walks around town

The Year of the Turtle

Monday morning in the Weaverville Bakery, one of my last here for the time being.  And I got to watch 'em stand and pole the American flags all up and down both sides of Main Street (it's Martin Luther King Jr. Day).  And speaking of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., we should all pay respects by listening to the song "Dr. King" by Mason Jennings.  You can easily hear it by way of google, great song by a true artist.

I am flying to Wrightwood, CA on Friday morning, as a permanent deal, to live and work and everything inbetween.  I have already compiled a list of all notable authors that have anything to do with the region and have planned a succession of adventures to surrounding areas (the tallest mountain in the contiguous US, the lowest desert, Joshua Tree Park and Yosemite, etc...).  I will be busy as soon as I arrive, searching for a place to live, meeting the people, getting acquainted with the work site and learning the flowers.

Today I am working on closing the chapter, on moving furniture out of the house and into a storage space where it will stay until Brad and Joel come and pick it up in a couple months, to begin again, if they want to.   Garrison is back in Oregon, beginning his own new story with brand new knee at a new university.  Brad and Joel are working in Montana for the moment, and will hopefully come work in California next to me for a while before returning to Asheville, and hopefully maybe even stay in California, one or both of them.  But none of us really know for sure yet, still coasting on the open-ended roadtrip we began last spring.  The house is starting to look like it did a year ago - the day we moved in - when we sat on the living room floor without a dollar to our name or a chair in the house, ate Arby's, then wondered what to do for the next 7 days before work started.  None of us actually lived out the entire calendar year under one roof, but hey, baby steps.

So far in 2011 I have been climbing a little more often, eating a little smarter, reading a lot of Gary Snyder and listening to a lot of J Tillman.  I have also been watching more movies than I would usually admit, probably since I'm living alone and don't have Joel to quote them for me anymore:  I was really excited to see the "Book of Eli" because of Religion in Pop Culture and end-of-the-world and well of course Denzel, but unfortunately the movie was completely weightless and made me swear that I would give up on Hollywood forever.  But a few days later I saw the original "True Grit" which was a damn good feel-good of a western, and can't wait to see the Coen Brothers' take on it.

Hopefully no one, besides Backpacker Magazine who claims I owe them 20 dollars, will send any more mail to 44 S. College Street in Weaverville.  I'll let everyone know of my new address as soon as I do.  Mostly, I wanted to get on here and send Love to my family in Newberg Troutdale Sellwood Livermore Little Rock and OKC, most of whom I was blessed to see over the holiday break, and the rest of who I'm excited to see for kicks in '11.

puddle-talk

To 630 in the morning and E who slips on his black Neal jacket for the thousand and one-th time.

To how easy everything is when all you have to do is wake up with Jazz.

To the white elephant who makes his home twixt Park and Yamhill, and to the rain.

To tweed ricket chairs sitting round hourglass morning tables.  And window-gazing too.

To the old Italina-capped maestro dragging on outdoor and narrow alley stairs.

To the Buddha who sleeps soundly 'mong the firescapes while the building burns slowly down.

And to Mrs Peacock under a polka-dot umbrella, grimly bearing the slave-weight of purse, shopping pouch and poncho.

To the myriad pairs of long, slender, solid-colored and suggestive synthetic rain boots.

To continuing this one among all the many memories still remembering just one.

To pretty little city.

To pretty little city and when all the time her guardian mother-cloud hangs perpetually overhead, cries her eyes on all the children.

And to a cloudy glass of water by the bedside.

colden sun days

“A repitition is the re-enactment of past experience toward the end of isolating the time segment which has lapsed in order that it, the lapsed time, can be savored of itself and without the usual adulteration of events that clog time like peanuts in a brittle.”  Walker Percy – The Moviegoer

Pilot leans into it, points downward the dive-nose on this plastic bird

and tilts the world one over.

A true friend, this view - 

for all the places on the map

and all the people proud of their own,

it's what we've been through and been through together

as any good brother'd understand.

"And if you're partial to the night sky,

if you're vaguely a-ttracted to roof-tops."

Because the mood only comes round

once in a blue moon'r two,

you're best to cling awarely

tight, give full reign in order

see how far it travels you...

Thinking what a mysterious and lovely thing

how stories bend and bond, amalgamate

their characters.  Thinking how

"What's mine is yours

and yours of course is mine."

A pack full and leaning there

lazy on the wall

knowing all is primed and yet

unpromised, hidden round the corner

hidden somewhere neath

the hard and frozen earth,

thawing come the morning

come these colden sun days.

new york new york!

So after a long grey morning full of dark and brooding, early morning subway rides, consulting maps and hectic last-minute decisions; after all morning staring into the empty faces of men and women on working day commutes full of humdrum sighs and uninterested glances; after being lost and impatient and lost again (the only redeeming moment of which was an accidental overground passage into Queens and seeing the sun rise on graffiti’d tenements); after finding the Bryant Park and the New York library closed, which led to more mismatched underground rides and sore sandal-feeting through floursescent tunnels in the midst of one big impatient hurry; after all this, finally coming up at 116^th by Morningside Park, finally breathing fresh air in fresh space with healthy joggers bikers women and babies in strollers weaving in and out of giant old elms and live oaks on paved pathways.

Strolling like a visitor through the great corridors of Columbia University on Amsterdam avenue, feeling the great weight and tradition of historic and entrenched Academia, and now here comes the Field Hockey team in thier blue suits, pony tails, heavy bags on shoulder straps all passing by to climb into the big and idling game day bus.  And here come around freshly pressed slacks and business-suited, clean shaven boys (the sons of politicians in their youth primes unknowing) walking around clique-like across immaculate green lawns through the grand pavilion full of history and the buddings of society, and everything happening in the shadow of the old Parthenon-looking Library,  and lounging on her massive steps.  Strolling eventualy down Broadway with no agenda at hand but stumbing into, and realizing here it is what I've been after all of this time and worth the wait, stumbling now into

“Tom’s” restaurant here for 25 years they say: the busy plate-clinking group chattering kitchen steaming commotion throb of the city’s timeless heart.  Everything loud and going going to the Saturday morning drum-time – regulars and dark coffees, teas and scrambled egg plates with big Italian sausages and extra plates for toast softly crunch butter spread.  A big colorful room about living room size with newspaper clippings adorning the walls, long rows of table and booth down the center and every single one full with students, families, you name ‘em’s, with the breakfast bar on one side, big plate glass front window looking out onto the street from where I came and the window to the kitchen in the back where three or four cooks go busily at their tasks – and the whole place warm and merry, close packed and bursting with excited morning optimisms.

I sit next to an older woman at the breakfast bar, rapt with attention at her copy of the “Wall Street Jounral” until Louis (apparently manager/server/father of the joint, striding an easy 6’ tall with big barrel chest, thick dark hair and well kept beard and wearing a soft scowl like he really knows everyday secrets between creased cheek folds and deep inside Apron pockets) until Louis comes over and slides a plate of bacon eggs toast right underneath her.  She looks up startled, looks from Louis to her plate and back up to Louis again, says “Louis what is this?  Does this look okay to you?” holding up her bacon slightly uncooked.  And Louis retorts “Ah!  Of course it’s OK what do you think: Louis wants to get you sick?  Eat the food!” and goes on about his business chuckling to himself.  But lady persists, “Louis I just don’t know I mean, you could’ve left it on a little longer or at least I don’t know maybe -” and Louis has had enough, snatches the bacon straight out of her hand on his way back into the kitchen lamenting to himself “Ah Margie never likes it how I cook it never good enough eh?  What am I gonna do with this woman?  Jackie what do you think?  This bacon isn’t bad you think?”   And so on he goes chuckling and mumbling to himself and cracking jokes at every customer he comes across.  And every customer he comes across says “Ey!” and “Ay, Louis!”

Now from outside comes old Saul sauntering in with grey curly hair draped in a trenchcoat and shuffling in on 70 year old legs, says “Ay!  Everyone is here today the whole crew eh?  Gahaw haw haw…” and settles into his seat.  Louis slides this old fatherly figure a coffee with cream like probably has done so many times before.  A few minutes go by and soon I watch as, during a brief pause between taking orders and general running’s-around, Louis comes over to the end of the counter and leans one hand there like he probably has done so many times before (and I think must be a worn groove of the eternal hand there in the marble bar like the smooth stone of St. Pete’s toe in Rome rubbed clean from a-million adoring visitors) and stares out the window at the passerbys; stares at the shop across the way, at the unusually fine fall weather and all of the noted normalcy’s on Broadway street he recognizes so well.

He stares silently like this out the window and I think he'll stay there all morning until suddenly the old doorman (who earlier seated me here at the bar next to this woman) yells across the room in his native greek tongue about something or other important and directed at Louis.  I turn my attention back to Louis and actually watch as his mind pulls itself from the deep recesses of it’s mad reverie; and only after a minute passes can he issue some half-discernible reply to the old doorman.  But the doorman persists and now another server, Joe – like Louis but smaller both in personality and physical stature – gets involved from the other side of the bar and pretty soon all three are arguing merrily in quick Greek phrases and word gestures, anticipating each other as only age-old co-workers can know.  And all the while I’m trying to imagine what they are talking about though it doesn’t matter, and suddenly it ends with all three throwing their heads back in laughter and turning mindlessly back into their respective job routines, throwing glasses and taking orders and wearing well fitted white polo shirts and identical hats, all the while refilling coffees teas ice-waters and whatever else’s.  

Mr. October

You are somehow here brother or at least

you should be,

somehow brought us here

and somehow never leave.

 

The house is all a buzz with

big bass booming, cymbal crashing

atmosphere, upturned stereos,

screams and name callings, hey!  HEY!

tackles and shoulder hugs grabbing arms while

fresh stove scents come breeze-wafting

through hallways, worn-in cozy

blankets, pillow sheets and

backpacks, shoulder bags, shoes all a scatter

in the mismatch chairs sit jackets hats

on hardwood indoor autumn floors.

(silly to think so many other living rooms

hip and clean and miss the point).

 

Sit me down and look at you,

look at you so healthy friend, all woven together

by familiar faces in a fine-knit as your are,

with the simplest, most comfortable,

half full stomach, half drunk mind,

just got warm and glowing smile –

grew new bark around your pain and

learned to be a child again.

Tell me how the summer when...

 

Meanwhile out the windows a

December dusk is glooming,

seems to say “it’s dark out here and cold,

the year is growing old…”

Hardly would an ear to hear in

warmth of lamplit corners glow.

jacket weather

yesterday morning had my first real cold weather run.  it is perfect fall here right now.  same lake I've been running around all summer and same trees there in their same places.  almost painful taking in full breaths of sharp morning air, eyes dry, hands stiff and numb, but full body awake and ready to go any direction quick, jump over anything.  and I hadn't thought about it since, but was suddenly reminded of running around the elementary school track in SE Portland last fall, and one day especially when it began to snow and every lap I took left new snow prints in the same lane, pulled tight the drawstrings on my hood and followed myself around a few times.  and on the heels of that one, similarly reminded of a river-side run I took one morning in wichita exactly two years ago, even colder then and the trees already gone leafless, pausing in the middle of a red plastic walking bridge that spanned the water, and coming across a makeshift homeless shelter underneath one fallen tree on one remote stretch of river-bank.

static exhibitions where downtown weaverville storefronts boast big bails of hay scarecrow and pumpkin arrangements, telephone pole adds for the corn maze and the autumn festival and I have been here half the year.  still waiting for the call to say I won the fall raffle at the middle school fair, from the little girl with bundle of tickets and said I had a good chance.  friends coming in from all corners of the states to swing on our back porch in front of the fire and look at our stars and bump into each other while crossing through the kitchen.  everyday is a birthday and everyday is peak season, talked to an older lady at work yesterday who told me she had been here 14 years and had seen "many beautiful falls".  sports in full swing and I'd even watch baseball maybe.

of all the seasons more of a return to the regular, a settle me down for school, for work and for the winter.  a reminder that all of life is not free breeze summer and that hard work is on the way, that what used to be new will soon freeze over and the innate drive to persist, because one way or another and whatever you planned, this is the winter that you got yourself into.  pause to judge everything around you and up till now, and concluding finally that it isn't so bad, and actually if you put it that way I see it's all pretty good.  time for the travels and time for the hostings, and the always maybe next year...