The powers that watch at the boundary are dangerous; to deal with them is risky; yet for anyone with competence & courage the danger fades.
-Joseph Campbell
An update. Where to start picking up the threads? Well, the main thrust of activity hereabouts is that my little abode is awash in mayhem. 1940's brick & hardwood small my little centerpart of a triplex is now populated with both Aaron & Matt with yours all-too-truly. Aaron showed up earlier than anticipated from Canada where he discovered hippies in yurts & Native Americans with sweatlodges willing to spare some wisdom. He's headed off to Delaware soon to visit his Grandma. Matt & I had been developing a groove, as he spun me some of his DJ routines, spending hours together reforging our friendship. You know the usual unusual sharing of stories, books, music, & the innermost. Much as I didn't want to admit it my post break-up depression has kept me from writing both abundantly or with much quality. Ahh, another gestation period. Perhaps my depression is a little more stealthy these days but I'm persistent enough to chase him in the moist cracks of lush jungle ravines in my soul. I turned over plenty of rocks on the Puget Sound as a kid. I'm not about to stop now.
The journal has taken a bare approach. Who knew I'd get so into fragments? It's as if I'd been sitting around reading Holderlin & Michael McClure all day which is just not the case. So much of writing comes down to sound. I consider myself a poet not a writer. My ear may be peculiar, falling for cadences & rhythms that don't meet the taste of many people but as always I just say what I have to say. The subject & the sound are not divorced. In response to blank canvas I've been burnishing a calligraphy pen. Double-sided, the fat end is smooth in arcing lines for spontaneous drawings that emphasize some of the absurd notions my hackneyed readings of physics produce. Still trying to create the solution instead of further elucidating the problem. Somehow too many of the poems come out too hokey. My crit can have a sharpness but my spiritualism can get endowed with a flightiness that is more robin drunk on aged berry crashing into clear-paned windows than athletic hummingbird thriving in clarity & precision & whimsy. If I have time on this earth to heal the many wounds, I'll never tire of working.
Should get on with the day. Sunshine & red leaves to admire. Going on the Amtrak today. Headed north to celebrate a family friend's marriage. His first at forty years of age. Waited awhile. He used to take me on motorcycle rides when I was a kid, including twenty or thirty foot jumps over a gravel pit near the Naches River. In homage I have my tight red Easy Rider shirt on. My sister, about his age, & him may have had an odd flirt relationship but my wee brain was more concerned with Transformers & magic & keeping my eye out for creatures like deer & porcupines back in those days. That, & my own crushes on girls that wouldn't want boy cooties for a number of years, or at least admit to such. Now, I have a better eye for some details while other dreamy synapses have devolved into obscurity. Learning to forget is almost as difficult as learning to remember. Alright. The day is calling. May your occasions be effusive with joy & the gathering weave of wisdom.
-Joseph Campbell
An update. Where to start picking up the threads? Well, the main thrust of activity hereabouts is that my little abode is awash in mayhem. 1940's brick & hardwood small my little centerpart of a triplex is now populated with both Aaron & Matt with yours all-too-truly. Aaron showed up earlier than anticipated from Canada where he discovered hippies in yurts & Native Americans with sweatlodges willing to spare some wisdom. He's headed off to Delaware soon to visit his Grandma. Matt & I had been developing a groove, as he spun me some of his DJ routines, spending hours together reforging our friendship. You know the usual unusual sharing of stories, books, music, & the innermost. Much as I didn't want to admit it my post break-up depression has kept me from writing both abundantly or with much quality. Ahh, another gestation period. Perhaps my depression is a little more stealthy these days but I'm persistent enough to chase him in the moist cracks of lush jungle ravines in my soul. I turned over plenty of rocks on the Puget Sound as a kid. I'm not about to stop now.
The journal has taken a bare approach. Who knew I'd get so into fragments? It's as if I'd been sitting around reading Holderlin & Michael McClure all day which is just not the case. So much of writing comes down to sound. I consider myself a poet not a writer. My ear may be peculiar, falling for cadences & rhythms that don't meet the taste of many people but as always I just say what I have to say. The subject & the sound are not divorced. In response to blank canvas I've been burnishing a calligraphy pen. Double-sided, the fat end is smooth in arcing lines for spontaneous drawings that emphasize some of the absurd notions my hackneyed readings of physics produce. Still trying to create the solution instead of further elucidating the problem. Somehow too many of the poems come out too hokey. My crit can have a sharpness but my spiritualism can get endowed with a flightiness that is more robin drunk on aged berry crashing into clear-paned windows than athletic hummingbird thriving in clarity & precision & whimsy. If I have time on this earth to heal the many wounds, I'll never tire of working.
Should get on with the day. Sunshine & red leaves to admire. Going on the Amtrak today. Headed north to celebrate a family friend's marriage. His first at forty years of age. Waited awhile. He used to take me on motorcycle rides when I was a kid, including twenty or thirty foot jumps over a gravel pit near the Naches River. In homage I have my tight red Easy Rider shirt on. My sister, about his age, & him may have had an odd flirt relationship but my wee brain was more concerned with Transformers & magic & keeping my eye out for creatures like deer & porcupines back in those days. That, & my own crushes on girls that wouldn't want boy cooties for a number of years, or at least admit to such. Now, I have a better eye for some details while other dreamy synapses have devolved into obscurity. Learning to forget is almost as difficult as learning to remember. Alright. The day is calling. May your occasions be effusive with joy & the gathering weave of wisdom.
posted by Jason @ 9:34 AM
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