The Aluminum Chateau burried by snow. The Barren is gone; exhiled to a warmer place. Merry Christmas to you all! Here is a small piece:
The burdened bamboo and bent beauty bush
are stirring to shiver, to shed the troublesome snow.
Singing softly a wind song, wishing the white wet away.

Pulling The Down Down

Late after long shadows bounced off the East and shooting high, painted sky; night sky.
She turned and pulled the down down. White roofs and white lawns; cold. Slow wind and fine song; the rythmic sway of bare poplars. My body's dreams flee from my open mouth and mingle with the falling dreams of clouds. Clouds that only wish to hold the tender, warm earth in a shivering embrace.
When we wake on a sharp, cold morning, warmth dug itself a deep refuge and the clouds had fallen from on high. White roofs and white lawns.

What Have we Really Learned

Before this, before this civilization came here, before the first towns and schools, the river flowed and fed this valley with mountain minerals, meandered free and flooded yearly. This land breathed, but it is desert now. Armored and impervious to rain and sun; pressed upon, by concrete and asphalt, worried over by the passing of ten ton trucks and the vacant steps of preoccupied pedestrians.
This land sleeps and dreams of weeds growing in cracks; licks the oily rain that seeps through fractures in the white lined black skins of parking lots and tire worn freeways.
I was sitting there, on this land, under a concrete marvel overpass. Above me, a broad way flew frozen; a multi-million dollar umbrella that shelters the homeless, who smoke borrowed cigarettes as they file the minutes off long, listless days.
A block away flowed a hurried metal river of whizzing cars and whooshing trucks, while sparse weeds waved from the cars-going-by gusts.
I was sitting on flattened card board boxes in the company of a tin can ashtray (so as to keep the view pristine), while the shackled bones of tarred trees tirelessly held wires that feed information and electricity into sharp-edged buildings. At my feet lapped the frozen asphalt parking pond and turned to rock and then skyward; an engineering marvel, burden on stout pillars that press insistent into the belly of the dreaming land.
A young man approached, cigarette in hand, cradling a book. He sat smoking nervously, flicking the ashes overmuch as he ingested the words of the book. He seemed oblivious to the thunderous passing of a freight train; burdened and graffitied box cars with tortured steel wheels grinding on screeching metal tracks, endless passing, car after car like segments of a mile long screaming centipede. On one of the cars was written in white, flowery cursive script: "i never really learned anything."

Fallen Memories of Summer

I like raking leaves. It happens once a year. A yearly ritual to mark the end of Summer; Summer, the Sun season, followed by the Falling of the leaves.
There are four red ornamental plum trees, out front, on the edge of the street. During their Falling, they weave a red blanket at their own feet; red drops of blood; the blood of Summer. Each leaf is a sliver of a memory; of hot afternoons and short, starry nights. Each leaf an early sunrise and evenings plump with light 'till ten.
These memories I gather. My rake an extension of my hands. Long fingers and longer fingernails. No hurry; the little piles pulled together. I am their shepherd urging the flocks to gather. These leaves are precious to me. Shining wet with November dew; red, yellow and green dabs left by an extravagant Artist.
These piles I take to the bank and deposit that wealth in my compost bins; my summer memories warehouses. All the long winter they will cook, simmering under drizzly skies; a brew for my garden; a spring tonic and hearty breakfast. Each leaf transformed, yet holding within the clues and urgings to tell my flowers what to do when the Sun Season returns.

The Secret Garden in late November

Here you see the Barren of La Conner, at the main gate of the Aluminum Chateau, taking a smoke break, after another battle with the invading Pine Needle Hordes. Notice the weapon of choice in hand, recently liberated from a neighbors' trash can. The Barren, though valiant warrior that he is, wins all the battles, yet is losing the war.

Dreams of the Frost Queen

Long after the reluctant November Sun closed her eyes and pulled that horizon blanket over her head; long after the cheery living room lights faded and the flickering blue television turned off; childred tucked and turned in; Mothers and Dads dropped into downey beds: long, long after midnight, the Ice Queen comes.
She sends the cold fog, a thousand fingers on a thousand hands, fine tendrils and spirals pushing into town, from far fields amd distant waters, alone in the dark quiet; a show unannounced. Secret hush.
She comes and dress'd the windows in fine lace; gliding 'cross mundane sweat of asphalt streets; leaving sparkles and King's crowns; grace of young ladies' curtsies; of soft music under crisp star light.
Children called, sending their shadows to play. Shadows that slide between ridgid posts and fence board, into silver streets, gliding reflections of distand stars; sugar dusted side walks and crunch grass. Twirling, chuckling, silent shouting, the dance of shirtless care; of abandon in the cold love of November's Consort; the Ice Queen.
At dawn, when the black sparkle sky fades to royal, then rose edged blue, when the surprized Sun lurches from her Eastern bed; gazing into bedroom windows, tapping on far walls, warm covers and closed eyelids, saying:
Come see the passing of my shadow, there on your window, the children of the Frost Queen.

Winter Mornings, Summer Afternoons

It is getting colder. I can tell by feeling Too Li’s ears. Like the elephant, her large ears dissipate excess heat. If there isn’t enough heat in the environment, her ears get cold. I can also tell by what I wear. Three days ago I dug out my winter beret, the warm, wooly cover that acts as the full head of hair which I ain’t got. No more t-shirts in the morning; no more sandals without socks. It’s up to the attic to get the sweaters and jackets, soon.
Still, the worst of Fall has yet to drop on us. We get Indian Summers, often. It is a welcome segue, a slow letting down, instead of a sudden drop into the freeze. This time is for getting ready.
I have a long list of to-do’s to prepare for winter. At the top of the list: enjoy the Fall. Makes sense and I try and I know that the true cricket fiddles well into the night.
On the ground, under the tree, a carpet of glowing apples lies waiting. A glass of juice, held in crisp skin, patiently waiting liberation by bite; my appetite or the tender milking of the ground, the roots and their allies. Still the leaves cling to sturdy branches, working and waving goodbye. Fading to yellow, then to brown. In January the last apples will hang on bare branches, without tinsel or ropes of light; out in the cold, suspended in time, long after sacrificed noble firs hug garbage cans in back alleys. Then, I will pick the first rose of the year, from tough bushes on the corner, in front of the Rose Man’s house. Fighting roses that never taste fertilizer, nor the gardeners clip; that just keep pushing delicate colors into the cold, gray air.

Dogs Dream

Everybody agrees that my dog has been good for me. I know that, I know. I have been influenced by a nose oriented, four-legged and annoying barker. Too Li has personality, roughly speaking. Tendencies and inclinations.
Recently, I got my computer fixed. Ouch, not the kind of fixed that in the canine context we speak of. Rather, I met a compu-wizard, who kindly gave the corpse a breath of life and once again, I am able to waste enormous amounts of time doing basically nothing, which I do well, with or without a computer. Swinging right into the time toilet, Too Li checks on me, sitting in my shop, reading paranoid pages on arcane web sites. Without speaking or judgment, she simply looks at me funny-like and I remember that we were supposed to go waste time at the 'cafe' or wherever, just a minute while I check the dow-jones average and what the hell is going on in Uzbekistan?
I love my dog, it is true. It has been a learning experience and I am influenced as is the earth when the apple falls from the tree, both approach each other and meet, crushing a blade or two of grass. Though the apple does nearly all the traveling or coming hither, Too Li has also done the majority of the obvious journeying. None the less, the boundaries of master and servant are lurky, at best murky, and a lot has been written about the psychology of leadership and following.
For one thing, Too Li takes her damn time. I grumbly wait, as her sniffing and nosing about interferes with my ideas of proper time wastage. I like to think that I am understanding and that since I no longer have a position of importance in the community (once I worked at a store, dusting furniture!), I can indulge her need to explore. I well understand that dogs live next to their noses and that it is a form of intelligence we Hummins haint got, so much; or lost. However, at times the dwaddling over poop piles gets on my nerves. "Can't you just read the headlines, Too Li, why do you have to sniff out the fine print, too?"
The other day I was accosted by an animal rights person for mistreating Too Li. I am still incensed over the incident. I have been chewing and thinking and reliving what I would have liked to have said to her. At the time, I did real good just keeping my mouth shut. It happened when I was at the store, buying a beer to cap off the day, as I am inclined to do, when I find money in my pocket. I had placed Too Li on top of the last grocery cart in the line of corraled carts and in I went to retrieve a bottle of cheap, yet potent, beer. Buck and a half later, I joyfully emerged from the store to find somebody, cell phone in hand, pondering the woefull looking, cute dog; abandoned orphan and starving, there, for the world to see. She launched into a similar opening as I, above, under 'dogs dream'. Then into the prosecution and the judgement: get a blanket for the poor dear to sit on while waiting for the truant to emerge from the grocery store. A blanket, so she wouldn't be so uncomfortable.
I was flabbergasted, speechless and chewing on my tongue all at the same time.
We live in a country that has legalized torture, I wish I had said to her. Do you know how many species we are losing every day? It is your lifestyle, Lady, that contributes to their 'discomfort'. Finally, fuck off. I wish I had said that, too.
But that is not what I wanted to write about. It is just that it still hangs in my mental space, like a piniata that needs a stiff whack or seven.

Too Li sleeps a lot. She has a great off switch. If stuff isn't happening, she goes into stand-by mode within a couple of minutes. Down and out, quick. It was from her that I remembered what I learned in Mexico: napping is civilized. I had forgotten and let the rush-rush overcome me.
The other thing, more difficult, is being-essence. Kee-rist that is a tough one. Easy for her, she is honest, to the bone. I am not. Not that I don't want to, but so much lies piled up in the psyche; fear and regrets. Which reminds me of the incident with the animal discomfort Lady, once again. Well, never mind.
Dogs dream. I know they do. They dream of the wild life; of chasing rabbits and sniffing the far-away land. Dogs dream. I know they do. Too Li is curled up next to me, on the couch, a black ball of warm and fur and wait. Waiting for the next adventure, for dinner or a bone. No rush, no haste, just so. Day dream, night dream. What is the difference?

Science and Civility have left me

From the distance comes the lonely sound of a train whistle; long and sounding lost, faint as if from a barely remembered dream. It echoes in the yet-dark morning, companion in fading to the night.
The carousel of days spinning. Summer days, fair days; winter wet or white and cold. The seasons turning. A few short years left on the ticket. Every winter the conductor stamps another hole into the now creased and frayed, finger limped card.
I remember it's early crispness. The sharp corners and stout presence in pocket. The wish for more holes. I remember when it had 25. Then I dreamt of immortality; the end of aging.
The promise of science and the rejuvinating pass. Science and civility have left me. I hear the train whistle these restless nights.

The Silence

I see the restaurant fan push dense smoke, a bluegray trail of charred steak, perhaps, over the town. With the channel at my back, looking up at the hill, I imagine that pieces of delicious smells will weave themselves in amongst fir boughs and onto shop roof tops; a thin veneer; a complex mix of car exhaust, perfume and food. Of cardboard shipping boxes and even the purse smell of green bills.
I see the fan, but do not hear it. All around is a whirring. Fan motors, motors and motorcycles. Truck tires and scraping heels of talking people and barking dogs. Crows and seagull cries. All that and yet I hear the silence.
It weaves itself into the coarse fabric of noise, thin spider threads of gold; tenderthin, yet strong. Over and around, through and front, there and hidden. A sheen of silence, a thin veneer, over the busy world.
Somewhere in the forest a leaf drops from tree tops. Slowly tumbling, stalling in free flight; fluttering quietly in the still. The sound is of a funereal song; the parting, a lost goodbye.
That fan turns off and the gold tendrils surge collectively. Weaving and exploring, denser and aware. When night comes, the fabric will have turned to gold, all coarseness covered and infiltrated, saturated with the night-dew of silence. I will be asleep and flowing like the channel flows, steadystrong, even if no one is watching.

The Aluminum Chateau and the Secret Garden

Some scenes in my life.

The Rooster's Call

At that time, when the sky changes out of her glistening black dress and takes the violet robe, the one with roses on the hem, in hand; that is when the rooster crows. Before the sun floods the lands to the east with light, before the mountains, acting like dams to the bright, burst;
when that light pours across the drenched passes and floods our valley with the first hint of warmth, of glow and goodness, by then the solitary rooster will have called and called in vain. Nothing will answer, nothing but the occasional burdenous rasp of rubber on night-rested streets, rubber soles of metal boxes that carry the rooster-deaf to no where.
Then, when this field of flowers sings, flowers with wings, flowers that fly and warble; filling the air with their song and themselves, the rooster will have shouted loud his own existence.
At that time, before the spider webs, draped with dew and visible, lose their finery and disappear; the rooster will have crowed and quieted.
With the sun high on the horizon and if it is Sunday, the nine o'clock bell of the church will call instead. The rooster's peal forgotten and everyone at work, I will continue to wonder: where does that rooster live?

The Apple

The heft of it in my hand. Walking home from the grocery store. Another toss. The solid "whap" as tight skin slaps my right palm. A bag of dinner carried on my left; beer and bread and butter. Waiting for the right time to bite into the apple. Waiting.
When it comes, it happens without thinking. The first bite always too large. A flood of sweet, a dribble down the chin. Wipe with the back of the hand as my tongue maneuvers the over sized piece. A grunt from my body; vocal satisfaction. Chewing and swallowing the sweet juice. The smell of the apple. The crunching. Memories flood in; of the first apple I really appreciated. The one with a bread roll. When I was a boy. Bread and fruit. Complete meal. Satisfaction.
A dozen brown and shiny babies lie waiting. Waiting for the right time. After winter cold and spring wet. Some to sprout, some not, some later. At the edge of a ditch, on the side of a street; waiting, waiting.
It is a silent contract between the apple and us. We eat and the seeds get carried a long way. Whether landfill or street side, doesn't matter. Just so long as the relationship benefits both.

The Universe inhales and exhales. 100 billion years or more; slow breaths. It expands and contracts, grows and then, shrinks, impossibly small. Space itself collapses and there is nothing outside of a tiny seed, minute and waiting. Waiting to expand again, to sprout another cycle; over and over, endlessly. No beginning and no end. Infinite.
There are silent contracts between so many things. We and the apple, the apple and the Universe, that and us. There is so much we don't know.

Full of apple, I toss the core to the side of the road. I do this with a sense of satisfaction, a satisfaction given in silence; a nod of approval by a smiling child, curly haired and cloud clothed. The apple, in a way, is now a part of me as I am an important part to the apple. A messenger or a delivery boy. Called by sweetness and the promise of memories. A completion.
A dozen shiny brown babies wait, held tight in the dried core, close to the earth; overgrown. Waiting to inhale and expand; They, We and the Universe.

Dreams

In the evening, when the sun favors us with the magic light, clouds glowing red and rough tree bark shining, we prepare for the nightly journey into our deep self. It is an ancient ritual, whether warm tea and bed clothes or not; twilight and the rising moon; first star gleaming from the infinity.
With eyes closed we walk. Walk down a long flight of stairs. Stairs solid as stone and bare as metal bars; changing, changing into a soft flowing; by degrees and slowly, with each step; each step softer, down soft, less demanding, allowing. Stairs and stepper melting, changing, growing together into a warm, thick water. Flowing as deep rivers do, slow and easy and unhurried.
We flow into the deep ocean of possibilities. Overhead the wise light of the Night Queen, feeding us the silver drops that drive our dreams. Here we find a liberation, our small salvation; the freedom we yearn for.
We were taught it isn't real and taught to disregard those experiences. We were lied to about so many things. we were told to follow our dreams and that dreams are delusions. Taught that monsters don't exist and were given mortgages and cancers instead. Wars and Mayhem.Frenetic and frantic races of rats is real. So we were taught.
At night we dream. Whole lives lived in minutes. What it feels like to be a cat. To fly, wingless. Recollections of experiences never possible and premonitions. Guides come and to counsel and we play; actors in our own films, we, the directors and the extras.
We return rested, drifting upstairs into a dawning day, sunrise and birdsong. And we ask each other: What did you dream? Where did you go? Who went?

Early Morning

Waiting suspended, belly to the Vast Blue, a brown spider waits. Her invisible web spans the spread finger distance between two delicate, violet tinged Hydrangea flowers, above a lush mound of leaves. Silent, patient and enduring, she waits.
Below her, a snail seeks shade, skating slowly on a silver, fragile glass path of it's own making. After a night of raspy grazing, seeks the safety of the dark in hidden spaces. To sleep, sealed tight in his carry-along home, digesting and growing during the day.
It is early morning summer day-start and a promise of hot hangs in the air.
Dew tears run down the faces of Calla Lilly leaves, deep green hands cupped to the sky. Gathering the harvest of night sweat and channeling that wet down fleshy stems to thirst roots. White stemware flowers tower stately above, each pointy end adorned with a diamond drop of moisture.
I sit in my patio garden, quiet as that brown spider, bathing in an ocean of bird song. From tall trees, birds sings their melodies, repeated endlessly.
The plants are singing, too. They sing a slow song; notes will fall in the fall on the eager ears of the earth; tiny orbs of life, waiting; to sprout next year, or the years after.
Then another stanza.
Endlessly.

Regeneration Song

Waiting suspended, belly to the vast blue, a brown spider waits. Her invisible web spans the hand-width distance between two delicate hydrangia blooms, above the lush mass of leaves. Silent, patient and enduring, she waits.
Below her, a snail seeks shade, skating ever-so-slow on a silver, fragile path of his own making. After a night of grazing on the greenery, he glides into the dark to sleep, sealed tight in his home, digesting and growing during the day.
It is early morning summer day break and a promise of hot hangs in the air.
Dew tears run down the faces of calla lilly leaves. Those deep green hands stand cupped to the sky, gathering the night-sweat and channeling that harvest down stout stems to thirsty roots below. White stemware flowers tower stately above, each pointy end adorned with a glassy drop of dew.
I sit in my garden, quiet and patient as that brown spider, bathing in an ocean of birdsong. From tall trees, far and wide, birds sing and repeat endlessly.
The plants are singing also. They sing a slow song; notes of which will fall on the fertile ear of the world. Tiny orbs of life that will sprout and sing next year or the year after.

The Whirling

There are cycles and songs, unheard and unseen; hidden. All around us surges the throbbing rhythms of life, of existence, of the secret whirling.
The wheel of a car only knows the circle and lives a life of revolving. It doesn't understand distance, the linear; it only knows asphalt and air.
A nest of carpenter ants appeared in the building where I live. They can be very destructive and have to be destroyed, by insecticide. I was getting around to doing the killing, thinking on where I put the ant poison. Every day, I thought about it, for a couple of weeks. Then I noticed they had left. Perhaps, in this way, the ants preserved themselves.
I won't ask how. And if they knew. Or if it is just co-incidence. I am no longer a sceptic, nor a believer. I now know that there is much unknown.
Trust is a song we sing, quietly hummed by every cell in our bodies. It is the same song sung by budding leaves and buzzing bees. It is an old song, deeply etched into a granite; each singing a drop of eroding water; a stronger memory. It is repeated a hundred million times a day. For over millions of years.
There is a story, I don't know if it is true:
Nor does it matter:
Of a whirling dervish, who in a state of ecstasy, forgot himself and forgot to keep his feet on the floor. Forgot to keep the contract with gravity and he rose--spinning into the air.
Sometimes, knowledge can only be won by forgetting.what we know to be trueandobvious. Of all the skills we might acquire, forgetting may be the most important.
We wake into sleep. At night we live a different life. It is the life of dreams and in that life, we witness the fantastic (the could-be!). We become as whirling dervishes and forget.
In forgetting, we lose to gain.

Naptime

Yesterday, my friend Kevin's cat died. Ridley, also known as Ritalin, lived an extra year. Kevin expected him to die last year. Ridley hung in and kept living.
Kevin looked soft yesterday. He had spent the whole day with Ridley. At the end, Ridley was just pure tenacity. He was mostly blind, deaf and lost the sense of smell. Had no teeth. Just his four legs and a shabby coat. He spent his time sleeping, looking for the warmest spots around; the ones that are sun-kissed and wind-sheltered.
Yesterday, Too Li inherited the toy that Ridley owned. It is a stuffed beaver. Ever since Too Li laid eyes on it, it was special to her. Last night, Too Li removed the white stuffing out of the beaver (named Chewy) and the malfunctioning squeak bladder. Dogs like taking the stuffing out of toys.
Kevin said: "Rob, the dog has changed you." That is true, I sense it, though it isn't apparent to me. I sleep more. It is alarming, but then so is just about everything else going on. I am learning from Too Li; she is a good teacher. Repetition, repetition. I watch what she does, over and over and I have started to copy her. I sleep more and it is OK. I am not doing anything important right now anyway. Not like I have a job or any interests. I only like going to cafes, cooking and my patio. If I have a working computer, I like perusing the internet. I like puzzles, too. That's about all. I like.
I like writing. I like writing in a specific way. Writing with a lot of knots in it. Knots and beads and gems. Tied up and untied untill the words and the fabric the words live in get curly and kinked-up and soft and pliable. Chewed and frayed and comfy. It is weaving, it is cooking. It is really hard to do.
It is the waiting. The interminable waiting. Waiting for the right ingredients, the bread to rise, the stew to stew. That is why I don't mind sleeping. I have come to realize that important stuff goes on while I sleep and to leave well enough alone.
Too Li sleeps a lot. I mean, she is a champion sleeper. No way could I get to that level of competence.
I know what you are thinking. Sleeping 18 hours a day is not competence. It is lazyness! Or depression. Or something wrong! Right? Weeellllll, maybe-----
Maybe not. Desperation makes for odd bedfellows. Anyway, I have been awake for two hours and it is time for a nap. Goodnight.

Underground

In the land of perpetual night, no moon flows across the skies. There are lakes and rivers; small and large; some flow for hundreds of miles and more.
When we, of the surface, sink our hands into the warm earth of summer gardens, carefully tuck soil around tender roots of geraniums and daisies, we move into that world, the world of roots and earthworms. There the trees bear no leaves, yet have trunks and fine, fine hair. It is where the mushrooms sleep among strange grass and shrubs, dark and moist and fertile.
We call it ground and speak of being grounded and we farm the land. From that land we coax the spirit of our bones and teeth, the vegetables that break open the secret treasure of precious minerals hidden there. Calcium and phosphorus, copper, gold and manganese.
At night we sleep. We sink deep into our own beginning. We come from there, below the day crust; below the bright. Out of sight we play in the endless theatre of the mind; earth mind.
In the land of perpetual mind, no moon flows across the sky; no stars. But it snows. It is the snow of shade, of the hidden and when we wake, we bring some of it back. On our shoulders and in our hair; melting dreams. Snowmen frozen by sunlight and shrinking; legless and sad, saying: See you soon; goodbye. It was fun, goodbye.

The Hill

In the center of the park, as if pointing to the Infinite, live a group of sturdy, tall trees. They reach into the sky; columns of an ancient temple, the Temple of Silence.
The Good Book counsels: the Meek shall inherit the Earth. In this place, meekness comes easy. Those trees, their brothers and the ancient hill conspire to help us become still. Still, quiet and small. Small enough to hear the faint voice that speaks there; eloquent and shattering. Speaks about the important, about spirit and about priorities.
Across the center of the park, a scar of a busy road flows. Large and noisy trucks rumble across that saddle. One would expect the road to be a distraction. Somehow it isn't. The Hill uses it to illustrate a point. It looks down at our town, with all that Human doing and all that stuff and the race to get more and more stuff--
We are believers in Stuff; addicted. We believe in Stuff and the symbols of Stuff. Trucks full of stuff groan across the hill and the quiet voice asks:
Enough? Have you had enough?

Her Dogishness; Too Li

I just learned how to upload pictures to my blog. As usual, I am at the very end of the tecnology
line. Anybody have a computer that they need destroyed? I have a knack for that. Must be a skill that I can utilize somehow.
Though Too Li looks peaceful here, don't be fooled. She tends to being annoying in public. All the bark without the size, I say.

Touring Town and Keeping the Nails Trimmed Down

Here is Roberto and Too Li on tour. Notice the signs of trepidation as Too Li tries to keep in the safety zone, away from the dog-eating wheels. This photo was taken just after her first encounter with a wild rabbit, an elusive wild rabbit.
I can't tell you the reaction we get from the tourists. We all but cause accidents. Even the cops smile at the sight.

Cycles and Patterns

Too Li the little Doxie Dog is snugly tucked into a curl on her blanket, on her end of the couch. One of my sweaters covers her. She likes to burrow and uses her nose to lift the edge of the sweater, slinking into her impromptu den. From there she hears birds and the morning trucks, while I drink coffee and write. She barks at the noises, though she knows I don't like her to bark too much or too loud. She tries to keep it down, but it is hard for her to suppress her dogishness.
The birds are loud through my open door. It rained last night and the air is cool, even a bit chilly and smells fresh, with a bit of sting in the nose. The warm sleep-air of night is trickling out and the visitor morning air dances through my door.
In the distance I hear the garbage truck with it's beeping back-up alarm and rumbling engine. It crashes and bumps about, stuffing it's belly with a weeks worth of town discards. Tennis shoes and plastic bags, five day old pizza crusts and the regurgitated dregs from the vacuum cleaner. It is a machine and eats anything.
I pour another cup of coffee. A spoonful of sugar and a snake-like curl of heavy cream, that sinks to oblivion at the bottom of the cup and rises as billowing thunder clouds to the surface. The coffee is hot and sweet and smooth. It smells of earth that clothes tropical hills far to the south. Of long days baking under a close sun and humid nights serenaded by the buzzing of hundreds of species of night-flying insects.
The birds are banging away in song. They all seem to have babies and are shoving worms, caterpillars and flies into the stomachs of complaining endless appetites. Each chick tries hard to stretch a small beak as wide as the nest, target for food flying in and outdo the other one or two demanders.
I repeat the ritual of the filling of the coffee cup. I know that each coffee bean was picked by a Human; that each was thumbed and forefingered by someone that lives thousands of miles away. That, chances are, the hundred or so beans I used to make a full pot were touched by a dozen or more people, each bean a small packet of sunshine and earth with, maybe, a single carbon atom that came from my own lungs.
Everything is cycles and patterns. The clock forever races around the same track, twice a day. The earth zooms around the sun and the moon around the earth. The seasons fold into each other, just as stars are born from the dust of long-lost super novae. Mountains rise and melt into plains. Trees spring up like mushrooms and crash to the earth, returning as if to bed. The Universe too, goes to sleep and wakes with a bang, endlessly and endlessly, forever.

Pioneer Park

At the center of the park, like pointers to the Infinite, stand a group of big trees. They reach into the sky, columns of an ancient temple, the temple of
silence.
The good book counsels: the meek shall inherit the earth. In this place, meekness comes easy. Those trees and their brothers, the ancient hill, all conspire to bring us quiet. Quiet and smallness. Small enough to attend to the tiny and faint voice that speaks there, eloquent and shattering, about the important, about spirit, about priorities.
Cut across the center of the park is a busy throughway. Large and noisy trucks rumble across that saddle. One would expect the road to be a distraction, yet somehow, it is not. The Hill uses it to illustrate a point. It looks down at our town, with all that Human doing, all that stuff and the race to get first prize and more stuff. We are believers, true believers in the Religion of Stuff. We are addicted to Stuff and the symbols of Stuff. Trucks full of stuff groan across the hill and the quiet voice asks: Enough? Have you had enough?

Let there be enough Light

It is Spring. My heavy coats hang untouched by the front door and the pink snow trees are stepping into full bloom. Ornamental cherries with a million flower petals and no fruit. Like giant pink gloves the earth has pulled on, three of them, hollering PINK! Check it out! Get your PINK! here! Got some PINK for ya. PINK! PINK!
Nine at night looks like five in the morning. Sixteen hours of daylight, enough to bottle the excess to come. The evenings are full of possibilities and I am turning to dressing my patio in shades of vibrant green with spots of red and pink and yellow. Soon it will become a secret jewel in town; fragrant and cool, easy and relaxing. My patio, my heart. That is where I live. With my door wide open, windows agape and welcoming the night air, my crunched house, the Aluminum Chateau, becomes a palace. Expansive as my own summer spirit, a joy covered with smiles;

Too Li the Little Q.T.

If I say that Too Li could charm the pants off a lawyer, I am only a few inches into Metaphor Land. She is absolutely adoreable and lately she has used her magnetic charm to attract squeaky speaking, baby talk talking La La loving women, to then growl at them and nip their hands. I am aghast. I am damn well aware that sometimes dogs manifest certain behaviours in order to illustrate this to their charges. Which is good and fine when observed from my point of view; Not when I have to look at myself, however. I prefer to be lazy.
Here is the problem with walking the boundries of Metaphor Land. Somehow one has to be whole-y in both places and yet keep up the appearance of sanity. Lot of work. Courting one while married to the other. Excuse me while I go giggle.
Too Li is a miniature Dachshund. German--need I say more? Like my friend Pat said: the Honeymoon is over. Too Li is also a female. Please giggle insanely for me, Dear Reader. Thank you. By the way, you do that very well. Have you ever been hospitalized?
Too Li likes to sleep. Loves to sleep. A real couch surfer, that one. It is morning and she is tucked into one of my sweaters at the foot end of my small couch. Her two long bat wing ears are carelessly arranged around her tiny cranium. She is putting off going to pee, ever though it isn't raining. When it rains, her belly gets wet, running along side of me on my bike. Her legs aren't long enough to get good ground clearance. People actually stop in the road to see this sight; some maniac is dragging a sausage on the end of a leash. Why the hell don't he get a dog?

Last Light of Day

It is the last light of the day, the final song of the late-to-bed-bird ended, the last swoop of the last Swallow and the time when the flitting shadows of bats appear against the sky curtain. This time, before the stars wink on, planets first, then those more faint, is the only time the bats can be seen, in siluette, their choppy flight different from that of the day hunters. The graceful Heron flies to night fishing spots, along the waterfront, where electric lights attract curious water creatures and the harvest is abundant. The Heron is one of the few animals that have gained some advantage from the vast sprawl of Humanity. The Heron flies without hurry, large wings flapping gracefully, occasionally shrieking a croak that sounds like it should have died with the dinosaurs. I have seen them gather by the scores in a field North of town, hulking and sulking, conspiratorily, collectively digesting the nights’ catch, in silence, with a discreet distance between each.
This is the time when the colors of the world take refuge, a long day of dazzling done, melting into the distance and replaced by a thousand shades of gray. This time, when Humans begin their night rituals, of bedtime tea or hot milk, the days’ tools put away and pillows fluffed; of the electric memories of candles and fire and television dreams, I like to walk the dark-end streets.
The picture window glow of the houses seems so inviting and comforting. I feel homeless and alone, a primitive creature, animal without culture, vaguely hungry and tentatively lost. My own memories are pasted to the soles of my feet, held cautiously by shoes that don’t fit or don’t fit well enough. Shoes that resent each step and are too distant.
It is best to walk without aim, taking delight in the stray; furtive freedom of escaped dogs and the silky night-prowl of cats. Of the affinity the empty asphalt parking lot has, finally, a brother to the dark. The eerie light humming from street lamps, lamps that paint the sidewalks gaudily and occasionally. Shadows that borrowed from coal their essence.
Each house a fortress and the twenty odd feet between stretched thin no-man's land. Houses that have become obstacles and stumbling blocks to more than the chill wind. I shiver and wrap my arms around the aimless one. Drawing from the well of ancient thoughts, of stories told and retold in endless cycles, as water that has made the ocean to mountain journey a trillion times. Water that feeds the curiosity and quenches the fires that burn black behind every tree trunk and under each pebble.
I have my closets, too. Not just to hang clothes that I don’t need, nor wear, but with doors closed so that no light intrudes and interrupts the brooding and foreboding. On the dark street the closets can’t follow. They and all my self-help books stay at home, courting a even denser layer of dust. Useless as my thoughts, any thoughts, an hour shy of midnight.

In the Shade

In the shade of a pink flowering cherry, a red tulip survives. Underneath that densly branched tree, itself overshadowed by another, taller, light greedy pine, that tulip pushed a small yet, intensely glowing bloom. A miniscule rising sun; a beacon in the deep-green dark.
What little light she gets, is carefully saved; pennies and nickels, coupons and favors, she uses to survive. Not enough for a daughter, nor a showy crown. Just enough for a short-lived and intense spark.
She rejects no light. From the porch, a faint electric glow. Tall lamps that hover into the street. Passing cars and that light, the memories of summers, that fall at her waist. Brown leaves dropped and pine needles. From the cauldron of the earth she licks those trace drops. Saves. And hopes. And survives.

The Puzzle

Yesterday I went to my favorite store, the Soroptomist Second-Hand resale place. Also known as the: Score-optomist, for the deals to be had there. I am somewhat addicted to shopping and only my financial limitations keep me safe from the ravages of Nordstroms and the Mall.
There I spotted an item that appeared to have no purpose, except perhaps, the exchange of a dollar, which was the price. It is an artifact made of two pieces of chain, linking two horseshoes, with a metal ring in the center. The metal was worth the dollar but I felt, in my hands, that it had another, silent use. Perhaps it was some kind of puzzle. I began to intuitively manipulate the horseshoes and even though logic screamed that I was wasting my time, within seconds the puzzle solved itself. The metal ring dropped to the ground, deftly extracted from the clutches of the limitations apparently holding it prisoner.
I am a metal ring.
I am a puzzle.
I am my own limitation.

This morning I experienced a slight shift in my world view. I wonder how long that will stay in effect before I go back under, into the sleep of complacency.

Tulip Festival Starts

The descent of the tourist hordes on my little town; not good. Not bad, either. It was like Thanksgiving, festive and the town was just over-stuffed. Cars kept pouring in like whiskey at an Irish wake and the sidewalks groaned and complained over the treading they were getting. The merchants must have been rubbing their hands with delicious delight, as the “ching” went ka-ching-a-ling and isn’t that what it is all about? An Easter egg hunt without the eggs, just the color; the green. The portraits of the presidents changing hands like trading stamps.
Too Li, the dog, drug around with me, reluctantly, at the dog-end of her red leash. Me on my trusty steed, firm grip on the reigns; or at least the handlebars. Navigating the streets, for once outracing the crawling cars. Too Li gets the eyes. She, short and little, long and cute, catching the delight of those from far away. “Look at that cute dog!”
At the market, where I go to have coffee and hang out with a couple of guys, she charmed kids and adults alike. She was a lap dog before she came to live with me. Now she is a star.
At night, the streetlights rain an orange glow on the shadow asphalt. Lights in the windows, last songs of sleepy birds. The town, not quite so tall, less fat without the rumble of Harleys and the buzz of business, smiles as Too Li and I go walking. We stroll the streets that just hours before were filled with strangers and rubber wheels. The night is my time.

A Single Snowflake

Are we really so small? Unnoticeable in this Universal expanse, We, individual Humans? I look at my hand. Skin full of bones, ligaments, cartilage and fluid. My restless heart, stoic soldier in time, marching, marching. My sense of self, memories and a name.
From frigid heights, a single snowflake falls. In the womb of it's conception it grew; cloud creature, crystalline dancer and to an end it comes, indistinguishable in the vast white. For a short time it existed, then faded in the heat and returned to the Pacific.

Too Li

Too Li is a dog. Small dog. A small dog, a poor dog that lives with a poor man in a small trailer. Too Li likes to sleep and eat. She doesn't eat much, just a handfull of dog food and carrots and asparagus and broccoli. She makes up for her small belly by a voracious appetite in the unconscious dives she takes on the small man's small couch.
Too Li(ttle, too late; her full name!) sits outside the damn effing library while the s.o.b. hacks away on a keypad, feeding his srawlings into a whack machine. Idiot. She is tied to the bike rack on the effing bike that that ahole pedals around while she is forced to trot along. Bastid. Can't take the time to sniff, get to know the neighbor hood. Effing hummins i' whacked. Sniff.

The Rock

The rock; bare and bold, legs spread and feet deep within the earth. Shoulders above the sea of grass and trees. Grimacing and tightfisted; resolute, silent and alone.
The lichen is stone come to life. A mineral flower. Patient and humble. Unassuming pioneer. Forever fasting and frugal. Tightfisted.
The Rock and Lichen begin to battle. The meek and the proud. Time? Time means nothing. The ages are short breaths; blinks, really. Even rocks have to exhale. It is enough for the lichen. A little bit of breath, a drop of sweat. Stale bread and water, a feast for the penitent. It chews slowly and thoughtfully. One bite a season; a hundred bites brings a fracture. Another hundred and it becomes a hairline crack. One crack lends to another and the lichen, steadfast and sure, worries loose the little scraps, tugging and cajoling; endless chipping and nagging.
Thought the rock calls in it's allies, the pelting rain and the scouring wind, the lichen's talon grip, anchored in the raging storm, holds fast and It plans. It plans a massive undertaking; a grand voyage; a marvelous cathedral.
After a thousand bites it has enough and the lichen morphs to moss. A little here and a little over there; holds the wet and traps itinerant dust. Stirs the acid brew that adds more wrinkles to the once-smooth brow of the rock. Moss spreads and draws birds and grazing animals; soon grass appears. Tough grass with staying inclination and wire roots that store water for the lean times. It endures.
Thrown by a heaving gust, the lightest, topmost cone of a near pine, caught by a tuft of grass, leaves a few seeds behind. A seedling emerges and carefully grows. Stunted and starved it clings to that massive rock; short, dense trunk; roots like crowbars, swelling in the heat and uncrushable. Gaining purchase, tapping hammer on chisel, slow ripping of the mineral fabric.
More trees grow and die and those that live and thrive, carve gashes into the defeated stone. Covered with trees and underbrush, it hulks above the valley, a magnificent grove, squeezing drops of metallic blood from the stone, riding regal on that well-saddled back. Tamed the impossible, a massive undertaking; lichen come to fruition, majestic firs towering into the sky and tunneling deep into the center of that hill.
I live there; a block away.

Mixed Messages

Four ornamental plum trees, thick with flowers, shout the news of Spring's arrival. They are intensely pink, dense with blooms; lofty bouquets, street-side sentinels and proud with perfume; busy planning the secret crop of shiny, thick-skinned and juicy marbles to come.
Early arrival hummingbirds, puzzled by almost April snow flakes, sit impatient and hungry over flower beds snoring with late sleepers. The ground is white and wet. Thick fall of flakes; confetti celebration of Winter's end. A battle of the seasons, Winter versus Spring, on this day of mixed messages.

The Still

In the very center of the hurricane lives the Quiet. I am that Hurricane. The Quiet lies there, in a deep cave, far beneath my feet. It is like a sweet water spring that sends drops and trickles into the world around me; drops fragrant as night jasmine; of satisfaction hard-won; of experiences and foods well digested. In the Aha! of intricate understanding that comes as an orgasm and shifts the mind into a snug cocoon or a parachute bloom. Of expansion, a fog that comes from the ground and holds hands with the clouds. A star filled night; the everlasting, the infinite. The farthest reach, the center of the desert. The oldest wood of a massive and ancient oak. An attic full of cobwebs and memories. The windy tip of the tall mountain. The deep mossy heart of a cedar forest. Next to a growing pearl. In the closed flower before dawn. Held by every rock and in the nearness of you; the Quiet.

Snow on Saturday

Today it snowed on my dog. :)

I Opened My Door to the Night

Though not insistent, she exerts a pressure that I feel as emptyness or a vague wanting. I opened my door to the night. She came rushing in, her coolness flavored with the perfume of starlight and the sparkle of moonlight behind her eyes. Never alone, she brought frogsong; the delicate and distant chirping coming from ditches and puddles in the fields outside this sleeping town.
I stood in the doorway as she brushed past, her hand on my cheek; her mind, my mind. Empty to my own self, filled with the mystery of the dark; of shadows, of caves, of unknowable places. She is more than the absense of sunlight. Her refuge is beyond the edges, the places we will never see, nor even dream of seeing. She lives in that far vastness and comes to visit. Her presence indicates the smallness of our world.
On the edge of a drainage ditch, a thumbnail sized frog chirps loud and insistent. His words are a trickle into a stream, to a roaring river of frogsong. His green skin sparkles with the freshness of just-budded leaves; of emeralds finely ground. Each sparkle mote a reflection of the entire night sky. His croaking a small push into next year. Pushing the collective song along through time, so that it will be heard again, as it was heard when we came to this place, long ago and seeming like yesterday.
Her skin is the frog's skin; irridescent with the sparkle of his song. Her cloak, the lonely sound of a single car on a wet, empty street. Her visit short. She never says "Goodbye".

Green Leaves

We are at the doorstep of Spring. February has turned a page and on the calendars March presents a new picture.
Along First Street, four recalcitrant trees have stubbornly refused to drop a few of last year's leaves. Shrugging off the cold, the insistent demands of winter winds and the weight of snow. Green and playfull as flags or kites, the leaves remained; vigilant above the heads of muffled and coated morning walkers and the curious tourists from the big city.
Maybe, deep underground, a hot river flows. Water that fell close to the toes of an active volcano, a thousand miles away. Near to the blazing belly of the earth's core it flowed and emerged as super-heated steam. Condensed by the cool crust and flows like warm blood under the streets of this small town. Maybe those trees have sent roots, like sipping straws, into that deep heat and bring it up, warm drop by drop to cuddle the few leaves through the winter.
Or, perhaps they found a cavity in the bedrock. Maybe a bubble formed in a lava flow. That they wrapped tightly with roots and there, insulated from time, the trees deposited small scraps of summer surplus; the distant "clink" of an aluminum baseball bat. the droning of insects. the unused part of an early sunrise and a catch of restful August afternoon nap. Like a little bit of rainy day money or a thermos of hot cocoa to sip while waiting for the sunrise on a sleepy and snowy January morning. These scraps and ends of Summer saved away; vibrant joy of warm days carefully gleaned and crammed into that space. Compressed by tight-fisted roots into a globe of coal, dark and heavy as iron. A November spark began the slow burn throughout the dreary months. And like a stove too small for a big house, it is just enough to keep the chill out of the air and the frost outside the door and enough hope to keep green leaves on twigs.

Dream Bubbles

The energy to dream comes to us by moonlight. Pale, flat lizards, white as night fog, gather the night light and digest it to send us the dream energy. The lizzards spread themselves thin on the ground, at night, growing thinner with every passing hour. They look like a mist that hugs the earth. They are softly resistant to the touch of our feet; like snow or beach sand.
As they gather the moon light, they begin to make bubbles that float into the houses of the sleeping people. The bubbles have eyes to see where to float and in the early morning hours, the bubbles fill the night sky, looking like children of the moon, nearly not there at all. They attach themselves to the forehead of the sleeping person and the smile of the lizzzard, the sense of ease, seeps into the body and a dance begins. The dream energy of the bubbles follows the need of the sleeper. The dreamer takes the clay-like energy and makes the figures and the setting and the audience. Then the dream begins and flows through the sleeper and back to the sky. The dream flows like a tendril vapor and freshens the moon before she slips into bed. She dreams of us, our days of work and lunches, comings and goings. In this endless dream, day and night, only the flat, white lizzzzards remain real. It is their delicate thinness and their easy smiles that gives them substance.

The Wind Children

The wind children are born in the Arctic South; their father the cold, their mother the warming sun. From a mysterious cave the gusts emerge, yet small but complete and voracious. Their mother feeds them a warm broth she cooks on the surface of the ocean. They grow strong with stamping feet, streaming, willful hair and long, tough fingernails.
Over the oceans they grow and on land they come to play. They comb the prairie grass and tickle the trees. With their long fingernails, the wind children tickle the trees in just the right places. The trees wave their many arms about and laugh and laugh, begging the wind children to stop and to not stop. The combed hair of the prairie glistens like gold in the afternoon.

Poem

The night-crow
Gently clasps
The moon-pearl
In her black beak.

Her endless-long
Feathers flash
With the light
Of a hundred
Million stars.

Slowly she turns her head
And
Tipping back, the pearl
Rolls down.
Swallowed safe
From the angry glare
Of the Day-King.

Poem

Overnight the old winter-sleeping tree
Came to life and sprouted
A dense growth of fine white leaves.

A cold moss covered the ground.

Even the rambunctious bamboo
Bent over and humbled
By the gift from the sky.

The wheezing of spinning tires
And the groans underfoot
Of flat diamonds crunching.

Channel Sights

A loose line of black birds stands solid at the water's edge. The birds are tipped forward and hesitant, as if deciding against diving in. The gray metal skin of the channel seems impenetrable and implacable; still and unruffled as those birds. Are they crows? What are they doing? Seagulls meander amongst them like beggers asking for spare change; searching and shy, looking for a friendly face.
The sight of the poised is so odd as to make me think I am seeing a modern art installation. Maybe the work of a famous landscape artist or a local unknown. Along with the excitement of witnessing a rare piece of art, comes disbelief; yet the little black statues are still, unmoving. Are those crows?
Further down the shore, two more loose groups of statues dot the distance. That's a lot of work, a lot of statues! But, that's the thing about artists; they do crazy shit and can be extravagant, packing a ton of time into a small space or manically manufacturing black bird statues, to place at the water's edge, at low tide, for no good reason at all.
Finally, I see one of the birds move. The illusion of artistic innovation and excess is shattered. I am back in the real world, the world of nature, where grand canyons and endless artic white are common.
Somewhere on a white canvas, a small black dot of an Inuit hunter is heading home. Home is past the edge of the blank canvas. Somewhere in a gray day landscape, next to the slash of a channel, a black dot writer is also heading home. Thinking of dinner and warmth, he and the hunter, both part of a painting in progress. They and those implacable birds, with meandering seagulls, asking for change.

Moonlight

Luscious silver moonlight drips from the sky
Sugar coating every leaf and branchtip and
Even the sleeping lips of red-cheeked children.

In the morning it melts
Flows into the cracks of sidewalks
Deep, deep down
To nourish the roots of
Tenuous silver flowers
That then kiss the bruised knees
Of playing children.

Frost and Shade

Frost and shade, married in the morning
A curious mixture of white and dark
One created by the sun, the other by the moon
One is plain, the other gone too soon.

A decoration deftly done, every blade finely painted
A glittering wonder in the sun
Yet once looked upon
Quickly evaporated.

The Old Woman and Her Garden

She had kept a garden all her life. With Love she walked into that realm and brought Love out; in the form of greens and flowers, herbs and vegetables. Her garden was an extension of her hands, the essence of it living in the cracks of her hands and refuged under her fingernails.
Her strength was the soul of the soil and to watch her tend the furrows and beds was like seeing the Love of ages in person; first Love matured with a half century of experience.
In the very back of her lot, beyond the tended rows, where she kept the compost piles, was a wild corner; a place she left alone, overgrown, dense with weeds and grasses, matted furiously, dank and dark. For those with eyes to see, the fertility of her garden spread from there, in the form of a rich compost and more; an essense, a primal command to grow, to reach into the sky. A command to expand that made the fruit of her hands a sweet, delicious harvest.
From that corner, spread a smile that brought a glow of contentment to all faces. From that wild corner rose an etiquette of such fine metal, that filaments of it wove themselves into the landscape, so that even the streets shone an irredescent star dust.From there, the earth exhaled a peaceful fertility, a satisfaction, that filled all the empty places....quieting gently the greedy yearnings for the unreachable.
The produce of that garden was sought by all. She grew for more than she could use and the excess she gave to friends and strangers alike. Those vegetables were heavy with goodness and began to nourish the body at first touch. A tomato held in hand spread a rosy glow that settled in the cheeks. Lettuce like a bouquet of roses, a gift for lovers and would-be lovers. Carrots pulled from the earth, like the glorious rising of the sun; snappy crunch good, smelling of soil and sky.
Even children who hated vegies were transformed into brousing appetites; recognition and hunger rising into their hands, eating with abandon; sweet tomatoes and succulent peas, carrots and cucumbers bursting juicy with the cool shade of hot August afternoons.
She loved her garden, as it too, loved her. If she slept in her bed, she never slept alone. Her garden, like a considerate lover crept through an open window or under the back door, climbing vine-like up the bed posts, under her covers and holding her in a gentle embrace throughout the night. The wild corner found the wildness in her and the two held hands, laughing loud and talking long in dreams that fell into her mind like heavy rain drops in a jungle night. Her dreams were of the impossible born into reality. Of watchful animals and powerful cats; big, strong and strange. Of smiling-knowing snakes and reptiles not yet living. The wildness in her danced with all wildness. Her garden, her friends and yet to be friends, all hold inside, in a distant corner, the source of life; The Wild.