The Old Mule

The Turn of the Century

It is nice to feel the weight
of a paddle on a night
drunk with gale. For two days
I floated between the old
lantern houses, chased
by heavy dogs and patrols
of mullet and birds. My sole
defense was a soaked wick
cannon and this wagging tongue,
heavy with chants of
bawdy sea maids. Bring
me that tied leather map. Sing,
just once again, that slathered loll
that mounted our ears somewhere
between Highmarket and Broad.
I tell you, these tides are tedious
for one who deals in ore.
Feel the old walk sink back
in to the night. See the new one,
swerving like a skates wing,
here, and just out of sight.

Passings

This morning I woke up
with hornets in my chest.
It was thirty degrees
and I was still in Idaho
and I had not yet hiked across
most of Colorado.

There I lay, supine on
a friend's dog couch, memory
hung between dinner wine
and the recollection of a future
I was about to live. What better
way to face these kinds of mornings
than with a walk.

Turn down the gravel road
past the acorn trees, his girlfriend
advised, and there you will see
where the poet lived. And I passed
that sorry shack, too self drawn to
feel pity for his view, or even
see the cat still perched
where a porch chair might have been.

What is this path, these houses?
What, yet, do we leave between
our walls? And how do I get myself
in better motion, to steer
back where tomorrow
Is more than memory?

A quick walk, and then coffee.
We traced a route on the gazetteer
and I made my way past Hailey.

It was thirty degrees and I had
wasps around my tongue.

This morning I woke up
in Denver.

Newfoundland, 1912

Ok. Change is afoot.

You know, there is clarity in watching the world take course. Imagine the burden of the Titanic's night-watchman, who, upon spotting the massive iceberg, was paralyzed by the knowledge that there was too little time to change course. At that point, and at any similar point, one must finally relinquish the burdens of reason and action. And in the split second of that utter free fall, there must (I insist!) be a perfect calmness and clarity. A final keen observation of the utter impotency of our worry and strife.

Alas, what we boil down to is our kindness, our loves, our earnest letters and that second of calm before the boat is finally sunk.

Sandhills

Today is one of those warm rainy Fall days. Everyone is moving at 3/4 speed. Which is fine, because you can get more done that way.

I am headed up to Aiken for the day. This is a town built around horses and horse racing. Dirt trails cut right across main street. And private jets idle in old farmland. Country folk too. Good barbeque

Wobegon

"Come on! Marching, burdens, the desert, boredom and anger." Rimbaud

--

Thoughts for Sunday:

1) Remember when I refused to read fiction because I thought it was a waste of time?

2) What ever happened to that girl from Saudi Arabia who went to my high school?

3) James Joyce is unreadable.

4) Where is Dubai anyway?

5) The New York Times is covered in ads.

6) It is easy to get stuck in internet ruts.

7) I prefer rainy days.

8) I love my old truck in an unhealthy way.

9) What are birthdays like in Japan?

10) I think about my old cat a lot.

11) I hate small talk.

12) I eat vanilla ice cream with chocolate sauce every night.

13) I rent way too many movies.

14) Garrison Keillor is inexpressibly cool.

15) Idaho Falls is a strange place.

16) How long will we exist?

17) The peony is the prefect flower.

18) Coming home is nice.

Altitude

"In seed time learn, in harvest teach, in winter enjoy."

William Blake, from Proverbs of Hell

Wyoming (this is why I travel):

TheOldMule (Oregon, after a one thousand mile stretch):

The Lost River

How is it that the days keep clipping by? I have so much to get started on, and I already hear the acorns hitting the hood of my truck. Timing is right on one end, though – my a/c just went out. Windows, then.

This has been a year of change. I traveled six thousand miles in a rented Ford to find an old hiking trail from my Oregon days. The damn thing had grown over, and the bay was not the pristine reservoir I remembered anyway.

Do you know what I mean? When you have something crystallized in mind, with intentions of returning, maybe bringing a sweetheart or a good friend, and that thing – that idea – never lives up to the memory. 

Retuning is so undignified. So I resolve to press forward. Find new things. It is funny to live without sentiment, but we are passing through anyhow, and nothing is ours to keep.

But what about that perfect scene? When everything is so well ordered, the wind right and time cuts to a one-half shuffle…how can you cast that off? I like to hold my hands up, and go for a piece of it all, like a summer pie or a pile of overripe berries.

This is a quick memory, now.  In one weeks time, think of how far we will be. I hear the acorns falling outside. Klamath bay is an hour from Portland. The Madocs and the Yahooskin lived there. These are old people, true souls. Imagine their memories.

--

This is a great poem:

by Barbara Crooker from her book Radiance.

Away In Virginia, I See a Mustard Field And Think Of You

because the blue hills are like the shoulder and slopes
of your back as you sleep.  Often I slip a hand under
your body to anchor myself to this earth.  The yellow
mustard rises from a waving sea of green.

I think of us driving narrow roads in France, under
a tunnel of sycamores, my hair blowing in the hot wind,
opera washing out of the radio, loud.  We are feeding
each other cherries from a white paper sack.

And then we return to everyday life, where we fall
into bed exhausted, fall asleep while still reading,
forget the solid planes of the body in the country
of dreams.  I miss your underwear, soft from a thousand
washings, the socks you still wear from a store
out of business thirty years.  I love to smell your sweat
after mowing grass or hauling wood;  I miss the weight
on your side of the bed.

Mountain House

I can read the ashes and tell this
is going to be a long night. See how
the wind swoops through the porch?
This is where we take our dinner.
Too cold now; not enough light.

We used to have everything
so strung out – cards undone
and pants curled beneath the bed.
Remember those old tapes – guitar
songs just perfect for eleven o’clock.

Now my truck will not start. And
the dampness of rhododendrons
makes the hill too slick for travel.

In defeat, we fill the metal tub
with warm water and salt, and try
to remember some other way out.

--

And this is now on my door:

Edward Abbey, from speech, Missoula, MT, 1978   

"Do not burn yourselves out.  Be as I am.  A reluctant enthusiast and part-time crusader.  A hearted fanatic.  Save the other half of yourselves for pleasure and adventure.  It is not enough to fight for the West.  It is even more important to enjoy it while you can, while it's still there.  So go out there, hunt, fish, mess around with your friends, ramble out yonder and explore the forests, encounter the griz, climb a mountain, bag the peaks, run the rivers, breathe deep of that yet sweet elusive air.  Sit quietly for a while and contemplate the precious stillness of the lovely, mysterious, and awesome space.  Enjoy yourselves.  Keep your brain in your head and your head frimly attached to the body, the body active and alive.  And I promise you this one sweet victory over our enemies, over those desk-bound people with their hearts in safe deposit boxes and their eyes hypnotized by their desk calculators.  I promise you this:  You will outlive the bastards."