The Old Mule

Departure

A friend has passed. He died without home or family. Thus, today was the sweetest ascent as those whom he had touched gathered in a garden to give thanks, and remember. People drifted in…one, then a few more, soon we were many. We spoke stories, remembered the kind and gracious man, and bemoaned the disappearance of his earthly form. What a generous, fine human. And the perfect smile; always happy, even when life bore heavy.

We were a mixed bunch, and that speaks to a greater truth. We are all on this planet as one. To feel apart, separate, better or less is the profound tragedy of human nature. There is no space between us. Not an inch of room. We are one great mass of body and spirit. When a person leaves, we should lift up our minds – not just our hearts – and take note of the wonderful flight so that we all might soar.

Goodbye, Woody. 

Fragment (consider revising)

We raised up from the desert plains, the u-haul’s wheels spinning with an unwholesome wobble, barreling through the Three Sisters, snow plows clearing, down into the Willamette Valley, white rushing river, hot springs and logging trucks, hipsters in vans that pummeled the most pungent smoke. I had made it clear across the country on gas station food and one pair of drawers. Ready for anything.

Morning was always the worst. I would peel out of my sleeping bag – never had sheets. Every movement, each fired synapse, a wretched remuneration. Endless pain. Oh this earth, my tired bones. How did I come to be? Imagine the odds…this place, this time, the science behind my undoing. The statistics of being were unpleasantly complicated.

There was a spell when everything went like this. Ever-darkened and relentlessly ill at ease. A lonesome man is nowhere. Never home.

There is a fire-hot wildness to disembodiment. A free fall; a perpetual imminence, the domain of the unlivable. There is a freedom from culture when a body disbands propriety.

Always fragmented – imagine the science. For years it went on like this.

The entropy of unhealth. I would walk everywhere with headphones, brown shoes and a backpack stuffed with books. Horrible hair, too. I scowled at each cover, each type. Greek trope = transformation. I gazed through people. Smelled the forest. Knew I was a far way from home.

I recall a park. I remember lying is awe beneath these beautiful, strange, spider-fringed blossoms. An otherworldly ascent. Hamamelis vernalis. The witch hazel, it bloomed on the edge of the city. High enough to overlook my turmoil. Deep green grass where I wept.

Easter came, I went back east.

Ascent

There is a terrible wind. Our station slides from side to side. Artic ice. Caribou.

Where is the research vessel? And our cores, specious rods...hands freeze to metal; damn cores. I remember eating sandwiches with Grandmama, under forsythia. My memories are always of Spring.

Scents of seal oil lanterns. Captain made tea. We sat over a card game until my legs fell asleep. Where is the nurse? I told her I can not sleep. I dream of spreading ice, the snap of our ground, the opening, the peculiar below.

Our focus is obscured by night, by dawn.

Among Ships

Our new stainless pot steamed with muscles. Rain kept us inward, happy. A dry white wine, fresh bread, a sturdy roof – the trappings of August, mountains, lake, lovers between new sheets. We could not be undone.

We scoured botanical etchings, folded through the news, and admired hummingbirds.

Near distant beaches, were I do not belong, great men stride upon decks of fine ships. Sauntering sailsmen, adorned with cap – the deep and salty strain. Their boats prowl the Bosporus, the Aegean. Why is my homely perch so un-enticing? The perfect pleasure of rural rain, mountain valley, unsuned bosoms white as deep sea sand.

To these bandits, perhaps we are tame. But our spears are sharpened – our eyes hollowed, quick as a barn owl’s.

Our tents steady pitched. Wind howls as we become closer. In heavy motion we glide through the valley in dream, nurtured dream, far from the any ocean’s sea. The rain kept us inward, dry.

Flood / Tea

I might have been an engineer – defining boundaries, managing the accuracy of numbers. But the best experiences are never where lines meet. They reside in lands of uncertainty. 

Unaccustomed to the whims of our new house, we had stacked our basement full. Incessant rain. We spent the morning throwing out bags of polaroids, wedding gifts, winter clothes and hand woven rugs from Oaxaca. The Gordondia tree sags in bloom.

The madam made tea, hung fabrics, and called to me from the back window. I wandered the garden with a bag of mulch and gallon perennials. Managing the bourndaries...This was our day to plant – to grow. Thunder cracked. We had tea.  Our bed is warm.