Turtle Island Preserve (or, 'About last night...' - a letter to Mardou)

Mardou,

So last night my yin and I went with my dad and his girlfriend to this place called Turtle Island Preserve, which was set up by this guy named Eustace Conway. Elizabeth Gilbert's first book (The Last American Man, which is neatly sandwiched between her time as a relatively obscure journalist for Rolling Stone and her Eat, Pray, Love superstardom) was about Eustace, and apparently he is also one of the stars of some reality show called Mountain Men on the History Channel. 

(This is not beside the point, just backstory.)

We ended up there because my dad and Eustace became friends several years ago after my dad bought a piece of property that adjoined Eustace's 600 acres (or 1,000 acres, depending on who you ask) that crawls down the edge of Watauga County into the Wilkes County, one-time moonshine capital of the world.  As much as possible, Eustace attempts to approximate what it was like to live 150 years ago, and he approached my dad about swapping a small piece of land (0.1 acres) so he could more easily ride his horses to an upper pasture.  My dad is an accommodating and all-around easy-going fellow and agreed without hesitation.  Since then, they have helped one another on several occasions.

Also, Eustace sometimes comes up in the winter to shower at my dad's neighbor's house when it gets too cold to bathe in the creek.

Anyway, Eustace has created this amazing, surreal shangri-la about 45 minutes outside of Boone (or, as his website describes it, "eight miles east") and makes his living by running summer camps, speaking engagements, and charging city slickers to come clean his stalls, clear his land, and do all the manual labor that most of us would do anything to avoid.  I swear to god, Mardou, the guy offers an internship in chainsawing.

(Incidentally, when I told my grandfather about this yesterday afternoon, he inquired if he might get a position as adjunct professor.  I told him I would look into it...)

You enter through this covered bridge:

The sign above the entrance reads: "The finest of the fine arts is harmony in human relationship."

i

m

age

miss

in

g

As you might imagine, Eustace also attracts a kindly number of hippies, and within minutes of arriving my yin and I ran into our friend who owns the local yoga studio and just got back from two weeks in India. My yin had subbed at the studio the previous two summers, and it was nice to catch up with her since this short visit will likely preclude any stops by the studio.

(This is beside the point.)

Anyway, this was how we first met Eustace:

We spent the next hour walking around and taking in the extent of this place.  My dad had told me about Eustace's compound years ago, but I had no idea the scale of the operations:

 Giant cantilevered barns:

The sun through the trees:

Chickens running around:

Giant cocks:

 (ahem)

Goats, badly in need of milking:

And an inexplicable ark in the sky, possibly in anticipation of another 40 days and nights:

Did I mention he did all this by hand?

Eustace insisted that my dad ride shotgun on a buggy ride:

The main event was a group called Rising Appalachia whose music would be best described as folk bohemian pastiche:

Which was fronted by two sisters with hauntingly amazing voices:

Somewhere along their current tour, they picked up a French hippie (by way of Bali):

 Here's what the whole scene looked like from a distance:

 

 I thought it was amazing, but this dog seemed unimpressed:

Anyway, the evening reminded me of you, and I'll leave you with a link (the movie is to big to email) to my favorite part of the evening, Rising Appalachia's opening song, which is a folk song that the sisters traveled to Bulgaria to learn:

l

ink

miss

in

g

(by request of the artist)

Love and light from us both... 

on Art Basel, 2011

My yin and I traveled down to Miami Beach for Art Basel yesterday, just as we did last year and the year before. It was the festival's tenth anniversary, and like always, the area around the Miami Beach Convention Center was awash with collectors and wannabes, artists and artistes, Europeans and Eurotrash, and enough Maseratis, Ferraris, and Lamborghinis to single-handedly solve the Eurozone Crisis...

But this is beside the point.

The point is that my yin and I began our excursion by grabbing a free map at the Convention Center, then leaving immediately. The copious amounts of gawkers and art inside the Center provide far too much stimulation for anyone this side of amphetamine, and the $40 entry fee seemed egregious considering the numerous public art installation and temporary galleries that inevitably accompany Art Basel. That being said, here's an overview of the free art we saw...

One of the first things I noticed was the number of pieces explicitly referencing the Occupy movement. Some of them seemed rather obvious:

all apologies for the glare

While others appeared to be completely random, like this sticker affixed to a utility box:

 Boone, really?

Considering the fact that I hail (more or less) from Boone, I found the above especially rewarding, and I wondered if my brother, who recently told me he had become a supporter of the movement, had flown down to Miami unbeknownst to me.

With regard to the first Occupy picture, it served as a welcome to a gallery full of quasi-political, quasi-pornographic artwork. Some of the pieces were interesting in that thread and canvas were the primary media, which implicitly gendered the works and created a tension between the images of nude (often bound) women depicted by the artist and the undeniably misogynist gaze through which they were seen. Nonetheless, some of the text accompanying the pieces was clever:

a true and valid point

From there my yin and I continued our trek to Collins Park, which was hosting a couple dozen larger scale pieces. Since part of this year's experiment was to document our night using our fancy new iPhones, I found myself engaging with the pieces in ways I normally wouldn't:

Gargantua by Feinstein

 All in search of the perfect angle to share and post on Instagr.am:

comme ci

In the park we found interesting several interesting pieces, like this one that resembled a cross between Jenga and a crucifix:

Strain by Antony Gormley

And this one, which emulated the ocean wave by leading patrons around in a giant circle:

 photo, amazingly composed, by my yin

There were some PVC tubes set up on the beach:

That became infinitely more interesting with my yin standing inside:

In fact, the above piece was one of those artworks whose artist's description was actually far more engaging than the piece itself.  This one began:

"'Untitled (Apparatus)' by Gardar Eide Einarsson is a sculpture based on prison exercise equipment. Prison design and architecture represent a zero state of design, where all traditional design considerations are jettisoned in favor of a design that exclusively seeks to prevent certain behaviors, generally focusing on not lending itself to the infliction of bodily harm..."

I always feel ambivalent about these types of pieces because, on the one hand, it makes the realm of high art seem accessible to anyone with the capacity for critical thought and imagination. On the other hand, it seems kinda lazy. As I told my yin last night, "This Gardar must have himself one hell of an agent."

Other notable sights included this piece by Anish Kapoor, whose combination of concreteness and the void spoke to my most noble metaphysical aspirations:

 Black Stones, Human Bones

These giant cowboy boots, which reminded me of Mardou and had a killer title: "Snake Skin Boots with Snake Head. White Quarry Stone 21st Century. North Mexico" by  Eduardo Sarabia:

 

these boots were definitely made for walkin'...

And this silhouette of the palm trees outside the Bass Museum at dusk:

 artwork by Mother Nature

Another found piece of brilliant was the burger stand at the east end of Collins Park, which is (presumably) not intended to be artistic at all, and yet lends itself to images such as this:

my photograph from last night

By the way, what time was sunset last night?

my second favorite photograph from last night

Anyway, we left the park and headed over to Mr. Brainwash's gallery, which was set up in exactly the same location as last year. The only difference is that this year my yin and I knew whose work it was we were seeing. As fate would have it, just as we approached:

the MBW gallery

Mr. Brainwash himself was exiting. Unfortunately, though, I was slow on the draw and managed only to take this photograph of his taxi as it sped away:

And yes, that was Mr. Potatohead two images ago:

I still go back and forth on Mr. Brainwash's artwork, which combines elements of Warhol with a graffiti sensibility that incorporates cultural references ranging from Gandhi and Mickey Mouse:

 

To Michael Jackson:

And Colonel Sanders:

 the chickens have most assuredly come home to roost

I feel he's at his best when he's either at his most obscure:

how now, graffiti cow?

Or his most playful:

 my yin and Felix

Compared to the images of Gandhi and MJ (not that MJ) and Einstein and Dylan, these comically absurd pieces seem more authentic, assuming one can even use such a word to speak of an artist whose oeuvre seems predicated upon the utter absence and impossibility of any such concept. Nonetheless, as we were leaving my yin and I saw this haunting image of Steve Jobs tucked above the door:

The piece was barely visible, and its positioning may have been the only incidence of subtlety within the whole gallery. It was illuminated only by ambient light and a nearby exit sign, which eerily spoke to the man's passing. Perhaps there's more to Mr. Brainwash's work than meets the eye...

Perhaps not.

redux: weddings, La Cienega and Agra

One year ago I went to a wedding:

The sun rose behind the clouds, moving from hidden to vermillion to amber curtains of light pouring down onto the ocean. The full moon hung in the western sky, almost as if it was waiting to hear the "I do," and it occurred to me that the same moon was just beginning to rise in Agra, where my yin was visiting the Red Fort:

how far apart are these places:
8000 miles? a 20 hour flight? 9½ hours worth of time zone?

These places are one moon away from each other, one moon that holds the day in perfect harmony with the night. I thought about these things as the preacher gave his sermon. I thought about four years earlier, when I stepped foot on this particular beach for the first time. So much has changed since then, and yet to the sand and the beach and the ocean and the moon it was nothing. It was less than nothing – a blink of the eye, slip of the tongue, a cliché waiting to happen:

Time is a scam; a beautiful, inexplicably lovely scam.

do these denizens of Agra ever worry about time?

I have heard people liken the mind to a monkey:

"There goes my monkey mind again."

But these types of statements are an affront to monkeys the world over.

The mind - at least the mind prevalent in this part of the world during this time in history - is better compared to the ruthless precision of Swiss watches. A Rolex-ed tyranny of minutes and minutia, seconds and second-guessing. To live and breathe and swing from trees is the privilege and birthright of humans and monkeys alike. Have you ever heard a child ask:

"Do i have enough time to climb this tree?"

How about La Cienega, do you think she wonders about time in Nepal?

No; we were in communication this very morning:

La Cienega wrote:

the author responded:

7:29am
in joying india ??

7:29am
that is fantastic!
[my yin] is in Agra right now.

7:30am
Life is!!!
You no

7:30am
alas, no. school. writing thesis.
saw picture of you and carrots. lovely.

7:30am
hmm...thought of you a bunch of times...in Kathmandu hehehe...from months ago! Lost my camera..boohoo

7:30am
we're already planning a future traipse.

cameras are overrated, a poor substitute for the creativity of memory.

7:32am
I agree! I actually havent taken many pictures...the crew i was travlling with did! So entering Nepal alone i took on the camera...crossed the border...no more camera!

7:32am
how long are you staying?

7:32am
???

7:32am
beautiful. have you been to Bhutan?

7:33am
In love! Yes! It is Beautiful! One of the 13 grandmothers lives there...a nepalese shaman! Hope to connect wioth her when she returns to nepal

7:33am
envy. someday someday someday...

7:34am
if you truly desire you WILL make it manifest!!

7:35am
agreed. envy, like all emotions, is beautiful in its impermanence.

7:35am
When do you and [your yin] enter into sacred union

7:35am
last Sunday in February.

7:38am
Beautiful!!! You are a most beautiful pair!!! May all the love that is, continue to radiate from each of you!!! and spread out over the whole world!!!! Radiant love!!! Yum! Thank you for the blessing of your presence in my life! Often you come into my heart and my mind and i am lost in love and gratitude!!! Please know this! So much love and gratitude!!!

7:39am
always and ever the same.
love, light, and safe travels.
every moment is a gift.

Conversations like these, scattered and infrequent though they be, is why i call her La Cienega:



And while La Cienega is never beside the point, I should nonetheless return to the wedding...

There were three flower girls, the youngest of whom had a shiner and trailed behind her sisters (or cousins) saying "you dropped some" and pointing to the petals in the sand. It was adorable, the magnificent fragility of life and the imponderable resiliency of children. How sad it is that, as we grow older, each of us has to learn that we can be hurt. Even sadder, however, is that we come to believe that we can be injured in a way that dampers our spirit and being.

The preacher giving the service spoke to these things in his own obtuse way. It was a more traditional service than the one my yin and I would have six months later, but I was able to listen for the truths he spoke rather than becoming lost in the semantics. I was reminded once more that the largest difference between Christian theology and Eastern thought (at least as it's been taught to me) is a matter of which state one calls 'acquired' and which state one calls 'natural.'

In other words, how original is our sin?

a Rose by any other name...

Maybe I'll end up becoming a Christian mystic like Dostoevsky and see grand mal visions of the Divine and pen great sweeping novels with unpronounceable characters' names. Maybe I'll write heartfelt accounts of normal people, flawed and anonymous, that come to represent the shifting tides of history as an empire begins to collapse upon itself.

How far apart are 19th century St. Petersburg and 21st century Washington?

The wedding and sunrise were followed by breakfast, and I made small talk with friends and strangers while my mind pondered Dostoevsky. I questioned an acquaintance about her vipassana retreat and asked the server to prepare me a plate without any meat. In spite of this, the ocean breeze smelled like bacon.

After the cake was cut, I wished my friend congratulations. She is one of those special maniacs that does things like build surfboards in her free time and sews dresses for the bridesmaids. I still remember three years ago, when she attempted to set me up with her roommate and fed me a spinach-feta burger with sweet potato fries. The match-making didn't take, though, and that night I walked the beach with Mardou.

But this is beside the point.

The point is that I spoke with my yin after the wedding and gave her a brief recap. She told me about Agra and sent a picture of the Taj Mahal, as seen from the Red Fort:

more of the Taj to follow...

My favorite, though, was this one of her with a half-Canadian:

"looks like you got laid," i observed.

Alas, getting laid is also beside the point... at least for the time being.

Honeymoon Days 15-17: San Francisco

My yin and I left Trinidad on a Wednesday morning, taking Highway 1 from Northern California all the way to Mendocino County. The road that cuts across from Hwy 101 is easily the crooked road I've ever driven, and by the time we finally made it to the ocean I was almost carsick. When we pulled over to appreciate the view of the ocean, we were promptly joined by this raven:

(or at least a crow)

Emboldened by this good omen, we continued down the coast. I was amazed to see bucolic pastures and farmhouses overlooking the rocky cliffs of the Pacific:

my yin is a superb passenger side photographer

We made it to San Francisco just before sundown, catching sight of the Golden Gate Bridge moments before the city:

Although we had plans to meet with Saylor later in the evening, the first order of business was food. My yin had a specific restaurant in mind, which serves what is – without doubt – the single greatest soup I've ever eaten in my life:

Ask for the samosa soup.

Inside I saw the most beautiful woman, eating alone under a painting of Buddhist monks carrying their begging bowls. I don't know why she moved me so deeply, but the memory of her kept rising to the surface during the rest of our time in the Bay Area:

I took this picture of her on the sly...

Eventually we made it to Saylor's place on Russian Hill, promptly went to bed, and woke the next morning to have coffee on the roof of his building:

Saylor and I

First, he took us to the Beat Museum in North Beach:

Saylor, myself, and the image of two dead men

It was better than I expected, especially with regard to its collection of foreign and first editions of Beat literature. It also had some groovy posters adorning the walls:

my yin, Allen Ginsberg, and Gregory Corso...
holding their respective businesses

We also stopped at City Lights, of course:

And I found myself walking down a small alley connecting the museum and the bookstore. I came to a corner:

And then realized I had been there once before:

failed pilgrimage to San Francisco, 2005

It was one of the most de-centering experiences of my life, almost as if my very being were dissolving into mist. I understood that the street post had not moved in the intervening years, yet I had aged and changed and remained the same all in a single breath.

But this, for the time being, is beside the point.

The point is we went to the Mission District next and walked the streets looking at murals:

my yin looking at murals

this one quotes Keats – I strongly approve

Some of the best ones, however, appeared to be unintentional, like this restaurant's advertisement. As far as I can tell, it depicts pigs butchering and cooking other pigs:

Nothing whets the appetite like thoughts of swine cannibalism...

That night my yin and I went out by ourselves, inspired by a 70mm showing of Vertigo at the Castro:

Little did we know that, in lieu of trailers, they have an organist perform before the screening:

The next day we resumed our exploits with Saylor, taking a ride out to Mount Tamalpais in Marin County and staging this wacky photograph with the help of our tripod:

this image has not been cropped

After dropping off Saylor, we spent a couple of hours visiting a friend of my yin's from grad school before finally going to Mardou's apartment near Golden Gate Park.

i
m
age
miss
in
g

Mardou, of course, inspired my first chapbook, which was illustrated by Saylor and which my yin watched unfold in real time back in 2007. In spite of this, it was my yin and Mardou's first time meeting, and although I knew we would have a blast, I had no idea how much fun it would be:

my yin singing with joy

Mardou told us that the people in San Francisco are so preoccupied with their beloved Bay that they forget about the ocean sitting right beside them. To prove her point, she drove my yin and I to the beach at sunset:

photo by Mardou

From there we went back to the Mission for dinner at Gracias Madre, which serves vegan Mexican cuisine. The food was delicious, and afterward Mardou drove us to Twin Peaks high above the city:

San Francisco at night

It was one of those nights where time seemed to dilate, and you could hear the clocks whispering to one another, "There go three souls dancing, one spirit singing..."

only known image of my yin, Mardou, and Our Lady of Guadalupe