." I put down the book, some of Snyder's
poems have quieted me.
I look slowly around the sky cabin,
not expecting.
Olive-yellow trunk box (full of wire & cable, I know),
A couple of old wood chairs on either side of the
glass-paneled door --
Socks on one, towel on the other,
drying.
The spotting scope -- black, matte black.
The podium holding Osborne Firefinder atop,
A photo of cattails in a pond,
A painting of a medicine man,
A face of a hawk -- both images cards
Received from male relatives
In the post this summer.
A 5-gallon, square, opaquish water jug,
1/5th full,
Kettle (aluminum) and flowered enameled pot,
Bean stains varnishing the outside where it boiled over.
An aching back or a turned-in butt on 2 pillows.
Dripping rain and wind outside,
Catwalk dark with wet.
Wind sounds like a tundral howl,
"Howa, Howa -- Whoooooo ---" whistles off.
An eagle feather,
Speckled white fading into brown --
A little but of white down,
Hanging from an eye-screw placed
Perfectly
In the middle of the ceiling.
Olive-yellow tongue-in-groove ceiling.
2 light bulbs I can't afford the electricity to use,
A 2-way radio on the desk,
And this penned hand,
Writing.
Torrid Zone
Torrid zone -- between Tropic of Cancer 23 degrees 27 minutes North of equator and Capricorn 23 degrees 27 minutes South of equator.
Torrid, A. [L. torridus, from torrere, to roast.] 1. Dried by or subjected to intense heat, especially of the sun; scorched; parched; arid. 2. So hot as to be parching or opressive; scorching. 3. Highly passionate, adent, zealous, etc.
Torrid zone; are of the earth between the tropic of Cancer & the Tropic of Capricorn & divided by the equator.
Websters new unabridged.
Torrid, A. [L. torridus, from torrere, to roast.] 1. Dried by or subjected to intense heat, especially of the sun; scorched; parched; arid. 2. So hot as to be parching or opressive; scorching. 3. Highly passionate, adent, zealous, etc.
Torrid zone; are of the earth between the tropic of Cancer & the Tropic of Capricorn & divided by the equator.
Websters new unabridged.
Tuesday, July 10, 2007
Adrienne Rich quote
"...Clara, I feel so full
of work, the life I see ahead, and love
for you, who of all people
however badly I say this
will hear all I say and cannot say."
ending of "Paula Becker to Clara Westhoff"
in Adrienne Rich's Dream of a Common Language, p. 44
of work, the life I see ahead, and love
for you, who of all people
however badly I say this
will hear all I say and cannot say."
ending of "Paula Becker to Clara Westhoff"
in Adrienne Rich's Dream of a Common Language, p. 44
Saturday, July 7, 2007
Tired of writing, and a favorite line, unknown date
She [Natalie Goldberg, have been doing writing practices out of Wild Mind book] wants me to write about my home now. I don't want to, I've written enough tonight. The only line I like is;
The sunlight was all dusty, and the air smelled like a cold, rusted muffler.
so there.
, have been doing writing practices out of Wild Mind book] wants me to write about my home now. I don't want to, I've written enough tonight. The only line I like is;The sunlight was all dusty, and the air smelled like a cold, rusted muffler.
so there.
Writing Practice, different subject every sentence. Unknown date.
White tigers have always astounded me, but look so plain in zoos. I prefer the orange ones.
Birds are cool, but blue I like better.
Alligators -- bah these are all animals, I have to stop this cycle.
Space ships are large and have blinking lights.
Dew on the grass in the morning lights up like little frosted crystal globes.
The wind here sounds like it's pushing up against a shelter made of plywood & corrugated tin, and makes me think that I'm in a poor Mexican town, hoping for my life that I won't freeze tonight.
A black spider with a yellow zig-zag on its belly hanging on a web, thick & frosty white.
Topics, topics -- they don't have to be nouns, you know -- they don't have to be verbs, or adjectives -- they can be feelings -- under images; and the longer you pull the sentence out the longer you have before the next one.
I see a bridge, with sunlight dappling the surface of the shallow greenish water below. There are steelhead under there, or coho salmon, and it's the mouth of Eagle Creek on the Clackamas.
Mermaid mistresses give juicy, dangerous love.
An arsenic lobster (stolen from Lorca) falls on my head, and I'm black (stolen from Jimenez or Machado) with a diamond inside.
Mowing the lawns of cemeteries -- the hills covered with mist & trees & the mausoleums are on top of the hill to the left.
Spirit folk went through my dreams, always clad as Indians dancing, carrying their loved ones' images, up on stilts with feathers & dead, in their hearts as they travel.
I love: the earth, frogs, women, butts, women with frog butts -- that's K. actually -- and thinking, and being ungrounded, and accepting, and love.
God is: God is a leaf in a stream -- one more try.
God is an autumn leaf under a thin sheet of near-freezing water, washing down a clear Northeastern stream.
God is Heroin, to some I'm sure.
I don't know how much time I've got left so I'll write until 21:00 hrs. -- that's 3 minutes left. My hand hurts, and I feel like I'm writing a bunch of crap, but the school of disembodied poetics keeps coming up, and that's exciting me, because I think maybe it's a sign from the Universe that I should go to School, and I can just see it now, my old bus & T. & maybe fly fishing in the summers, and my arm is burning up, and I don't want to slow down or stop writing or stop breathing, because I've only got a little of it left but my arm is burning off, and I keep holding my breath, and this is all a bunch of crap anyhow. And I sure wanted to end on that last line but a minute lasts a long time when you're in pain.
Birds are cool, but blue I like better.
Alligators -- bah these are all animals, I have to stop this cycle.
Space ships are large and have blinking lights.
Dew on the grass in the morning lights up like little frosted crystal globes.
The wind here sounds like it's pushing up against a shelter made of plywood & corrugated tin, and makes me think that I'm in a poor Mexican town, hoping for my life that I won't freeze tonight.
A black spider with a yellow zig-zag on its belly hanging on a web, thick & frosty white.
Topics, topics -- they don't have to be nouns, you know -- they don't have to be verbs, or adjectives -- they can be feelings -- under images; and the longer you pull the sentence out the longer you have before the next one.
I see a bridge, with sunlight dappling the surface of the shallow greenish water below. There are steelhead under there, or coho salmon, and it's the mouth of Eagle Creek on the Clackamas.
Mermaid mistresses give juicy, dangerous love.
An arsenic lobster (stolen from Lorca) falls on my head, and I'm black (stolen from Jimenez or Machado) with a diamond inside.
Mowing the lawns of cemeteries -- the hills covered with mist & trees & the mausoleums are on top of the hill to the left.
Spirit folk went through my dreams, always clad as Indians dancing, carrying their loved ones' images, up on stilts with feathers & dead, in their hearts as they travel.
I love: the earth, frogs, women, butts, women with frog butts -- that's K. actually -- and thinking, and being ungrounded, and accepting, and love.
God is: God is a leaf in a stream -- one more try.
God is an autumn leaf under a thin sheet of near-freezing water, washing down a clear Northeastern stream.
God is Heroin, to some I'm sure.
I don't know how much time I've got left so I'll write until 21:00 hrs. -- that's 3 minutes left. My hand hurts, and I feel like I'm writing a bunch of crap, but the school of disembodied poetics keeps coming up, and that's exciting me, because I think maybe it's a sign from the Universe that I should go to School, and I can just see it now, my old bus & T. & maybe fly fishing in the summers, and my arm is burning up, and I don't want to slow down or stop writing or stop breathing, because I've only got a little of it left but my arm is burning off, and I keep holding my breath, and this is all a bunch of crap anyhow. And I sure wanted to end on that last line but a minute lasts a long time when you're in pain.
Thursday, July 5, 2007
July 21st Writing Practice: Fishing Reverie, friend rememberance continued.
When I visited Robert this last spring (of my 22nd year) -- we of course went fishing. The water was bigger, and so were the fish. But it was still cheap, and we were still the best fishermen out there. In one month I'll be standing next to him as he gets married. Long hair, some bags under my eyes that weren't there before, and Robert standing next to me. it makes me cry -- just Life -- going. Changes & passages -- like all the poems about autumn you hear old people writing. I can feel a little autumn in my heart right now. It's real, like a flannel shirt -- and I'm getting older. I love you Robert. You've always been a brother to me. Good luck in your new life -- it's not much different. Do things cheap, and well. Have fun, learn, and pay attention. Like figuring out how to catch fish -- chance plays it's part, too.
****
I'm crying, I don't know why. I think it's because those times as a kid were so lonely. Robert was, in a way, all I had in the whole world then.
When we were fishing, I could forget about all my hurts. I could be scientist, an observer, a mountain-man -- the knowledgeable one. It was a way to touch the cycle of things, to enter into the biology of things. We stepped in clean & pure -- naieve of any blemishes to our soul. We *were* fishing -- no separation. Zen buddhists know what I'm talking about. No separation.
****
I'm crying, I don't know why. I think it's because those times as a kid were so lonely. Robert was, in a way, all I had in the whole world then.
When we were fishing, I could forget about all my hurts. I could be scientist, an observer, a mountain-man -- the knowledgeable one. It was a way to touch the cycle of things, to enter into the biology of things. We stepped in clean & pure -- naieve of any blemishes to our soul. We *were* fishing -- no separation. Zen buddhists know what I'm talking about. No separation.
Saturday, June 30, 2007
July 21st Writing Practice: What I did the summer before my 9th grade year -- kissing girls and a fishing reverie
I kissed a freckled, brown-eyed, brown-haired Hawaiian/Mexican girl named Kathy. I kissed her every day, before she went off to do her paper route.
I discovered Tewinkle Park. It was a mound pushed up by bulldozers, with a never-running set of water slides, a path, and 3 golf-pond like "lakes." Robert Z, a full-blood Czech kid who looked like an all-American California boy and I fished there every day. I mean that -- barring some severe edict from the Parental Units, we were there every single day. We used jigs called Sassy Shad, which looked like little grey rubber fish with a paddle for a tail. When pulled through the water, it really looked like it was swimming.
Our favorite was night fishing. We'd sneak around the shallows, with unweighted plastic worms on our ultralight outfits (spinning gear that was almost as small as it could get, so even a small Bluegill would feel like a Marlin) and cast onto the shore, or a boulder next to where the behemoth bass (usually 12" or so) were sitting in the shallows, starting at the surface of the water. We'd pull the worm off whatever we cast onto, so it would make a natural, meaty Thunk! in the water -- bass would drool all across the lake. We'd stare at our line -- plenty of slack, so that when they picked it up, they'd have no un-natural resistance.
Two twitches, and the line would slowly head for deep water. Our hearts would beat out of control, and in a forced hushed whisper, we'd call to the other -- they'd reel in and run over -- stepping quietly so we wouldn't shake the water & scare the fish. The line would still be moving. We'd both be visualizing a huge bass swimming, green & dank, with a potbelly & enormous mouth, swimming with OUR worm in it's mouth. It was always OUR stuff -- we bought all of it together. I kept my stuff at his house because it was closer ot the park & my mom hated the idea of fishing.
We'd set the hook, and the jiggling rod would be all marlin again, and the bass would be strong and live at the end of the line, maybe (beyond all hoping) it would jump & splash the light from the baseball fields all over the little lake.
We'd pull in an exhausted little fish, and let it rest in the shallow water as we watched its gill plates breathe, and were amazed that we'd connected with this little wild thing.
Carefully, we'd lift it out of the water & get the hook out with a minimum of contact, so we wouldn't mess up the mucous layer on the fish that we both knew was protection against fungus & parasites. It was beyond shame to see a fish you "recognized" ("that's the one that lived under the pillars by the gazebo") floating and dead due to messy release or bad hook timing -- letting it swallow the hook.
We switched to fly-fishing, and kept fishing there well into high-school, even though it was a "kid" thing to do. All that started by seeing kids fishing with handlines & velveeta cheese between the slats of the little pier as we drove by.
[to be continued]
I discovered Tewinkle Park. It was a mound pushed up by bulldozers, with a never-running set of water slides, a path, and 3 golf-pond like "lakes." Robert Z, a full-blood Czech kid who looked like an all-American California boy and I fished there every day. I mean that -- barring some severe edict from the Parental Units, we were there every single day. We used jigs called Sassy Shad, which looked like little grey rubber fish with a paddle for a tail. When pulled through the water, it really looked like it was swimming.
Our favorite was night fishing. We'd sneak around the shallows, with unweighted plastic worms on our ultralight outfits (spinning gear that was almost as small as it could get, so even a small Bluegill would feel like a Marlin) and cast onto the shore, or a boulder next to where the behemoth bass (usually 12" or so) were sitting in the shallows, starting at the surface of the water. We'd pull the worm off whatever we cast onto, so it would make a natural, meaty Thunk! in the water -- bass would drool all across the lake. We'd stare at our line -- plenty of slack, so that when they picked it up, they'd have no un-natural resistance.
Two twitches, and the line would slowly head for deep water. Our hearts would beat out of control, and in a forced hushed whisper, we'd call to the other -- they'd reel in and run over -- stepping quietly so we wouldn't shake the water & scare the fish. The line would still be moving. We'd both be visualizing a huge bass swimming, green & dank, with a potbelly & enormous mouth, swimming with OUR worm in it's mouth. It was always OUR stuff -- we bought all of it together. I kept my stuff at his house because it was closer ot the park & my mom hated the idea of fishing.
We'd set the hook, and the jiggling rod would be all marlin again, and the bass would be strong and live at the end of the line, maybe (beyond all hoping) it would jump & splash the light from the baseball fields all over the little lake.
We'd pull in an exhausted little fish, and let it rest in the shallow water as we watched its gill plates breathe, and were amazed that we'd connected with this little wild thing.
Carefully, we'd lift it out of the water & get the hook out with a minimum of contact, so we wouldn't mess up the mucous layer on the fish that we both knew was protection against fungus & parasites. It was beyond shame to see a fish you "recognized" ("that's the one that lived under the pillars by the gazebo") floating and dead due to messy release or bad hook timing -- letting it swallow the hook.
We switched to fly-fishing, and kept fishing there well into high-school, even though it was a "kid" thing to do. All that started by seeing kids fishing with handlines & velveeta cheese between the slats of the little pier as we drove by.
[to be continued]
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