repost: poem recovered from Big Sur - 1 year, 10 weeks and counting...

big

Sur

highway 

One

cassette tape

Nostalgia

sunny day Melancholy

fog bank Bankruptcy:

The priest dances for Rain.

A beauty so perfect

it saddens him to know

it will remain when He is gone.

Once in a blue moon...

Two nights ago my yin and I, accompanied by a close friend, went to the beach at sundown to see the full moon come up over the ocean.  This is something we try to do as often as possible, but it generally works best when the full moon coincides with the weekend, one of those pesky compromises of the current life we're living. I remember years past when weekdays were differentiated from weekends by nothing more or less significant than an "s," and the idea of staying up an extra hour or two on a Tuesday night simply meant sleeping a little later, or lingering in bed a little longer while the coffee gurgled its way into the pot.

But this is beside the point.

The point is that this past Friday also happened to be a blue moon. According to librarians familiar with the Farmer's Almanac, a "blue moon" occurs when a season contains four full lunar cycles instead of the usual three. Popular wisdom, however, has conflated this original designation with a new, less infrequent event - two full moons in a single month.

 As an aside, I find it interesting that the blue moon has managed to sneak its way out of the Farmer's Almanac and into our broader society. This has been a great boon to brewers:

and country music starts alike:

But this is also beside the point.

The point is that something has always slightly bothered me about the establishment of the blue moon as a sort of post-industrial, new age, consumer brand. I've always found this concern difficult to articulate, but it is easily illustrated by what happened this past Friday.

My yin, our friend, and I were sitting on a bench, chatting, watching, waiting for the moon to break its way through the hauntingly beautiful haze of dusk.  It happened slowly, not at the point where sky meets water, but about 18° above the horizon. Not long after it emerged, a woman came running up the boardwalk that leads to the beach  with a cell phone in hand.  She stopped, snapped a picture, and then retreated back to her vehicle, which she had left running by the roadside. She was there, perhaps, 15 seconds.

[lapse]

My yin and I returned to the beach yesterday, taking advantage of the clear weather, long weekend, and free early morning parking. As I sat journaling, it finally occurred to me how to articulate what I witnessed the night before:

"... It was odd because there were other people there as well, and I think to myself how curious it is that people make such a to-do out of two full moons in a Julian month, almost as it celebrating the capture of the cyclical, atemporal, natural cycle of the moon by the regimented, prescribed, artificial confines of our modern calendar, which is itself a futile, almost obscene, attempt to circumscribe time and nature into something we can control and measure...

Where did this come from, this victory of man's time of nature's? Is it rooted in obedience to the masculine sun over the ecstatic worship of the feminine moon? If so, what does this yearning for people to go to the beach, capture an image, then leave represent?  A repressed urge to return to the feminine? A subconscious urge for a time of ebb and flow that mirrors the menstrual and eschews the rigid, phallic time of Caesar?"

My yin, the beach and moonrise...

rabbit rabbit

Il est mort. (eulogy for Chris Marker)

I learned of his passing

one month after it happened -

a Thursday morning otherwise

consumed with insomnia and

thoughts of work and suddenly

my career didn't seem quite

so important, nor my sleeplessness,

nor my knowledge of either. I

wondered, in the way one does 

before sunrise, if his were the last

images I would ever truly love.

I wondered if I would
ever remember again
without thinking of him.

2106 days ago tomorrow

Last year
she asked:

"Have you
written any
poetry lately?"

Well, I remember

(which does not mean:
I remember well)

one I wrote
two thousand
six days ago
tomorrow

[lapse]

She asked:

"Are you an artist?"

I f a lt e re d

What I meant to say:

"I'm living."

(I guess this makes this
an artist's commune)

Life as Picasso:

Longing an O'Keefe:

Words like teeth do chomp:

"The word 'art' interests me very much.
If it comes from the Sanskrit, as I've heard, it signifies 'making.'"
-Marcel Duchamp

And the one I wrote this morning:

her dancing round heart

the accidental haiku

beating safe and sound

Thank you,
I said, for asking.

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... 

Homecoming

My yin and I are on our way back to North Carolina, almost a year since we last departed. Unlike the previous two summers, this year’s excursion is merely a vacation, a much-needed, much-delayed respite from the Florida summer. I remember last August, when I strapped a bed frame to the roof of my Jeep and wondering whether or not it would be able to stand the 700+ mile trip back to Florida. Amazingly enough, the only difficulty I had was during the first 3 miles on the Blue Ridge Parkway between my father’s house and Blowing Rock. By the time I reached the Green Hill Inn, an errant piece of duct tape had pulled loose and was flailing like a wounded bird in the cool morning air.

But this is beside the point.

The point is that I had grown attached to our summers in the mountains, and more than once I’ve felt that wishing twinge of nostalgia, the slippery slope of “I remember when…” that oftentimes finds its way to becoming “… it should have always been.”

But this is not the way of the material world.

Everything that has a beginning has an ending, and the pain we wrongly attribute to the ending itself its actually caused by the attempt to hold onto something that has already passed.

Vacations (like this one) are a good opportunity to remember...