The Old Mule

Once More

Great things happen all the time. It is difficult to see; I mean, through the confusion. Think of all the inputs – the storied atoms vying for attention, a moments thought.

These are war years, great storms. How will you be known? To whom? In what capacity are we all sent from our homes? Our mothers leave us; we find our way. To some, the adventure is a series of destructions.

Beautiful people are herded into the most peculiar lots. It is not impossible to lose a great friend. To have a near soul lift off, just out of reach. The goodbye…you know…words sometimes just will not do.

Can we talk of the days ahead? There is too much history to know the past. An overwhelming zoo of stories. Our past is nothing but stories, memories too. If we walk towards the lowest spot, can we speak awhile, beneath water, beneath the trial of days?

Subterranean

Salicaceae, Juncus spiralis, red tailed thrush: botanical ascent of our new lands. The softer earth; over-decorated in a sameness mocking our diversity.

The depths of the new cities – unwholesome in their similarities. Vast parking spaces, boxes of various shapes, food huts, chemicals to eradicate life around our homes. We thrive in the absence of eloquence.

Where are our outlaws? Not street marauders with musical thuds, but real out of bounds showmen, familiar with the machinery of force, yet gentle; the kind who carry off fine waitresses to a hill flat in Idaho. We need our rousters, our road-men back among us. Someone to roam the slick concrete mall-towns, jerk up rows of pansies, piss on parking meters and wear mud boots through women’s outlets.

What we need are men of true excess, unfazed by the urban terror of bad credit and non-transferable termite bonds. By god, where are our men? The fine un-academic. Everything is much too soft.

Our ice caps are melting. The heat will be stronger. We must not wilt before our setting hour. What horror, our slow decline. It is too soon to recoil amid constructed edifice. Let us roam some more, engender subtlety, and live with the will of animals in finite time.   

Eugene, Oregon. Thoughts of others.

When I was in college, early on, I lived in a library in Oregon. Or, it seemed like I lived there. I drank teeth staining coffee and carried tomes that I actually read. I connected well with many, Lorca more than any other (the seaweeds, many greens), and the French. Henry Miller, Celine, Alain-Robbes Grillet, and the stateless Nabokov. Dark sheppards. Blood oranges. Perfect for a lonely day. I read furiously, out of desperation, looking for something between some page. Can you imagine my pathology? Perfect.

I grew ornery and few would come near. There was a park that was my backyard, a constant walk up tree covered hills – always there. How can you speak with someone so withdrawn? No one did. Thank goodness, because every person needs a time for unhampered thought. Uncriticized rumination. Reckless inward explorations.

Constant pushing, reconsiderations. Doubt, months of doubt. Buoyed by the likes of Plato, Keats and film teacher from San Diego with a Castilian moan (my vice).

I boasted of a complete misunderstanding of any aspect of life. But, in retreat, my eyes grazed words, sometimes centuries cast, and notions where struck. Images played forth. Worlds were created in the sullen cubby of unwashed sock smelling youth. Can I thank the fates enough for my despair? Oh, never.

Living Within

The tides pull us home. There is an evening-song, a quiet still, a method to the rise and fall of people, of place. It is agonizing to bear witness to history. Our writings are here put forth; the characters are our neighbors, our friends. I can still smell the smoke of battle. Tiresome march. Clever men never dream of such destruction.

The density of memory cannot afford such tragic weight. Imagine the lonely souls, pensive under looming skies, ever-traveling. It is so hard to gather and continue. But what other journey do we have?

Sounds of moments passing should shroud our lives in quiet reflection. This is the truth of fiction. Life stories, mind-written, sometimes come true.

Quiet meditation, once again. How discerning are our thoughts? Let us slide, without pretense, into perfect still water – clean, deep, lake cool. Undo those clothes, relax in the arms of all true loves. Speak; be forthcoming. Renew.