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?