writwrit

2010-02-25T08:38:00.000-08:00

KNOW THY ENEMY + I do not know myself. The southern sun is kissing the city low, below the belt line. They are not dishonest kisses. The sun will be around tomorrow, when this city is gone. The sun has no fear of abandonment. I am working it out, waking up early to be with my father, to be with my brother. I am trying to build on an old foundation. I am trying to fix a leaky boat, before the water rises. I feel alone still, wrapped in a blanket of oldness. I have takin off the dark glasses. I am cleaning the dust off old wounds, old fears. I feel for my friends, who have fallin victim to my ignorance. Hold me to my words, that I might speak less, and let them fall away under what I do. I am still learning how to do.
When God shows his face to me, will I recognize it? Will I have to rely on the context, or will I know Him by his gait, the way his eyes wrinkle in a smile? I am still learning how to smile like Him.
I am eating your soup, that you cooked for us. It is old now, and getting soft. It has not lost its potency, but grown more accustomed to itself, floating in its own water. I am looking up your name on the internet, to discover what you portray to those you do not know. I am hiding the clothes you left in my room, because I cannot find my own. I am talking about you in my dreams, with people I do not recognize. They are not listening.
My thoughts are not in line, and they never will be. I am a wave, that is a circle that flows in and out of this box. I cannot justify my own existence, nor the existence of God. I can only justify the hammer, and the shovel, and the soup, and my teeth. Everything else is up for grabs. Everything else is already missing or on Ebay. I do not know myself. How can I know you?

2009-12-23T17:37:00.000-08:00

IT DON"T BOTHER ME + I make a circle with my arms holding the mason jars in four stacks, ten jars in all, in a brown paper bag. They are full of the most magical of passions and elixir, rolling around in stirs of flower buds and wicked looking leaves. A man shakes the slick off his boot, down the street. I wonder what he stepped in. This is the first sun we've seen in days, and I am helping Katya move her stuff into her new house in West Oakland.
The floor underneath me creeks to be walked on, this old blue house. The kitchen is full of table, barely enough to squeeze by on. The people there are bright and tenacious, old souls crowding into one tiny room to make different kinds of tea and read their own notes to each other aloud, to each other. They are scared to go outside at night. The kids are lurking under the bridges, ready for a new bike. West Oakland gets foggy at night, like coffee in a toilet bowl, and the women down the street, the black dykes on the corner, say with all the sweet lovingkindness they can muster, "Boy youneed to get on outta this fog, Somebody run up on your ass."
But the days are bright and the light is good for dozing and walking about and if I could've I'd have liked to have taken a boat ride out onto the bay, and to have had a little pot there, and to smoke and drive the boat very fast, and that don't make me spoiled. Just extravagant. I think everyone here is a little extravagant. I that don't mean they ain't spoiled.
Now I am in Memphis. Sitting outside the deCleyre. Prometheus, to whom do you belong? Warming me legs by a fire. There are beer bottles, broken, half full, with cigarette butts. There is blood on the leaves in the garden. There are some kids with different leans to there face. There are kids broken where God broke Adam. There are holes in mouths. When was this not to be expected? We are not lessened by these things. I will go home and make up my mind to clean up things. I will wait until Christmas Eve, to say Merry Christmas. It is good to be home.

2009-09-17T20:21:00.001-07:00

BACK IN + I am now back home, in Memphis. The apostles are looking around for silverware and furniture, while I look for a place to sleep that isn't to heavy. Looking to drive a cab for money, but they took my license for an unpaid ticket (no seatbelt). I need a few hundred bucks so I can still impress my friends. Otherwise I'm just a bum. Doesn't matter that I have cut needles with leather and hammered nails in houses made of brick and a whole host of tall tales to offer. I still have to give somebody money sometime, even though nobody has any money, ever. I want to live in a spot, with other spots around it, for nothing but what I can do, not what I can take outta the bank. I don't want the bank to hold anything with my name on it.
So while the colors are being picked out for my new enclave, and the apostles are picking up a new couch for their old one, I am just gonna keep playing around, making music, building dreams out of curbside enthusiasm. Building stuff nobody wants. Its not a big deal. I mean, I'd like a job, but who's got one to spare? No one I know.
So this blog, for those that actually read it, will change somewhat. No longer will I be waxing about my waning adventures. The days are getting shorter. So I will write what I think now, about mostly boring stuff, but probably more frequently, and more irritating. There will be things, you'll see.

2009-08-21T10:09:00.000-07:00

CHANGING ONE ANOTHER AND THIS HOUSE + This house was built by a wheat farmer, the first one to farm wheat in eastern Oregon. No one thought it would grow here. Now it is Oregon's number one export. This house sits on a hill. The hill was carved out by the Columbia River. It is the first hill in a long line of hills. The wind here blows hard, whipping through the gorge and up over the wheat fields. It blows the dust from your footsteps. Up against the house it sounds like people having sex on the roof. The sun beats down, cooking the lovers until late, when the sun sets behind Mt. Hood. In the morning it is cool and pleasant, and the sounds of the town below mix with the sounds of the wind.
Otherwise, I am here alone. I am making a book out of copy paper and an old leather jacket. I am making a pair of slippers for my sister, who lives in Texas. I am making knives from old files, though the internet tells me not to. I am singing songs, and listening to old music. I am washing windows. I am doing it for myself, no lies.
My host is gracious. He seeks nothing in return. He greets me in the morning honestly, and does not pat me on the back. I make my own coffee, though it is with his coffee maker. He enjoys talking about things that are closed up in his brain. I suppose he is also otherwise alone here. At night we drink wiskey on ice, and I cook. Soon he wishes me sweet dreams, and disappears to watch his porn and fall blissfully to sleep. He needs no judgement.
I will be his friend. He will be mine. I will have others too, that want nothing from me but to receive them and thier gifts, as I wish to be received. I have had them, and they have made my life rich with forgiveness. Forgiveness for being impulsive and stubborn, which are my best and worst qualities.
This house was built by wheat, by a gamble. This hill was built by a river, by slow movement. This wind was made in another place that I do not know, but it cools me this morning on the patio, drinking my coffee. This sky above me, I still don't fully understand, but it covers nicely.
Maybe I should be mad, rightfully. Maybe a searing article about Monsanto, or Gun Reform, or Religion, or my own disgraces. Maybe we could talk about that later. Either way I have a feeling that I can not knowingly change the world, but damnit, I will be happy in it, if it is the last thing I do.

2009-08-18T19:33:00.001-07:00

2009-08-18T14:56:00.001-07:00

2009-08-18T12:53:00.000-07:00

ALRIGHT + Deep in the heart of Oregon, lost somewhere in the mind of a girl who's conscience guides her, is a thought. This thought, of course,is buried under a load so heavy that even her parents could not lift it from their minds. She works to uncover it, putting her fingers in the dirt, pulling up what hinders the growth of someone else's load. She hopes that this work will free her.
The thought is a good one, rooted in her adolescence, in the time when it did not matter that her dreams were different from "real" life. It is slightly taboo, in that it is sexual in nature, but only so far in that it has nothing to do with sex. The thought is light, and quick. The thought is of a color, of a breeze. It is a thought of what to do next. It is not a thought that leads to questions, but one that calls questions to it, like an innocent barfly. It is an answer to all the questions that come after it. The thought is there, in this girl's mind. She does not know it yet, only that there is earth to dig now.
Ooops. Now the thought is gone. There is still earth to dig, but the thought is gone. There is still water to unpoison, but the thought is gone. There are still sustainable building methods to explore, but the thought is gone. There are still bikes to ride, but the thought is gone. There are still starving people in every country, and locks on doors, and bad parents, and TV, but the thought is gone.
Oh well. That thought wasn't that important anyway.

2009-07-11T11:36:00.000-07:00

GOOD + Me and Thor were invited by Tony, the guy who runs Trackers Northwest in Portland, to his new cabin out near Mount Hood in the Bull Run Watershed. The place is beautiful. The house, bouncing on the top of a meadow, looks out over the most primeval forest I have ever walked through. We spent three days there, working in the morning, and walking out into the woods in the afternoon. We stuffed ourselves on Salmonberries and Huckelberries and Wood Sorrel and even Blueberries. There were old growth Pines and Cedars, big leafed Maple and Alder trees. I picked out some deadfall Alder for my knife handle. We collected Maple for a bow stave, some Arrow wood, some Cherry bark for containers, and a little magic to take back to the city with us. There is no need for the city, but we are going back there nonetheless.
Portland has been good to me though. Plenty of places to stay, new friends, old ones too. Music, art making, homemade brews, leather scraps, bikes to ride and food to eat. I still feel like a king in a peasant's pajamas. Today we head out to the coast, to goonieland, to meet the Pacific Ocean. I hope she likes me.

2009-07-11T11:20:00.000-07:00

2009-06-28T20:16:00.000-07:00

STORMS + I am angry. The sky roaring through the pass, singing out to no one. Dirt lingering on the edge of a creek, being pulled away by the ruckus swirling rounds. Anger is one of my lovers, one of my favorite lovers, bound to me by a class action lawsuit, the sentence supervised by the gods of nature, who like to laugh at my shackled ruins. I do not mind her. She drives me toward the real, the broken ideal, the conscious bewilderment. She rakes off my masks some evenings, when I have fed only my other mouths. She is a jealous lover.
They speak of the wrath of God. They speak of it like it belongs to Him, but it is ours to reap, to pull out of the ground, as we chase the dream of love, thinking it lives just below the surface. Love is anger's sister, is drawn after it like a needle and thread. I want my anger. I want my self.
In Piedra, up on the sheep trail, we sang songs, and laughed, wooed each other into our own lands of make believe. Every afternoon the rains came out over the Spanish named San Juan Mountains, named after one of Jesus' lovers, and we cowered under tarps designed to keep the trees dry after we yank them from the ground. I do not know how to speak when the world is screaming. Some there, in the camp, gave us a loose idea of what could be said. Some reasoned round the fire that what we are already doing would never be enough, as if the world can not take care of itself. Some said that we must save the trees from death, like death is not what the world wants.

2009-06-28T20:15:00.001-07:00

2009-06-28T20:01:00.000-07:00

DENVER + In Denver, there was an old lover, that is waiting to be free. She rains on every room she walks into, pulls up its skirt to reveal the power in each place. She will never be free, because there is no such thing as prison. When I left there, it was to find a new mission. I wandered across a hell of a city, through open neighborhoods that were full of closed doors. Everyone, it seemed, was out in the streets, or up in the mountains. Met Dragon walking. He gave me the low down on High Town. It felt good to be in the sounds of the city, away from the burbs. I coasted down to the derailer, a cooperative bike shop there, and watched the mountains blend into the sky, sitting on top of an old bus. I had no mission in life but to be there, in that moment. Pretty soon, Guy pulled up in a vanto drop off some bikes, said he could give me a ride to the Pitchfork House, which Dragon had suggested. We sailed through the city, and he dropped me on the doorstep of a racket out in the back yard, where smiling faces and cigarettes floated up to meet the setting sun.
I stayed at the Pitchfork, under the good graces of the ones there, for three days. Travelers were in and out, and two of them Herman and Beat, were headed to what sounded to be a good primitive skills gathering in Durango, CO. Sounded like a good mission to me.
I found a guy headed to Moab for Desert Rocks on Craigslist. He said he could take all three of us. He was a cool dead head, named Ed, who had just sold everything he owned and was on the road, outta Florida. We drove up over the front range and out into the Utah desert.

2009-05-21T12:32:00.000-07:00

BURNT + The desert sun is something we talk about. We talk about it as it goes down, shedding light like feathers that stick to the dark. We talk about it as we feel our windows, hot to the touch. The sun melts our curtains. It burns our feet through our shoes. We talk about the desert sun as it soaks our nakedness in white warmth when dawn rolls down the window and spits out of the sky. The desert sun, not like any other sun.
When I was in the desert, the sun there broke my skin, pushed it apart, made me colder at night. Cuckoldry was afoot, as I had spent so much time with the moon, while the sun was away on his business trips. Now, the desert sun raked the grassland with my incoherent better self.
It wasn't up to me, I told him. How is a man supposed to fraternize with the gods without falling in love, without approaching judgement, and wrath? I am not to blame! Blame the moon! That whore. Seems her pock-marked face is always tugging on someone's strings. Do you know what she DOES at night?
He wouldn't listen. If you catch the sun in the desert, make sure you have no quarrels to settle. The desert makes the sun a little cranky.
When I first arrived in PHX, things were good. I had Matty around then, always a potent lover. We knocked on the firehouse door and asked if we could burn there for a bit. Stayed long enough for the birds (Pico and Jack) to catch up with us, only a few days, then we headed North for the ill fated gathering of the ancestors. Ancestors aren't known for their event planning skills.
When we came down out of the high desert, we were birdless, as the sun had eaten them all one morning and spit them back out. They just weren't the same after that. Bare boned and charred to bits, Matty and I cooked right out of the pot, and split on the desert floor like an ornamental orange. He peeled out, and things went sour. The sun wasn't through with me yet.
So I walked under it, on a leash. I got as far as Flagstaff again, and Sedona too, with the Nebulas Sierra Joy, and a soon to be ex-stripper named Rickie, but they were under the same arrest, and so we all returned to our sentence eventually.
I hung about until Allyson came to town. She was there for her boyfriends birthday. Quite a gift if you ask me. Phoenix was awash in white heat, surrounded by the burbs and miles of desert. We shot guns, and wasted afternoons at Conspire, doing nothing but. When Allyson finally went back home I lingered, frozen by a dead list serve and the lively swagger of a bent brunette with an apartment like a scene from "The King and I". We had some good talks, and she smiled a lot, soft spoken smiles with lots of teeth.
When I finally did take flight, it was on the Frontier to Denver. Allyson bought the ticket. She hates to see a good vagabond go to waste. They give out free headphones. I took a handful, plugged in, and flipped a burnt bird to the Phoenix sun.

2009-05-05T16:30:00.000-07:00

2009-05-05T16:08:00.000-07:00

BOUYDS + I subscribe to a set of rules about life. Takes a weak man to admit that, who is full of martyrdom and supple doses of smooth chocolate raspberry emotion. Seems like a real man, one I've never met, would probably just dose up on all the skin and memories and cheap wisecracks and weird noises he ever made and bloom into a fancied revelation of himself. That's what a real man would do.
Damn. Real or not I guess there are lost bits and pieces of the paperwork that at some point I sent to myself as proof that I exist in case my existence was ever taken to court. I'm not sure if the laws have changed since then.
I saw today, Allyson, who always takes me by surprise. She was my mother in a past life, I think...if there is past.
I read a bible verse today too. Matthew 36 and 38 of 9 : "Seeing the people, He felt compassion for them, because they were distressed and dispirited like sheep without a shepherd. Then He said to His disciples, The harvest is plentiful, but the workers are few. Therefore beseech the Lord of the harvest to send out workers into His harvest."
I am a worker. There is abundance. There is compassion. These are not sentiments. I see them in you.
I heard the birds today and I did not know the song. It is one to learn I think. So I will leave Phoenix (if the song ain't to hard to learn) in a few days.

2009-05-04T16:10:00.001-07:00

2009-05-04T14:01:00.000-07:00

PONY TALKS + I am writing from Phoenix. Been in and out of this town a few too many times in the last few weeks. Arizona is being pretty nice to me though. I am gonna try and hitch up to Bartlett Lake tomorrow, do some fishing...mmmm. It is hot here, different kind of hot than Memphis. It is a very lucid heat, peels away the fences around your mind and everything sort of melts into the haze. Reading a lot about things lately. I am in a book phase I think. Read today about Alfred Korzybski, a guy who tried to talk about language some. Burroughs liked him (Will S.). Guess that means somethin huh? Flower Power and all that. Did you know that most animals are violently responsive to noise? Indeed noise usually couples with violence in some way, growling, crowing, beeping, clicking, crying. Language always did seem rather violent to me. Like a gun, with lots of bullets. Anyway, this guy Korzybski wants us all to start talking like apes. I think it's a good idea. At least our language would better relate to our actual feelings. Maybe we would stop fighting over words, and fight over other things, like female apes.
Do you know what a propositional function is? It is a statement like this one, in which the author has no idea what he or she is talking about. It is a statement that can't be proven because it has a middle, a variable, such as opinions, definitions, mispronunciations, and spelling errors. Bertrand Russel thought that there were a few, some folks think there are a bunch, some think that all propositions are only propositional functions. So, for example, if Aristotle spoke only in truths, it is because he himself thought them to be true, and his logical skills only matched his ability to hypnotize himself (and his disciples) by a repetitive pattern of guttural noises aimed at weak ears.
Ever heard of the excluded middle? the excluded middle is like your opinion, put aside. It means that there is nothing between yes and no, right and wrong. Words havea tendency to bounce around truth, and according to the Greeks, they bounce a little less if you leave out the middle.
Lots to think about...
Yeah...books...they always get me thinkin.

2009-04-27T14:21:00.000-07:00

2009-04-27T13:23:00.000-07:00

A GIN + Well, back on the road. This time with one Matty Kime, most of the time. We left my mom's place in Houston a few weeks ago, went to Austin TX. There we stayed with Matty's Unitarian friends, two dikes and a gay boy, and paled around with Pico and Jack, two former Memphis girls who live in Austin. Had a lot of fun, and grabbed up a rideshare off a craigslist to Phoenix.
We showed up at a local art collective about three in the AM, and surprised our new friend Tom, who was rolling on the back patio. After we calmed him down he told us we could chill on the couches outside for the night, and we crashed. The next morning we woke to the naked Phoenix sun, and did some stretches and prayers on the makeshift stage out back. Pretty soon the residents started milling about, they made some coffee and we chatted them up. They gave us the low down and said we could stay for a few days, even gave us the extra room. We made dinner.
After a couple of days Pico and Jack, those girls from Austin showed up on their way to the gathering of the ancestors in Tuba City, AZ. We decided it sounded like fun, so the next day we took off with them to Sedona, where we camped for a day or two, climbing red rocks and skinny dipping. The girls bought a bottle of gin and we played never have I ever under a Juniper tree. Our dreams ended up in its branches.
The next day we hitched out to Flagstaff, without the girls, seein as how four tryin to hitch might as well be waitin fer a clown car to roll up. Even still, they were right behind us and we ended up at the same truck stop in Flagstaff AZ. I called Sierra Joy and she landed us a place to sleep, though it was about a six mile walk away. I slept like a baby that night.
The next morning I got a massage (Pico has magic hands) and we all did Yoga together, taking instruction from Matty and Pico. I felt a hundred percent when all was said and done, and had learned some stuff in the process. Flagstaff was chilly and the thin mountain air was blowing hard down Beaver St. We went to Macy's, a trendy little coffee house, where we checked the internet and hoped for a ride out of Flagstaff.
Matty, who had been talking to this guy online about driving a car up north for him, jumped on a ride back to Phoenix to pick up the car, a surefire way to get to the canyon. Well, the guy turned out to be a dick, so Matty was stuck in Phoenix. At the same time, me and the girls in Flagstaff had learned that the Hopi Nation decided to deny access to their lands for the gathering, siting the greed of the New Age Borg as their reason. So I said goodbye to Jack and Pico and hitched back to Phoenix.
That is where I am now, sitting at the Firehouse, the art collective I mentioned earlier, eating bean and cheese burritos and waiting for the next leg of lostness to begin. I hope I don't have to wait to long.

P.S. stay tuned for more stories from this, the first chapter of the second leg.

2009-01-24T12:50:00.001-08:00

2009-01-16T03:16:00.000-08:00

MEMPHIS + There is death. It happens I mean. Want to extract a meaning from all this then put this in your wiskey and drink it: There isn't one. And I know it has been said before, but let me tell you, it is true. You value certain things, sure. You have goals of course. Hell, I'm learning to play the Ukulele, (that's two U's for all those Scrabble fans out there) (dorks). But the point is right in front of your nose. In all realities, it is your nose. You can only see it if you dot your T's, at least every now and then.
That of course, is the whole thing with ART. Dotting your T's I mean. Hell, even King David had to dot a T every now and again. And if your thinking that was a reference to Bethsheba, then you odda Dot a T by being a little more exclusive, and if you don't know what I'm talking about then you odda think about celibacy. What I'm getting at is that Dave shook his ass every now and again, and he did it cause he knew it made him a better man. Look it up.
Or don't. You know I still don't know about books, unless they come with patterns, or at least diagrams or schematics. I like to see how things work. To try and describe the great mystery, to seek enlightenment, that can't be done in a book, and it can't be done in a painting, or a movie. It can't be done at all. It is an undoing.
I mean, if I had a dime for every time I dipped my pen in the celestial ink, I'd be a rich man. The temptation is to hold on to it, especially if people get the idea that you got that something special they've all been looking for. Man that shit is for guru's and assistant managers. You inherited the sins of your father, so be a hero, learn to love it.
There is a real relationship growing here, I can feel it. It is like the relationship between the lion and the hare. The lion KNOWS the hare. The lion LOVES the hare, and the hare loves the lion.
I know lions are pack animals. So are most. Makes sense. Pretty smart really. Everything you have is theirs, everything they have is yours, unless they don't like you. Pretty good system really. And they don't kill you if they don't like you, they just make sure you don't touch their stuff.
I am still trying to shrink my stuff. Right now I've got a pen and a notebook in my pocket, and a knife on my belt. I'd like to give the rest of my junk away. Ugghh. Who wants a brand new TOOTHBRUSH!! Aww maybe I'll keep that. I guess I'll keep some toothpaste on me too, and a bag to put it in, and a bag to put that in, with my digital camera so I can take pictures of my pretty teeth, and a laptop so I can send them to my friends. Hi Mom!!!! I have a beard now!!!
My mom has facial hair. Yours probably does too. Most women do. Whenever we get around to being enlightened, will women still have facial hair? I dunno, but I bet they don't shave either way.
Okay, okay, call me a hippie, but you know what I mean. Shaving is distracting. Sure it means you spent some time making sure you don't have body lice, but that doesn't mean your enlightened. That means you wasted a lot of perfectly good body lice!! They get fat in the winter time!
Personal hygiene is another important thing to me, and an integral aspect of ALL human experience, especially spirituality. The way we clean ourselves is directly related to how we see ourselves. Personally I see myself being exfoliated by the loofa of a goddess, wrapped in my clothes, in a cold room, by a fire.
Not in Memphis. Did I say that? Not here. Here I am taking showers in a bathtub, in a tiled room, in a cold house. Here I see only clean shaven women. Here is all my stuff, so much stuff. Here the Lion is EVERYWHERE. Here I am not a hero. Here I am dotting my T's. There is Death.

2009-01-02T16:56:00.000-08:00

ESCANABA + "Its cold as hell out here." She said. She was standing outside the Escanaba Bus Depot., home of Indian Trails Bus Lines, with service to the U.P. and points beyond. She was on her way to grandma it up, as she would say. It was a week before some big holiday in December, and the depot was full of folks, half of which were now standing outside smoking. "You're a diehard you been standin out here the whole time!" She said to me. Last night I slept in 18 below, but she doesn't know that. None of these folks do. Betty is just callin it how she sees it, like she always does, or maybe she's just callin it. She has been here for two hours, waiting to go to Marquette, to visit her daughter and son in law, and their two litle ones, the most adorable little yankees you ever did see. Betty is old, but she rocks it like a western flyer. She lights her cigarette with a match.
Mike, who is standing next to her, just came from Marquet. "They got three feet a sno up dear awready." he says, anxious to talk to somebody, and having already filled me in on his whole story. He is wearing "trash shoes" as he calls them, and his feet are cold. He is turning on them, uncomfortable in the icy parking lot. Mike is headed to Detroit, to see some family for the Holiday. He is a Sigma Pi. He loves to cross country ski. He is going into the hotel business. Another hotel guy, Sebastian, asks Mike to use his cigarette for a jumpstart.. Sebastian is from Argentina. He has a twenty two hour flight path ahead of him, on his way to his fathers house in Buenos Aries. His father owns a lot of hotels in South America. Sebastian is ready to be in the summer again, tomorrow.
Coming out the door now is Randy. Randy isn't going anywhere. Randy is an Escanaba Taxi driver. He has befriended the dispatcher and the drivers on the Indian Trails bus line, and he hangs out here late at night. Randy lights his Marlboro Red and settles back into the corner to listen to all the talk around him. It is cold, and he likes to watch his breath move past the faces of all the riders. He thinks of where he might be going tonight, if he were going anywhere. Randy isn't cold.
I am not cold either. I am standing by my stuff, waiting to get on the bus to Milwaukee. I have had three cups of coffee since I left the Teaching Drum, and I have peed twice. I am keeping my mouth closed, guarding against a romantic tendency to hold on to things too dearly. My feet are moving to keep warm. I run in small circles. People stop talking to each other and are now gathering me up with their eyes. I have the sudden realization that I need them to survive. I keep running.

2009-01-02T16:53:00.001-08:00

IRON RIVER + and just like that Im gone. The T and D slips back into the Forest as silently as it crept up on me some two moons ago. This buss feels like a train to hell right now, and Heaven looks like a fucking christmas card. Chris Bean drove me to Iron River. He has only been here ONCE. It is the only greyhound stop within a hundred miles of the Teaching Drum. I don't know what called him to it. He felt something that led him to take the drive with me. We left the school an hour early, drove round through Eagle RIver where we stopped and got Ice Cream with Food Stamps. I bought some expensive Swiss Cheese, three doughnuts, and a bar of Chocolate. The Ice Cream was Ben and Jerry's. I got Cherry Garcia, Chris got Peanut Butter Cup. We softened it on the defrost vents of Marcus's car while we laughed about the but warmers. Chris Bean is a smart cat. We talked about the Year Long, what it means, why its so hard for people. Chris seems to know that all the Seekers will finish this Year. I told him that I wanted to try it without the food drop. He laughed. We spoke of the clan, and how important it was to living with joy, not just surviving. The circle is completeness. We barreled through the Nicolet at seventy miles an hour, eating our ice cream, and talking about Wild Foods, and Patterns, and Awareness. We got to the Sausage and Cheese and were on to discussing the end of the world, the T & D going underground. In the middle Bean had some crazy deja vue thing happen, with me and him driving through the night. It was all very thick with magic of some kind. As Iron River approached, the Moon pushed up out of the hill dressed in Yellow, and hugging the Black Forest Sea like a cat. She laughed with us at the butt warmers again.
I was pretty honored that Chris wanted to drive me out tonight. He seemed agendaless. He just wanted to spend the time. He told me that he appreciated the work that I did on the house, that he hoped I would come back. He said it was good to have me there. It feels good to be appreciated for being yourself. I'm gonna try to make it last.
We still had some time when we rolled past the Iron River Inn, where the bus stops, so we took a driving tour of the tiny mining town. Four Lutheran Churches, and a Church of the Nazarene. A Mc-e-d's, and a Ma's diner. There was even a Corner Drug Store, across from the bar. We drove through the neighborhoods and dreamt of working at the firestone and bringing our wives Home to one of these houses, "Look Honey, isn't it perfect!" "Oh yes dear, it looks just like a Christmas Card!"

2008-11-12T23:32:00.000-08:00

THE A.M. + Every night I walk through the dark to the yurt. I remember the paths pretty well, though lately its been pretty light out, moon bein full n all. It is cold, snow on the ground. There is a wood burning stove in the yurt, so most nights I light a fire. Just a small one. I remember the stove in our house when I was a kid had glass doors. The one in the yurt was made by a guy who lives here in Three Lakes. It is thin and small, but it heats the yurt up just fine. Funny how fire makes things easier to handle. Seems like just the sound of it makes me feel warmer, even though I can still see my breath after it gets going.
In the mornings I wake up right after dawn. Don't know what time it is. No clocks. I have missed morning meeting by a hair the last few days. I have been staying up with the moon. Too late. The walks in to the center are always good. I gotta walk between the ponds, past the tower and the trapper's cabin and into the woods. A right turn takes me over the dam to the sand road, or I keep straight through the woods and come out somewhere in the middle of Nadmadenewing. There are tracks out this morning. Rabbit I think, small feet, perfect step, but really far apart, like it's hopping. It is taking the same path I take each night, all the way from the woods back past the yurt. Wonder where its goin. It ain't stoppin to say hi neither. Guess it was up a little earlier than me. Most things around here are.

This whole sun time thing has got me thinkin. It seems like the way I eat is what throws me outta whack with it. For instance, if I get up thinkin about the right stuff, I don't eat breakfast, I get to work. I run down the trails. I want to do something, get started. But if I wake up, feelin stiff and sad, then I cozy up with some hot cereal and a cup of tea, and its Saturday, baby, and I ain't leavin the house. I'll just lounge around and eat all day, like I am addicted to food. Fact is, I think I am. Seems like everytime I lose a screw, I gotta peel a banana. If I fall off my bike, I wanna go eat a cookie or something. Weird.
If I was to say, " I LOVE the mornings!" I wouldn't be lying, but I'd be stretching the truth a bit. The mornings are hard for me, always have been. Usually I get started by planning a slow death, visualizing the day at its worst before I even peel my pupils from the back of my eye lids. That doesn't make a man wanna wake up at all. Makes him wanna eat doughnuts and drink coffee at ten o'clock in his underwear. I guess it comes down to what I say to myself each A.M. when I pull back the curtains in my head and face the day. If I say, "Oh no, not another one." then you can count me out. But if I say, "Blessed again? Boy am I a lucky son of a bitch." Then I'll be more likely to make my momma proud, I bet ya.
So I am gonna try and break that pattern. No more wakin up fleeing the scene. I'm gonna stick around for the show from now on. Maybe tomorrow morning I'll meet the rabbit on the way into town and he'll say, "Hey man, wanna go get some coffee and a doughnut? I know a great hole in the ground."

CISCO AND THE KNIFE + So I got a brand new knife. Yessir. Makes a man feel more like a man to have a shiny metal thing strapped to his side all the time. I use it to cut up fruit, and to make wooden spoons, and split kindling, and fer sewing and noodlin and makin meat. Meat comes from a variety of sources. Did you know that porcupine tastes like duck? Just burn off the quills and roast over an open fire and put an apple in its mouth. A tiny apple.
Eatin a lot of fish lately too. The Cisco are runnin. The Cisco is a white fish, freshwater, that spawn under the full moon in November here, in the North Woods. There are 720 lakes in three counties around these parts, and there are Cisco for the taking in every one. We went out last night lookin for the frothy waters over the rocky lake beds where they hold their orgies. We drove an hour into the falling snow, falling fat like quarter sized feathers. When we got to the lake shore of our choosing, we piled out and painted on a slightly oversized pair of chest waiters. My guides were Lety, an elder of the T and D circle, white haired and fluent in three languages, English, Spanish, and Ojibwe; Travis, a burly guy, who reminds me of Danny Graves, even wears a hat like his; Emelia, a cute girl from Madison who is stayin at the Drum for the winter brushin up on her hide tannin skills; and Coyote Three Feathers, who's name came out of a quest. We all hobbled down to the water front and unfurled the nets.

Now Cisco fishin ain't a walk in the park. It is actually a walk in the lake. I grasped one end of the net and waded twenty yards into the darkness of Sevenmile Lake, having never walked there before. The full moon gave little light to my step, and shown on the top of the water just enough to tell me that it wasn't frothy. When I reached the end of the length of the net, I turned to face my fishing partner, Travis. I could barely see him through the snow, ankle deep up by the shore, holding the other end of this net. I began the slow walk towards him, circling a little to his right. The closer I got the more convinced I became that there were no fish in the net. When I arrived at the shore again, standing a few feet from Travis, the net made a circle in the water between us. Into the loop went the other three, Lety, Emelia, and Coyote. They stuck there smaller nets down into the water in hopes of drawing up the elite fish of the Thanksgiving Moon, but there was nothing there. Oh well. Time to roll up the net, hike along the shore line for about a half hour, and try it again.
We didn't catch any fish. But the walk was good. The lake was dark and the sound of the water was enough to feel accomplished. I felt like I had beaten the cold a bit, something I have been fighting since this winter chill arrived a few weeks ago. Funny what we choose to fight, and how we equip ourselves. I used to fight teachers, armed with truth. I even fought my parents, armed with ignorance. I fought with the government, armed with poverty. I fought with Bill, armed with a broken ego, and I fight with myself and the cold, armed with comfort and a sense of entitlement. At least with the fish they don't stand a chance against my knife...once I catch them that is.

2008-11-03T08:22:00.000-08:00

NISHNAJDA + I am walking through the woods, behind Chris Bean. The air is cold, but the sun is shining. The forest around me is made up of Oaks and Maples and Basswood. The leaves have all fallen off the trees. The ground is pink and yellow and orange, the same color as the sun. Chris walks quickly, resolutely, as he has a thousand times before. Jacob is behind us. I try to keep pace with Chris, tracing his steps. His feet leave the path to tread unnecessarily on a fallen log, as wide as my leg. He balances there for four steps, taking each one in stride. My feet follow. He can tell I am mimicking his steps, I know it.

He leads us further into the forest. The trees become evergreens. Spruce, fir, pines. We come to a bog. It is low and sunny. The trees stop here, and before us there is a mossy field, with grasses and short shrubs. Here it is wet for much of the year, but now it is like a giant mattress. We walk on logs, carefully laid over the moss, one step at a time. Chris seems like he wants to run across them, but he would leave us behind. On the other side of the bog, the forest wraps around us once again as we trek further and further into the trees.
Today is my birthday, but I have forgotten it. There is a party above us, as the pines move against themselves in the wind, making music. I can smell clean, and it isn't pine-sol. It is real "clean". I have to stop, to breathe. I bend down to take off my shoes. I want to feel this.

We pass what looks like a small native village. Two wigwams and a lean-to through the trees. Chris keeps moving down the path. Down a hill, up a hill, around a bend and then we are in the middle of it. Nishnajda. This is the primitive camp of the Teaching Drum. I see faces I recognize. They are dirty faces, bright and smiling. It is good to see them here in this place. Alex, and Mateas, and Daniel. I met them six months ago, when I dropped Ginny off here. They know me right away. I look around, and they know I am looking for Ginny. Silently, they point me in the right direction. I find her tying grass to a wigwam. As I approach she stares at me, unbelieving. I kneel in front of her. Her eyes are clear and set in her face. She looks true. She smiles. Her face is a flock of birds. She has seen me. I have seen her.

Here I will gather sweet leaf, and eat basswood leaves right off the tree. Here I will use the same to wipe my ass. Here I will sit in a canoe that would tip if you sneezed in it, losing you to the cold water of the lake. Here I will run down the paths with my eyes closed, waiting for a tree. Here I will watch Ginny gather nettles and raspberry leaves. Here I will drink wild water. Here I will eat the head of the raccoon. Here I will dig for spruce root, to build the wigwam. Here I will bundle grass and cut rawhide string. Here I will find nothing that distracts from life except myself, which is all that ever distracts from life. Here I will be as a child. Nishnajda is "where the old way returns."

2008-11-02T17:19:00.000-08:00

TO MUCH TO SAY + On the way back from camp, Ray and I ran into a traveller who was losing their tail pipe. They were looking for a piece of wire to hold it on, or something, so they could get back home. I went into the forest, dug down into the dirt below a spruce tree, and found a root about the size of my pinky finger. I dug out a few feet of it, quickly shaved of most of the bark, and used it to tie the woman's exhaust pipe back onto her car. Natives used the stuff to build their houses. The forest is full of it. Funny how she had her head buried in the trunk of her car.

I get to go back out to camp every now and then. I canoed out with Chris the other day to deliver some birch bark for the final stages of the wigwam. The load was tall on the front of the canoe. The lake was short, its little winds lapping against the side of the canoe facing the south.

We spent the day tying grass bundles with rawhide string, to be used as the walls of the wigwam that Ginny and all the students are making. It is a bigger wigwam than their personal ones, which they have stayed in over the summer months. This is a picture of Ginny's.

Incidentally. I moved out to the yurt. The yurt was built by Mary. I don't really know her. I am told she would be glad to know that I am living in her yurt. It is quite far from the center here at Teaching Drum. I have to wake up a little before dawn to make it to morning meeting. I have no clocks, only the heavenly bodies. I dug a food pit, and have filled it with potatoes and carrots and onions and cabbage and venison back strap and eggs and bear fat. After morning meeting each day I make breakfast, sitting in front of the yurt, staring out across the pines. I keep my fire small, and use a lot of bear fat.

By the time the sun tops the trees, the frost is gone and I am on my way back across the ponds to the Center, to continue on my work there, building an addition onto the family house. I am there all day, and usually eat dinner there. Dinner is fun. Everyone from the school comes together to eat in a circle on the floor every night. We talk of our day, and connect. Everyone knows so much about everyone else, and no one slips through the cracks. Tamarack sits over the meeting like an old man would, quietly and inquisitively. The kids run around after eating a few bites. There is always a story to be told and people laugh or sigh or shake thier heads accordingly. It is good to be a part of a small circle like this. It is just big enough to be kind to me.

I bought a knife, and made a sheath for it. I also bought a tomahawk. It helps with gathering firewood, which is an important job around here if you wanna stay warm. The yurt has a stove and is quite cozy. I also bought some wool pants, to stay warm, and a pair of mittens and some socks and a hat. I bought a moleskin, to keep notes on things I am learning. These I got from the store here at the Teaching Drum, all on store credit and in trade for my work. My work gets me out of bed.

I dressed a deer the other day. Ray and I hung it up in the shop and cut it down piece by piece. It had been hit by a car. Its gut was busted open and it looked like a bomb had gone off inside it. We saved most of it, down to the balls. It stank like the worst shit I've ever had. My knife tore through it, and it was surprisingly easy to cut up into little steaks. Ray and I wrapped it all, and put it in the meat freezer, properly labeled of course. I get to keep the hide. I will make a pair of shoes.

I realize I dream to much. I am not a bird. I am not a fog. I am not an ocean or a candle or a pine tree, except in my dreams, but in my dreams I do not bless the same things as I do during the day. In my dreams I do not have the same worries, or the same wants. In my dreams I have different limitations. But when I wake up I am a man. When I wake up there is the sun and the wind and frost covering the wild raspberry outside my door. There is the possibility of sleeping in, and the necessity of getting out of bed. I suppose these are simple things. Things that don't appeal to the mind of the satisfied. To the unsatisfied, to those that don't feel quenched by the same things as most, these are the things that hold us up. My crutches are the world around me. My crutches are the way the trees point in the direction of the wind. My crutches are that ring necked quail that keeps popping up down in the ponds here at Teaching Drum.

Anyone that has ever fallen knows what I am talking about, The eighteen different colors of ipod you can get might make you feel better. If you are confident enough to take pleasure in how many different kinds of running shoes are available to you, then more power to you, but I am not that strong. I need to feel hard, like the rocks around my fire. I need to let the light of the sun bake my skin. I need to tear up when I run into the cold cold mornings, and not care that my face is wet. I need my feet to get tired, and my fingers to get raw. I need to always be changing and moving my soul to new portions of reality, to new understandings.

2008-10-27T17:40:00.000-07:00

BIRTHDAY PRESENCE + I rode the bus to Milwaukee. Hung out in the bus station for about an hour. Drank some grape juice. Greyhound seems to be the way of the bus set (see jet set). They are varied, and interesting. On the way to Esconaba I sat in the back of the bus with Charise, and her kids, who were awed by my guitar. And there was Bill across the aisle, who seemed very excited about riding the bus. He looked like John Prine on the cover of Bruised Orange. There were two Polish guys behind me, toting their tools with them, on their way to Green Bay for work. We talked, and slept, and everyone but me stepped off the bus for a smoke at every stop until we got to Michigan. At Esconaba we switched to the Iron River bus, the last leg of anyone's trip, ever. Iron River was barely big enough to merit a bus trip, and there were only two of us on the bus. I turned and asked the kid why he was going to Iron River. He said, " Uh, Teaching Drum?" So we had something in common. His name was Jacob, and the Teaching Drum is an outdoor school in Three Lakes, Wisconsin, but we were still in Michigan, and had a long way to go yet. We careened through the darkness and the tiny hours of the morning. There was no hope beyond the walls of the bus it seemed. I was on my way to the woods. We passed through a few towns, where there were bars and laundromats and houses. No one was out. We were the only machine on the road. We passed a neon sign over a Mason Temple. The eye of Ra. Everywhere at once.
Iron River was still a long ways away when we actually arrived there. It was four in the morning, and the bus dropped us off in the parking lot of an Insurance salesman. It was cold. Me and Jacob stood against the wall of the building, waiting for our ride, the whole sleepy town within site. There was a stray dog, and some hunters driving out into the darkness. Jacob and I danced to keep warm, playing guitar and finger fencing. He was from a commune in Virginia. He was on his way to spend a week at Teaching Drum, out in the woods.

When the minivan pulled up, about an hour and a half after waiting, we piled in to the hypothermic heat of the cars AC and the cautious warmth of our driver, Ray. She was one of the employees of Teaching Drum, and on the hour or so drive back to the school, she filled us in on what was to be expected, and asked us about our lives up unto that point. We drove on, and I got more and more excited. Excited to see Ginny, whom I hadn't seen in seven long months, excited to be in the woods, excited to be in balance again. Ray was keen to my anxiousness and answered my questions with all the awareness of a doting mother. Jacob sat quietly in the back, and was quick to laugh his winnowy laugh.
We pulled into the Teaching Drum. I left my stuff in the van. Everyone was still asleep. Ray told us we could hang out in the office. It was supposed to be warm. I had to much energy to sit anywhere, so I found the wood shop. This would be a spot where I could work. It looked well built, but unused. I began to straighten it. I put up tools, cleaned up trash, cleaned off the work bench, swept the floor, and started a fire. The fire stove was big and the room was warm in no time. The Teaching Drum began to stir. I saw Tamarack first. Tamarack is the elder of the school, and looks like your classic guru, short, with a long flowing beard and hair, all silver, the color of snow. His glasses sit on the edge of his nose, and he speaks slowly. I caught his eyes. They are blue like the sky, and they startled me at first. They looked clean into mine. I knew I was in worthy company. Tamarack's greeting was short and to the point, I should find Chris Bean, he would get me settled. He sent me over to the family house for some food.
The family house is home to nine teach and drummers, three children and their mothers, another employee and Chris Bean, the "assistant to the dean". Chris greeted me heartily in his pajamas, offered me some grub, and told me he would come find me after breakfast, but if I needed anything, he'd be there. The house was alive with activity. There were three little boys running around, making all the noise they could, and it was only seven thirty. This was a warm place as well, with a good stove in the middle of the big room. I felt at home already.
I went back to the shop, where it was quiet. I ate some nuts that I found being stored in the back room, and sat down to play guitar. Shortly, Tamarack came in with a tall fella in aviators and cowboy boots named Billy. Billy was unloading some windows from a van, and needed some help. I hopped to it, anxious to be of service. We unloaded the van, and Billy and I talked about this and that. Then it was time for me to meet with Chris. He came out of the house and we strolled to the office to pick up Jacob. We were heading out to the woods. Here I am, having just arrived, on the morning of my birthday, with no sleep, nuts for breakfast, didn't know a soul, and already it was shaping up to be the best birthday ever.

2008-10-27T17:39:00.000-07:00

TOWN + I arrived on the doorstep of the illustrious Goldie in the heart of Chitown on the night of the full moon and said goodbye to Lisa as she drove the rest of the way to Madison by herself. Now, I should mention that Goldie and I have some history, albiet recent. I first met Goldie backstage at Bonaroo this past summer. I was working as a stagehand, thoroughly bored by the prospect of working at the largest music festival in the world. Goldie streamed in on a breeze, spraying people with a water bottle. I saw her three or four times, associating her presence with a cool blast of free non chlorinated water and a burst of unequalled exuberance. Not the bubbly kind of exuberance mind you, but the determined kind. Here was a trooper, I thought to myself. Goldie At the suggestion of O.T. I attended the production party at the end of the week, mostly just to steal golf carts, and there I met Goldie once again. She had finagled her way into a press pass, and offered to use her charm to get me a free beer. I accepted, and we talked well into the night about our starkly different experiences at Bonaroo. She mentioned that she was stranded for a few days, and expressed her wish to see some of good ole Tennessee. Since me and the boys were going camping that weekend, I invited her along. She came, and fell right in with the pack. We had a wonderful time, climbing rocks and swimming, tripping on Bonaroo spoils and cataloging the escapades of the local pack of coyotes. We scared a white woman, and peeked the Ranger's interest in nudity. I drove her back to Bonaroo.
I saw her again in Rhode Island, and then in New York, where she was struggling to become a full time actress. That is what brought her to Chicago, and when I arrived she was the toast of the town, having landed a role in an adaptation of C.S. Lewis' Screwtape Letters. I called her out of the blue, and she was happy to invite me into her temporary home. The next day I went to see her show. She played a demon. Toadpipe, opposite Max McLane, to rave reviews. The show, based on one of my favorite books, was moving and smart, and I left impressed and convicted. If ever you get a chance to read The Screwtape Letters, I highly recommend it.

I awoke the next morning planning to leave the next day, and called up an old high school friend who was living in Chicago, Gretchen. Gretchen worked at a bar on the North side of town, so while Goldie did another show, I rode the L to have a few beers with Gretchen. It is funny, there is no garuntee that you are going to get along with someone whom you haven't even spoken to for ten years, but Gretch and I had plenty to talk about, and I immediately remembered why I called her up in the first place. She was one of the only friends from high school that I thought about still, smart, funny, a bit crazy, and genuine. I had a blast. Goldie joined us later, and I sang a few songs during the open mic.
As the night wound down we met some interesting characters. Bjorn, who was a fan of the Haiku, wrote a good one, but I can't remember it. Bjorn sang Tom Waits tunes like they had been written by Gershwin, and had a great smile, like the bus driver on The Simpsons. We also met Randy, a greaser in the eighties, he was now a chef and a songwriter. He invited us to his restaurant.
Chicago was being good to me, so I decidd to stay a bit, forsaking my natural urge to get the hell outta dodge, and return once again to the wilderness.The next day, me and Goldie went to Randy's place and ate the most delicious meal of Mahi Mahi and Butterfish (who says a rouge don't do well for himself). They treated Goldie like a Hollywood Star, catering to her modest needs with all the benevolence of paid servants. The owner Pete came out and showed us back to the kitchen, where all the hispanic guys introduced themselves, impressed by Goldie's Spanish. We were done eating, and,, bidding them all a fond farewelll, stepped outside to hail a cab. One never came. So they called one. It never showed up, and Goldie was late for her show. Well. Pete, the owner, came out and said, "Come on kids." so we hoped into his convertable and he drove us halfway across town, still in his chef's coat, weaving in and out of traffic like a honey bee on speed. I mean we DROVE. We got there in time, and Goldie put on another fantastic show.
The next day, I rode out once again to see Gretchen. We met at her bar and then walked to her house so she could get another coat. We went back to the bar and had some grub, talked about high school people, then went back to her place and listened to music.It was good to hang out with Gretchen. I hope we get to do it again someday.
The next morning I woke up with a fury to get outta town. Being stuck in Chicago, when I wanted to be in the woods, was not workin out, no matter how welcomed I felt. I tried all my options. The bike wasn't gonna be fast enough. I had used up that time in Chitown. It would have taken me a week of hard riding to get to Three Lakes, with all my stuff. I tried the rideshare thing. No luck. I even called Diane, but she wasn't going to be in Milwaukee until Monday night, and I couldn't ask her for help. Goldie offered me a train ticket, but they wouldn't allow bikes. After finding that out, I had a break down. The first one since I left Memphis. I forgot why I was on this trip. I forgot the whole art of timing, planning, letting the wind just push you along. I had stopped paying attention, and I was mad at myself for it. I felt ashamed and helpless.
I probably would still be there if Goldie hadn't reminded me what I was doing. It's funny. I know I can survive on my own. I know I can get by. I know that if I want something, I can probably get it in good time. But pride is a killer, and I had let it seep in on the purity of this trip. None of us would be where we are without the people that got us there. Maybe that's what this whole trip is beginning to be about. Other people. Goldie, for instance. She reminded me that receiving is the other half of giving, and that refusing other's kindness is the same thing as reserving your own. I hope I never have to be reminded of that again. But I probably will be.
So now I am on my way to Three Lakes (thanks Goldie), the civilized world behind me, and I owe this whole trip to a host of people that I barely know. I don't know why, but I have been taken care of.

2008-10-19T15:26:00.000-07:00

CAUGHT IN A HALF LISA + So when I left New York I left with Lisa. I caught the train up to Bedford Hills, and threw my whole life in the back of her brand new car. The day was beautiful and clear, and by the time we crossed the Hudson, I was breathing easy again, glad to be out of New York. Lisa pulled over at an overlook, and we took pictures, and ate a cliff bar. The autumn show was going full throttle, and sometimes it was hard not to stare at the colors streaming past. In the car we began to wrestle with words. We talked of our lives and what we had done up unto that point. Lisa had spent half her life in a canoe, paddling around pristine waters, and had spent some time working for the IBEW in Madison. I told her about art school and the co-op, and the South. She listened with the curt intelligent attention span of a self realized woman of the working class, and I felt glad to have caught a ride with someone I could talk to.

All the time we talked, without music or the radio, while five states rolled by on the I 80. Lisa asked about my family, and I told her about Uncle Terry and my dad, and my Mom in Texas and my sister. I asked her what she thought about the politics of our country, and she agreed that we couldn't talk about that without talking about the simple spiritual questions of life. There are mountains we wanted to move, towering over us, our culture. We wanted to be more educated, more pragmatic. We wanted to live freely, and allow others to live freely. We talked about Non-profits, and the elitist left wing, and we talked about the right and their religion. We talked about sex and and kids and kids and sex. We talked about New York, and Madison, and Memphis, and Cleveland. We talked about how it goes, being alive, feeling powerless to change things, and how feeling powerful is quite possibly just a matter of flipping the switch in our brains.
Lisa had a lot of things figured out. We tried out our ideas on each other, and played the devil's advocate just in case. It was a good wrestling match. I felt like I had spent much time staring up at the mountains and the open sky behind them, cursing their size and weight, while Lisa had learned to carry her bag of pebbles responsibly, without sacrificing her principles, something I thought was beginning to look impossible. We were both on the same side of the great divide, but Lisa, it seemed, had seen the pass.

As the day grew darker, we spoke of shit, how we should deal with it. Composting toilets in the backs of RV's and the industrial composting complex that would have to accompany the mass use of such technology. We drove by wheat fields and chicken farms (what was that smell) as the full moon chased the sun away. We were getting more pragmatic, exploring our bag of pebbles, comparing jewels. We laughed about the masses peeing in a box, and Lisa explained the more intelligent options for birth control, accepting my somewhat more irresponsible viewpoints as the concise decisions of one seeking wholeness. We wondered why all the stupid ones keep having kids, and immediately felt bad for calling them stupid. The end of the world was no reason to stop having kids, even if it did mean it wouldn't be as fun.
We drew nearer and nearer to Chicago. The darkness enveloped us and the coming apocalypse stayed on our minds. We each have someplace to go when the shit hits the fan. We both agreed that our nation was about to break down, and we both felt pretty good about it. We would be alright. All those yuppie kids in NYC and the fat-ass managers at the IBEW would have to move over. Lisa and I are the New World Order.

2008-10-18T00:40:00.000-07:00

IN ON THE OUT + So that's it. The fireworks are over. New York says goodbye like Ms. America, stiffly. I rode my bike all over this town, dancing with yellow cabs and metro buses, nearly missing a thousand pedestrians, all the while making sure Moona (that's my guitar) didn't fall of my back. I say see ya later to all my friends here. Melissa, you would have been a saint in another century. Sarah, thanks for reminding me that I'm a little smarter now than I used to be. I hope Bed Stuy knows what they've got growing in their back yard. Andy, you angel you. Go back to heaven. Ariel, you never left. Sean ... yea budie. Tell Elizabeth I said that she could do better, but why would she want to? Take a moment to give Marianna my best, and tell Amanda to hang on to her head. To Joe, I'll be back. To the Naz, I owe you a few. Keep Bosco outta the ring for a while. To PeeWee and all the Pass Out gang, cheap shots all round next time I'm in town. To the kids on Hope Street, keep scarin the crap out of yourselves. To the ones in the park, you should have been listening. To that Italian guy, thanks for listening. To all the sons and daughters of the free masons, where are you walking to anyway?
I feel like I might have been crushed under the Manhattan sky line had I stayed much longer. I don't know how you guys do it. But it was nice to look out over the city from a few different rooftops, and to think I could have a piece of the pie if I wanted. Sitting in Union Square, watching G.W.'s horse walk away while everybody on Wall Street forgot how it felt to be high was the best laugh I've had in a while. I hope it never recovers. I think about that moment in Central Park when those twin girls gave me twin dollars. They didn't know what to think. They just knew I sounded, and that's enough. I got asked why I brought such a quiet guitar to the noisiest city on earth, well, maybe just to see if I could turn things down a bit. Those girls heard it. And so did Mike, and the Italian guy, and a few others.

If I could I wouldn't mind being a playboy, and I found myself singing Frank Sinatra songs and kicking the street. New York will do that to ya. All the homeless guys in Washington Square Park made me feel at home, like I was back in Memphis. They knew the blues. And the reds. All the Hungarian girls in the pastry shop were sweeter than the cakes they served, only darker. Call me when all the poor kids in Newark move back to the island. Somebody needs to run those Trusties outta there, my God. They have taken over the place. If the cats in Harlem can't afford the rent, then who's gonna make New York fun again? I dunno. I didn't have such a bad time of it. And if ever I do return, I'll bring a louder guitar.

2008-10-17T18:36:00.000-07:00

INTO THE DARK AGES + Cheyrl worked at a dungeon. Men payed her to slap them around and call them names, to stand, in heels, on their balls, and to piss on them. It was a job that came with the slow realization that she needed money to eat, and New York wasn't going to pay here to be creative. Cheyrl went to Art School. She has a degree. She is a prim and proper, modern woman, and if you met her on the subway you would invite her over to watch French films and drink cocktails, or maybe take her to a play. She looks as though she could be the sweetest thing in this sour place. A degenerate she is not. The dungeon was a good job. It payed well, better than any other job that exploited her form, which is the only kind of job a girl like that can get in New York City. It paid the rent. She quit that job because her boyfriend didn't like it. Now she makes Italian pornos, doing pretty much the same thing, except on film. She never takes her clothes off. That would be to much, and though she has had many proposals, she has never taken any of them. She has seen the most elite of that city stoop to their knees at her command, and she has lost all respect for them, if she ever had any in the first place.

Once she let one of them pleasure her. He used his manicured fingers. The same ones that sign your checks. And his leathery smile appears on the annual report of a thousand companies, companies that supplied your mother with the nipples for your bottle, and gave your Dad his first real break. His is the same confidence that we all aspire to. He is living the American Dream, and he hates himself for it. Cheyrl hates him to, and when she walks down the street with you smiling you would be lucky to see her flinch, even as he walks by. She is tough as nails, because she has been shown the secret degenerate, and knows herself, and you, to be among them.
When you talk of politics, Cheyrl doesn't have much to say. She is knee deep in the opulence of a blacked out nation. She has seen the McCains and Obamas of the world covered in her piss. She has seen them peel another bill off the backs of the American people for one more quick session of hog tie. She needs no bail out plan, because her boat has no leaks. The boat of American self loathing is unsinkable. Cheyrl no longer capitalizes "America", but she has begun to sign her name in all caps. It makes her feel taller.
When it comes right down to it, she has no where else to go. There are no knights in shining armor, no moors of endless green grass, no pristine forests. There is no religion, no science. All the questions have been answered in a language that she does not understand. All the sides have already been taken. You would suggest she get the hell out, go back home, or get a job on a farm somewhere, driving a combine, but she promised herself, like so many of us, that she would do this on her own, and who would you be to crush that dream? You are a hypocrite. You have no answers. You spend all your time distracting your self with the same indulgences as everyone else, wishing you were more like those degenerates that Cheyrl works for. You have no where to run either.
And so as you careen through the underground, staring through the windows of the subway into the void underneath New York, you begin to wish your eyes were as accustomed to the darkness as hers are.

HEY HEY HEY + Be careful walking down the street in New York, you might trip over yourself about 6 million times. I know everybody knows it, but there are more people here than you can shake a stick at. Did you ever wonder how we did it? Well, New York will tell you. Just listen out your window in the morning and you can hear it. The sounds of progress. More like the sounds of the rabbit hole.

2008-10-17T18:34:00.001-07:00

2008-10-16T09:52:00.001-07:00

A PART APART + New York is growing hair in funny places, like a prepubescent child. It is awkward and flailing, not knowing what to do with it's dying youth. Then again maybe that's just me. But despite my own recognizance New York fails to release me.
I am now with Lee, the illustrious communist cowboy with volume two of Capital in his hand. He's to smart for Marx, and to smart to admit it. If I could bleed into a cup all my martyrdom, Lee would knock it onto the floor with no ceremony, and laugh at my wounds. He is fast becoming a good friend, in fact, I feel like a visiting monarch, and Lee is giving me the tour de force.
We started in Union Square, where Lee works at the Farmer's Market. Full of ripe old biddies and veggies to boot. We have gorged ourselves on cauliflower and romanesco, cheese and apple cider. Lee works with Joe, an old New Yorker, who has some stories to tell, albeit between puffs of smoke and chowder jobs. He makes a mean tomato salad (I think the secret is in the herb). We went "bird watching" with Joe out on Jamaica Bay. There were more benches than birds, and cages around the nests of absentee Sea Turtles, but Joe was at home in the wilder-like. I can't say much for New York's nature, but I was glad to share bench six with Lee and Joe for just a second.
Lee lives with his uncle, The Naz, about three days out of the month (the rest of the time he lives with his old lady on the Lower East Side, the bum). Chez Naz is a huge New York Apartment on the Upper West Side, overlooking Morningside Park and the last black part of Harlem. Lee's uncle, The Naz, has lived in the apartment all his life, and so did his mom, and so did her mom, so the rent is cheap, and there's a chop saw in the living room, so I feel right at home. I stretched a couple of wall sized canvas for The Naz to paint on, and he lets me sleep in Lee's room. We talked all day on Sunday about Morality, pitting Science and Religion against one another in a wrestling match that ended in a draw.
It seems like there is a lot of wrestling going on these days. New Yorkers on the whole have not yet felt the sting of the falling economies, as the traders can still buy their cocaine, and their girlfriends can still buy their hats. It is not funny to watch them crowd the bars in Manhattan, laughing about those mavericks in Washington, and slinging mud using their own jargon, the jargon of a leisure class. The rest of the world, and by that I mean the blue collars, the Naz, Lee, Joe, my dad and mom, all those with a see saw stake in the system, are wondering where we went wrong. Some seem to have a better idea than others, but nonetheless toss and turn in their rented beds, waiting for the repo man. The american dream has become a nightmare.
It is not one we can wake up from quite yet. We are still attached to our ideologies so concretely that absolutes are drowning in the dialect of abstraction. Gay marriage, abortion, bail out plans, christian, liberal, black, white, war, peace, change, maverick, joe six pack. We know nothing of these subjects, despite the fact that they seem to command our tongues. Our country is so polarized by the language of deceit that we have forgotten the sound of truth. The stone table has not yet been broken, the lion is still dead.
So New York rumbles on, pushing all of its poor out into the deep parts of the east river, to be swept up in the current, while on the island they party and shmooze and sing and dance like so many indulgent pigs being fattened for the slaughter. Lee and I are living on the trickle down, waiting for the world to end.

2008-09-22T12:36:00.000-07:00

IT'S A NEW YORK + I arrived by Saturn and Jupiter was the only thing in the sky. Unnatural daylight makes the clouds look like purple algae floating in a royal blue ocean. The sea is churning though, as the world's city works up a froth of foamy beer and soapy operas. The sons and daughters of Joni Mitchell, awake with the caffeine of a city that never sleeps, are avoiding the nightmare of mediocrity at all costs. It's better not to turn the light off.
I am staying on Hope Street. Go East from the edge of Brooklyn, up two blocks, then a right on Metropolitan. Look for the party. 19 Hope Street is the home of almost a hundred artists and musicians, or waiters and bartenders, depending on how you look at it. I see them on the way to the bathroom, and they are quick to know me. It is like deCleyre without all the conversation.
The room is about as big as a super computer, housing the dual processor of Andy Strong and Ariel Hansen. They are glad to have me, and I am glad to have them. We play music and dance. Ariel made the best pancakes I have ever tasted. Andy works at a restaurant around the corner, so we might eat free sometimes.
It costs twenty dollars to go outside here, and fruit is a dollar a peach. I am surprised I have made it this far on thirty dollars. I am playing guitar mostly all the time. New Yorkers aren't more talented than the rest of the country, just more egocentric. Folks have been nice though. I wandered into a BBQ on a roof on the Lower East Side the other day after leaving an open mic, and was treated like family there by the tenants and their friends.
Yesterday on the subway I noticed a man highlighting something in the Talmud. I asked what it was. " It is," he said, " an interesting scripture." I asked him what it was, again. He said that it was better to die of starvation than to be a beggar or a thief. He asked if I agreed. I said it was scripture and that it would naturally be hard to disagree with, but I told him that I thought it was better to trust that you will be provided for, than to fear death enough to beg or steal. He asked if I thought I had been provided for. I said "Absolutely."

Being here is like being on a shelf of sardines in a convenient store. Plenty of light. Lots of food. Paper towels, but it kind of stinks and there's no room. I have been floating around, waking up early to go up on the roof and scream at everybody on the street to music. Then breakfast with the kids. The 19 Hope Street Monsters, they are called by some. They like their hibernation. I am amazed by how different they all are, and how close they live to one another. Around two or so I hike off to an open mic or a park and play until late in the afternoon. My bike is a studly consort. The people of New York are prone to listening for short periods of time, unless I am walking with them, in their pocket, like their i pods. Everyone here has one. Do you?
I am afraid I cannot compete with the white lament of technology. It is the new art and I am an old bugger, obsessed with the twang of tuning forks and the texture of reproductions. I don't want to admit to being afraid, but I am caught unawares by the glass eye of this monster, frozen in my tracks. So if I don't exit the premises post haste, I might lose my head, you get it? I am not saying that it's a deadly sin, I mean this is a blog or something, but I can't wrap my head space around my web space dude. Period.
I met a man named Mike at an open mic. He was open too, I guess. We talked for a little while before the music started of song writing and saturation and word salads. He wanted a simpler way to say what was on his mind, which I guess is what we all want. I talked his ear off, which might have been counter productive, but when it was all over I think we both agreed to rest on our laurels for a bit, to not be driven by the engine but by the motion of the wind. It makes it less complicated that way. Not quite binary, you know what I mean?
So I am sticking to my guns. Old, old, old guns. Rickety ones that you have to oil all the time, and they get jammed up with coffee and cigarettes. And old bullets, like Truth and Faith and Principles and Fundamentals, Absolutes even. Bullets with capital letters. They may not have a chance against the new glass your looking into now, but they might still have a chance against your good olde flesh and bone.

2008-09-16T11:52:00.000-07:00

MY SOUL SAVE + The inches are getting larger on the moon. She quakes in the sky like a hung slave spinning on her noose, and she is my clock. As Moon begins to fade I am running to the city. Don't know why yet, but I'll find out soon enough. In the meantime I have stolen some wall from the house, and painted a painting of the lake during the day at night. The water shucks the trees and snaps the sky here all day long, and forms its own atmosphere over a strange landscape of rocks and pine trees like the space needle a hundred inches high. Fish live there like blimps. If you try to follow one it leads you into the sun, and the sun leads you into the sky, and the sky leads you to your direction, because that is where you were before. Borders are impossible to keep here. I leave to stay, sleep to wake, eat to lose it on the ride back from Providence, swim to walk, and row to pray. Lots of time for that out here.
Did you ever forget what makes you happy? Thought ya had it down didn't ya? Just take away eating for pleasure, driving for escape, masturbating for sleep, and drinking for courage and you get unbored real quick. Takes a minute, but then the back of your neck starts a war with the pit of your stomach, there ends up being nothing chasing you at all, something snaps, and your back on Mars again, looking over at Venus and laughing at her ellipse while the gatekeepers fall into a dream about answers. I had a few once.
Where I am now there are no questions, not even as how to cease from asking them. There are hearts at dinner, and the fish at night. There is one squirrel with a bark you'd swear was pissed at you. Words here just mean smelling someone else's fear, and it's all right are the only words. I can't seem to remember why I was so emotional when I looked into the eyes of the one who said there wasn't a number for two. Turns out there isn't a number for one either. Try and count the trees.

Adam and Eve kicked the garden out. I'm going through the stuff that's still on the side of the road. Some good stuff too. Found an old book of animals, pictures are nice. There's a pair of shoes, looks like moccasins yep. No clothes. No dishes. Little bit of music. Hmmm. Not my tastes. Then again, what is.
When I leave the Island, I am taking a bike and a pancho, (thanks Mary), some clothes, some pencils, some paper, and a book. I am leaving behind a few shoddy windows, an unparalleled outdoor entertainment center, a painted house, and a little salt and blood. I think its a fair exchange. But hey, like I said, no distinctions right? I mean, who needs to define it. We already have more books rotting in abandoned buildings than we do trees rotting in the forest. We already have squares that hold colors in high definition. We even carry around made up heavenly bodies in our pockets, just to make sure we don't piss somebody off.
I will miss this place though. I will miss sitting on the rock out on the point, letting the sun steal my skin while I looked the other way.I will remember what the water said. I will remember how the food never tasted like you thought it was going to. I will want to come back and cast a line out for a blimp that knows that I know that he's been hooked. I will want to come back and see the island melt into the rest of the world and run fast down the path through the woods on the darkest night, under the dead moon.

2008-09-10T16:19:00.000-07:00

LABOR DAY + On the sixth day, Shawn took me to Hog Island. It was once owned by the man who invented the trolley. It is in Naraganset Bay. Now there are many people who live there. There is no ferry. Shawn's grandmother, Maggie, is one of the oldest residents of Hog Island. She and Shawn's grandfather bought land there when it was cheap, and have spent a few decades there building houses and throwing clam bakes.
We had to hitch a ride over with a couple a guys Shawn called South Enders. Now this was a clue into the deep rivalry between the old generation of Hog Island, and the Newbie, land grabbing generation of Hog Island. They dropped us of at the Boat House, which was practically an old castle ruin, except that someone lived upstairs. We could see the Mt. Hope bridge.
The house was a short walk across the island. It was built by Joe Cook over many years, and is constructed entirely out of discarded materials. I finer house I have rarely seen. It pointed gracefully at the setting sun, and that first night I felt I could remain there forever.
The next morning we awoke slowly, ate,, and lazed about on the beach until the afternoon, when Shawn took us cohogging. Now for the laymen that's Clam Hunting, and boy is it fun. Standing in the sun on the ocean floor, feeling with your feet for subterranean creatures, watching seagulls fly around wishing they had your cunning. It was worth every minute.
And the FEAST! What a scene.

We ate until we could not eat anymore. Then we dashed for the first ride off of Hog we could find. We had to get back. We found a ride with a family that looked like they had dipped there toe in the Kennedy's pool, and rode over bathed in orange light as the sun set on Bristol.
We were back on the island in no time, and the next day set to work on the windows of the big house, my first real project since my arrival. I had already had a lot of different views on how it should be done, and so I did it to the best of my abilities considering the circumstances, but apparently either my abilities or the circumstances were sub par, I still can't figure out which. They were finished on time, and I moved on to the next project just a few days ago now. We are painting the house.
Painting has always been a favorite chore of mine, and we have wasted no time strategizn. The house is almost painted and it has been only two days. When it is finished I will prepare to leave.

2008-09-09T17:48:00.000-07:00

SHIP SHAPE + I got here not too long ago, bout a week and a half or so. Flew into Warwick, Rhode Island on September somethin er other. Shawn and Mary picked me up in a Saturn Station Wagon and we drove to a bar in Providence called Matty's and listened to some yankee blues. Then we went to the island.
Everything is here. There is a big screen TV on the island, a pool table, a coffee maker, a laptop, a hammer dulcimer, a work out tent, a table saw, a well, and an outdoor shower. Actually its all outdoor. Everything is covered with mushrooms and moss.
Other than the amenities just mentioned the island bears a house on its back, with only a small septic system. There is an outdoor kitchen (next to the outdoor pool table) which unknowingly clogs the small septic system on a regular basis. The stove runs on kerosene. The food that is stocked here is mostly bread stuffs, raman, cereal, english muffins, there are eggs and frozen pizzas and sugary drinks and all the condiments you'll ever need.
Mrs. Quite, or Susan, as she prefers to be called, manages to eeek out a good dinner from these ungodly ingredients about twice a week so far. Salmon, Quiche, and other misspelled items. She is a plump old betty, barely able to hold her medical license for being so damned unhealthy herself. She wants people to like her very much.
The family Quite owns the island, and Susan Quite is the queen. She met her second husband Tim at a nudist camp up in Pascoag. Tim was an Army Ranger who was hit in the head, and now everyone thinks he's slow, but really he's just mad he didn't get to kill anybody. Susan has two son's who both dislike their stepfather; Eric, who is living in a campground somewhere in Colorado, and Shawn, who has lived on the island every summer for almost fifteen years.
That's how I came to be here. I know Shawn from Memphis. He used to live in a house I lived in there that was a hippie flop. We became friends. He believes that one day this island will be a great hippie flop too. Boy is he wrong. I came here to help him achieve this unachievable goal. Susan Quite will be sure to wring the neck of that chicken with its leash.
Also living on the island is Mary. I went to school with Mary. We had some good times. She has been on the island now for three months working with Shawn and others on the house. They've had some good times. Now it is Shawn, Mary, and me. And Susan and Tim. Every once in awhile we go to town for a drink, the three (five) of us.

The island is situated on the main source of drinking water for the small town of Chapachet, Rhode Island. The island is shaped like a peanut. I live on the other side from all the amenities. The family calls it The Point. It is, put more simply, the furthest point on the island from any of them. There is a large tent there, with a bunk bed. Upon my arrival I added a table and a chair. There have been a host of other islanders to stay in the tent. The last one to stay there was a man named Chad who, judging by the condition of the mattress, was quite a hefty boy. The mattress is shaped like a peanut too.
The door to my tent faces east, and I am awakened every morning when the sun clears the trees on the nearest shore of the lake. I walk down to the Southern Shore of our island and bathe, early enough not to scare the neighbors across the lake who might shortly be enjoying their coffee on their decks. I brush my teeth with a plastic toothbrush and blood root powder. I usually fill the early morning writing or playing guitar. Sometimes I just sit on the rock off the edge of the island and watch the water seek to move beyond itself until the sun is high enough to dry up any excuse not to be working. Then I wander to the civilized side of the island and fry an egg, some hash, and wait until someone else comes to stare over my shoulder at the yolk.
When it rains we wander from tent roof to tent roof smoking cigarettes and wondering if there's anything constructive we could be doing. When the sun is up we work and swim and eat light. We work on the house. Windows, wiring, a cellar door, painting, a stair case, all this needs to be done. We work at our own pace, much to Susan's distaste, but she is not our boss, she is our patron.
Sometimes I draw. Always the guitar. Mary and Shawn haven't heard the same old songs that they've heard back home so they are new again, and I play them like I was in church, gritting my teeth and holding my heart down so as not to choke on it. When I am alone on the point I play to peel away at the silence, and there is much silence.
I fish. I like it. It is an excuse to be bored, which is one of my favorite hobbies. I catch sun fish and perch, funny little northeastern fish. None big enough to eat. I just like to sit on the water in the canoe and let the wind carry me in circles. The sun sinks into the trees, satisfied with its mirrored image in the water, and ready for the night. The moon is in half now, and tilts across the southern sky like a cat. Its gone by ten, and so are the fish.
At night we sit on the dock and count the stars. Sometimes we sit in the house and listen to music. The crickets and frogs form their own arrangement, accompanied by an owl, and a pack of coyotes. Sometimes a boat in the distance, carrying someone across the glassy lake with a rancid scream, like a dying bear in a tunnel. Every now and then Tim will watch a movie with naked girls in it somewhere on the outdoor TV, and it makes the island look like its having its own little apocalypse, horsemen and all.