celtic_writer

Road Trip

Ah, the thunk of a few belongings in the trunk, a fresh tape in the voice recorder, home-brewed coffee in a thermos that rolls about on the floor beneath the Bug's passenger seat. Am off on a road trip in the a.m.

How I love to be gone. Gone means miles and miles of silence, the right tunes at certain times, the august of the unknown.

So on the birthday of Ulysses S. Grant, I will head south. To Charlotte, NC, where cousins await; a Friday meeting with a client in Winston-Salem; deep mind, wonder chef and much laughter in Greenville, SC come Saturday. Then on to a white beach east of Savannah, Georgia where one can always find an answer in the sound of water.

Circles

On this Saturday afternoon, the world is drenched. Water tables are down, gasoline prices continue to rise. We need the rain.

If the seasons are viewed as a circle, am sitting smack in spring's circumference. Yesterday, as I was working at my desk, Walt came by for a pet. He leaned his side against my leg, and I absentmindedly rubbed his back, as I was really paying attention to the programming code on the monitor screen. Soon I had a fistful of Black Lab fur. Ah...spring is here. The Black Labs are dropping their winter coats.

Out to the front yard we went, and I curried and brushed those two Black Lab steeds for about twenty minutes. Soon there were gobs and circles of Black Lab fur blowing gently across the green grass. Have a feeling much of it will end up intertwined with twigs in the nursery of nests now under construction in local trees.

When I was a child, and still Catholic, I thought God lived in circles, constantly turning, always going somewhere. That's how he could be in so many places at once. Just to go from wheel to wheel where he was needed most. On spring nights I would lay awake in my childhood bed, house windows newly opened, and listen to the sound of something possibly important in the squeal of impatient auto rubber moving on the street outside. I figured God's presence was needed in a hurry by some sinner somewhere. Yet I also knew, somehow, that the round God could be halted. Roller skates scratching down the sidewalk can bounce through cracks, though movement can be silenced by the unexpected pebble.

Silence returns us to unity from multiplicity. From the demanding questions shouted in class, from the numbing traffic-wait, from the incessant yacking of foolishness. I wonder what happens to us all, what goes away, only to return. Is it fresher? Perhaps it just has different meaning the next time around.

Last summer at the Museum of the Rockies in Bozeman, Montana, I came upon an exhibit of the Plains Indians. They believed smoking was holy, that the circles of smoke delivered from a peace pipe gave physical form to words spoken or thought in prayer. Smoke carried messages into the sky where spiritual beings would notice them and help the people.

I suppose the creator is always recycled. From the wooden porch out behind this house, you can sit on the steps and view those nomadic stars, having so long ago burned circles of space in the dark sky from which to hang their light.

Poets

Thinking about poets today, and how much we need them.

Garrison Keillor published a book called Good Poems, and it is full of them.

Keillor, author and host of  A Prairie Home Companion, a PBS radio show always worth attention, wrote, "Some luck lies in not getting what you thought you wanted but getting what you have, which once you have got it you may be smart enough to see is what you would have wanted had you known."

Yes, Mr. Keillor. When read slowly, that quote makes a whole lotta sense.

There's a poet in Mr. Keillor's book I like. His name is Charles Simic. Originally from Belgrade, he came to the United States as a boy and settled with his family in Chicago, then booked it to New York, enrolled in night school, and got to know a buncha other writers. He started writing his own stuff, and published a book called An Unsentimental Education. When asked if he ever intended to write, as Keillor quotes, "a specific thing," Simic replied, "Nope." When asked if he ever wrote whatever the heck he felt like, Simic replied, "Sure, all the time."

Like this:

Summer Morning

I love to stay in bed
All morning,
Covers thrown off, naked,
Eyes closed, listening.

Outside they are opening
Their primers
In the little school
Of the cornfield.

There's a smell of damp hay,
Of horses, laziness,
Summer sky and eternal life.

I know all the dark places
Where the sun hasn't reached yet,
Where the last cricket
Has just hushed; anthills
Where it sounds like it's raining;
Slumbering spiders spinning wedding dresses.

I pass over the farmhouses
Where the little mouths open to suck,
Barnyards where a man, naked to the waist,
Washes his face and shoulders with a hose,
Where the dishes begin to rattle in the kitchen.

The good tree with its voice
Of a mountain stream
Knows my steps.
It, too, hushes.

I stop and listen:
Somewhere close by
A stone cracks a knuckle,
Another turns over in its sleep.

I hear a butterfly stirring
Inside a caterpillar.
I hear the dust talking
Of last night's storm.

Farther ahead, someone
Even more silent
Passes over the grass
Without bending it.

And all of a sudden
In the midst of the quiet,
It seems possible
To live simply on this earth.

- from Charles Simic: Selected Early Poems

Photo: Northern Idaho, August 2005.

Easter Empty Philosophy

Nietzsche wrote there was only one Christian, a man who, so the story goes, perished while spiked upon a cross many years ago.

His philosophical counterpart Kierkegaard believed that, in a society so nailed to Christian thought and deed, it is impossible to truly be one. This thought sits in my mind today, during this time when so many people are puzzled why everyone else can't be as "good" as they are. That you have to act a certain way to be "saved."

Saved? For what? What is everyone waiting for?

On this sunny Saturday I sit, blissfully un-salvageable, and write. Ham and salmon loiter in the refrigerator, already sacrificed, awaiting resurrection as holiday clan meal tomorrow.

There is a Black Lab at my feet, snoring in the pollened air. One friend has already emailed this morning about survival after an unexpected tire-blowout at high speed yesterday; another with news concerning a bipolar-minded manager making everybody's life hell at the office. And additional scoop from a pal who is finally feeling better after a three-week exhausting bout with the flu.

The Zen dudes have named these life experiences that have no permanent substance or boundaries as "empty." They claim there is a subtle undertone to life that no one really understands or controls. They call this unnamed something "The Tao." The gateless gate. It occurs when we put thoughts on paper, take a photo, paint lines on canvas, hammer a nail soundly into wood to form something new.

Some call it "flow." Understanding the genius of life is to know that everything is as it should be. Ordinary things become marvels.

Methinks Christ was a Zen dude. If he were alive today and knocked on my front door, I would say, "C'mon man, let's go for a walk down by the water." I would hand him the handle of Walt's leash, then armed with Margaret's, take the fellah along the river bank and show him where the heron perch in the big oak, and how the bumble bees have started lumbering about in their slow aerial buzz. And we would sit on the bank and watch the water swim by, empty in its flow. We could talk about life, and perhaps even make each other laugh.

Hokusai

Strode through crowds and cold raindrops today, past red tulips and visibly-confused tourists to the Sackler-Freer Gallery of the Smithsonian in Washington DC to view the work of a master.

As an artist in mid-life, he decided to follow no artistic overlord, but rather all creation, a principal he maintained for the rest of his 89 years. Hokusai, meaning literally, "North Studio", reflected his worship of the North Star, practiced by gazing up at the night sky or pondering the reflection of starlight in a body of water.

What haunting energy he sought. Can the unpaintable be captured on any kind of paper? How can the constant flux of life be ensnared? His woodblock print masterpiece, known as "The Great Wave," is part of his Thirty Six Views of Mount Fuji:

Saw it today. I was standing at the back of a crowd. Listened to an older gentleman, who leaned heavily on a cane, explain the artistic power. The wave's fingers poised to grab the men in boats doing a simple job.

Hokusai wrote about his artistic notions. With each advancing decade, he hoped to increase his understanding of the nature of things. That his study would build his knowledge to the point of the divine, but only if he lived to be 100.

So he created carp

and a thunder god

who makes a lot of noise, but means no harm. Look at the smile on his face.

Hokusai teaches us that every brush stroke counts. If he could create art that expresses meaning, his work would continue to live. As he grew older, he produced art that conveys spiritual power, humor, and humility.

He tells us age does not matter, that not all great art is created by the young. Methinks he wished to understand and express the creative power we all have, no matter what decade we inhabit.

He died in 1849, still wishing for more time to become a real artist.

Emma and Abe

Today, in the bright sunshine, I stood on a street corner at 3:55 pm in a gaggle of mothers and fathers and grandmothers, all waiting to greet the young riders of a schoolbus. Like a British train, it was on time, and it lumbered to a halt near us. Its door yawned open to release youthful crossing guards who rumbled down its steps to courageously stand in the street, seeking safety for their peers. Soon there was a big hug about my waist and there stood one of my favorite people in the world, in a red spring coat with dalmatian collar and matching cuffs, an ensemble complete with purple backpack holding scholarly treasures.

Emma.

My sister's child, she is my pal, and soon, hard to believe, will be seven years of age. On the walk home, we talked, as usual, about life and what she had learned in school. I was told a number of things. That a seed is a baby plant, that George Washington Carver invented peanut milk, and that tomorrow Emma's class is going on a field trip.

"Oh yeah? Where?" I asked.

"To Washington DC," she said proudly.

"And what are you going to see there?" I inquired.

"The Lincoln Memorial," she told me. "That's where Abraham Lincoln sits in a chair."

Inside the house, we too sat in chairs, and I heard more. That Abe wore a tall black hat, and that he was our 16th president. And that his picture was on one side of the penny, and his memorial on the other side.

Yep. That's right.

"Abraham Lincoln was very honest, and that's where he got his nickname, 'Honest Abe,' Aunt Mare," Emma said. And she drew a picture of Abe and his memorial. But the picture somehow was incomplete. It needed a story. So Emma wrote one:

"Abraham Lincoln had a tall black hat. He was our 16th president. He is honest. Honest means you tell the truth. When you tell the truth it makes you and your friends feel better. When something happens I tell Mom the truth because I'm being respectful. Respectful means being nice. Being nice is when you aren't mean."

Right again, Emm.

Blues Man

Tornado warnings here in northern Virginia tonight. The Labbies are frightened by the thunder. They are under my desk as I write this. Guess they figure I will get it first if it comes through the window. Smart dawgs.

Got the CD machine goin' here in the office. Music. I cover my ears to the top-40 airwaves of today. It takes effort to find the good stuff...sounds that are earned. Heard some last week at a place called King Street Blues in Alexandria, VA. That sound is called Dan Stevens.

He's a blues-guitar-playin' fellah who grew up in a small town in central Pennsylvania, where he heard stories about the lives of traveling blues musicians like Mississippi John Hurt and Fred McDowell. Inspired by Woody Guthrie’s book, Bound for Glory, Dan hitchhiked and hopped freight trains, guitar in hand, across the United States five times, eventually covering over 100,000 miles. A full-time professional musician since 1991, Dan tours along the East Coast, U.S. Virgin Islands, U.K., and Germany. He has appeared with such artists as James Cotton, Charlie Musselwhite, Arlo Guthrie, Richie Havens, Charlie Daniels, Livingston Taylor, Ronnie Earl, and others. Home base is Old Lyme, Connecticut with wife Gail and daughter, Haley.

And he's good. I don't say that about many musicians. I used to play a folk circuit up in New England back in the good old days, and it is hard work. Wonderfully exhausting work.

Got his CD. Listening to it now, as the wind blows the blues and thunder is heard down the road somewhere in Prince William County, more storm heading this way.

I'll crank that slide guitar sound way up. Nice to hear someone who knows who Dave Van Ronk was.

Dan Stevens Road to Memphis CD design by Anderson Visual Solutions

Sunday

Up early this morning, dogs reminding me they want to go out, then be fed. Looks like it is going to be a nice day. The windows are open, the neighborhood quiet, the trees and grass growing fresh spring green. An hour of sleep has been "lost" in exchange for longer daylight, yet I hear in places like Indianapolis they do not play with time. It is always the same out there.

The Sunday editions of the news sit like sausages in protective plastic on the drive, and Black Lab Walt accompanies me as I retrieve them. He carries his beloved red toy Kong in his mouth, nudges my leg, hopeful to play. Papers under my arm, I tell him to drop his rubber treasure so I can throw it for him. His game is not to release the Kong, but to run away, then come back, teasing, his tail wagging in circles, the sign of a happy dog. He finally drops the toy, runs round and round three times, then charges off across the long yard, and I throw. He usually grabs it after the first bounce. He is beautiful when he runs.

So, on this Sunday, I am solitary in the early silence, and it is good. I sit on the couch and spread The Washington Post and The New York Times across the coffee table, discarding the paper ad supplements and TV guide on the floor for the trash. Black Lab Margaret is asleep on her side on the living room rug. She likes the silence too, away from Walt as he runs along the front fence, all energy. Margaret will be another year older next month, and she is slowing. She seeks so little these days.

There is fresh hot coffee in a cup to my right. The quote printed on it states, "Life is short. Stay awake for it." So I read. Kevin Phillips writes how the combo of "oil, fundamentalism and debt" is bringing the Republic down. Another story tells how footwashing is now fashionable in homeless shelters, as the act harnesses humility for the washer, the touching of another human's feet being such an intimate act. We are now warned that cellphones are truly dangerous, being used as weapons in the latest news, celebrities and elected officials being carted off to the pokey for jabbing and throwing these devices at other humans. And the masters of debt are now courting the 10-14 year-old crowd with Hello Kitty logos placed on pre-paid Mastercards for presentation at birthday parties.

George Mason's Patriots are now out of the game, and tearful pictures appear in color on front pages of sport sections. There is a fashion photo spread of a starved model with black-painted toenails, her face a mask of dark makeup, just after a feature about the severely depressed. A blue station wagon drives by the house, its inhabitants laughing loudly about something. They are on their way, somewhere, to the beauty of this day, followed by a small truck that delivers the sound of Jackson Browne, who tells us to stay.

Papers complete, the sound of a lone lawnmower is heard somewhere not too far away. I will gather the dogs and take them down along the river, then for a long walk in the woods, before the ATVs start agitating their way along neighborhood roadways, and the laundry that needs to be done starts whining.