From drawings

Meet me in the Green Glen

Love meet me in the green glen
Beside the tall Elm tree
Where the Sweet briar smells so sweet agen
There come wi me

Meet me at the sunset
Down in the green glen
Where we've often met
By hawthorn tree and foxes den

Meet me by the sheep pen
Where briers smell at een
Meet me i the green glen
Where white thorn shades are green

Meet me in the green glen
By sweet briar bushes there
Meet me by your own sen
Where the wild thyme blossoms fair

Meet me by the sweet briar
By the mole hill swelling there
When the west glows like a fire
-John Clare

wrote this a while ago

this morning in the heat
around the cats and wood
i said i'll not be around long
i'll soon be going beneath the ground
cracks on a pavement gray
take tears of pain upon my bones
in all things in the wear
the oldness, sadness, and decay
an old man came up to me
his beard a white and shiny bright
he never said a word
and yet i hear his voice a-shake.

A good karate class can completely obliterate any pointless line of reasoning you may have been going down, and reorient you toward a completely pointless and yet perfectly coherent and inwardly unambiguous system.

The World is not Conclusion

This World is not Conclusion

A Species stands beyond-

Invisible, as Music-

But positive, as Sound-

It beckons, and it baffles-

Philosophy-don't know-

And through a Riddle, at the last-

Sagacity, must go-

To guess it, puzzles scholars-

To gain it, Men have borne

Contempt of Generations

And Crucifixion, shown...

-Emily Dickinson

"Eagle and Sky" by Ibuse Masuji.

Vocabulary from the last story I was trying to read, "Eagle and Sky" by Ibuse Masuji.

峠　　　とうげ　　　　　　　peak
尾根　　おね　　　　　　　mountain ridge
鷲　　　わし　　　　　　　eagle
栂　　　つが　　　　　　hemlock
猛ぎん　　もう　　　　　bird of prey
獲物　　　えもの　　　　　game
うっとり　　　　　　　　　　entranced
恍惚　　こうこつ　　　　　ecstasy
撮影　　さつえい　　　　　photographing
崖　　　がけ　　　　　　cliff
吠える　　　ほ　　　　　bark
膳　　　　ぜん　　　　　small table
邸　　　やしき　　　　　　mansion
譲る　　ゆず　　　　　　　turn over, assion
長兄　　　ちょうけい　　　　eldest brother
勝手　　　かって　　　　　one's own way
遣る瀬無い　　　やるせない　　cheerless
塀　　　　　へい　　　　　wall
容貌　　　ようぼう　　　　　looks
車掌　　　しゃしょう　　　　conductor
猛禽　　　もうきん　　　　bird of prey
後援　　　こうえん　　　　support, backing

plate

Patsy's life history

Some words on Patsy

Patsy Todd was born in Compton, California, on August

3, 1929. She moved to Oregon in ’37 during the

depression, picked fruit, and her father bought a farm

and sold it in ’47, moved to the coast, built a motel,

called the “Miles Motel”, went to Chemeketa, learned

to weld, worked at Wade’s manufacturing plant. Mother

did rations, worked for a millionaire, the father

building fences, mothing taking something, moved

father out to St. Helens and rioting started. Worked

at Smokecraft in the ‘70’s, linen mills in Jefferson,

talked about Burt Reynolds. Smacked her because she

liked Bob Hope, not Burt Reynolds. Joined the union

and quit, kind of fraudulent run in Salem, bring my

grandchildren. Can’t see after wreck, living with man,

worked in restaurant “Chilibowl”, early shift, met

guy, snow started, guy came over, started the affair,

died of a heartache. Clarence came home smelling of

gasoline, left, after six years

-Chris Farrell

Kerouac had some real talents.

Homeless eat

banana cake

coffee gone.

Sean Penn

big arms

Mystic River.

Trill ass

candy paint.

UGK.

Brown rice

with cheese.

Tired.

Yeah I'm not

gardening.

So What?

I got hot

water,

good.

Why is

that guy

staring at me?

Is there a sign over every bookstore that I am not seeing that says "Cell phone talking area"? Where do people get the idea that it is okay to go into a bookstore and chatter away on their cell phones? I know it is cold outside or noisy or whatever, but that doesn't mean we want your inconsiderate self in here where we are actually trying to read and look at books, not listen to how your colonoscopy went or which movie you need from the video store. Go back outside and freeze, or just hang up the phone.

moebius k at the beanery

These guys are finally starting to play as well as the quality of their instruments. I remember them playing a completely pathetic version of "Southern Man", but practice seems to be getting them into a kind of cool rocking zone.

That is always fun to see.

Apparently I am a "turbo" dishwasher. At the free meal this morning the head cook said that we may as well use my help because with my "turbo dishwashing" capabilities, they would be out of there earlier. It is true that I am an incredibly fast dishwasher, but that is not really something to brag about, for the most part. It is just a matter of prioritizing and getting the feel of using the standard industrial size dishwashing machine. I had eight years of on-the-job experience. It is not rocket science.

reading

John Cheever is an amazing writer.  Check his stuff out.  I was surfing through all the back issues of the New Yorker that are available to subscribers yesterday, because they were nice enough to provide links to all of the stories that J.D. Salinger published over the years.  It was interesting to read through them in their original typeface, with the original advertisements, everything exactly as it was in the original magazine when it came out.  I realized that Cheever was also probably in there somewhere, so I did a search and read one of his stories.  He has a distinct and gripping style, but not overstated or even loud in any way.

Harold Evans, an editor of the London Times and other papers, just came out with a memoir called My Paper Chase.  According to him, he definitely did a lot of work to uncover corruption of various kinds, pollution, to get the story on tyrants and maniacs in political power, and generally did the job an editor should be doing.  He was eventually forced out by Rupert Murdoch.  No surprise there.

Murdoch actually in some ways was kind of an admirable businessman.  At the time he took over the London Times, the printers' union had excessive power and was continually making demands and shutting things down.  Murdoch build an entirely new printing facility out of town on the ruse that he was starting up a new paper.  He shut down the presses and staffed the new presses with non-union people, managing to break the power of the unions.  It was quite an audacious move, and according to Harold Evans, something that needed to be done.

But the most important thing about Murdoch is that he owns Fox news.  That is unforgivable.

murdering the silence

"the band was not so much playing music as murdering the silence with a vulgar, ferocious energy." LOL. -from Victory, by Joseph Conrad.

What a terrific couple of days. NOT. Some idiot Republican with a truck gets elected in Massachusetts, and the spineless Democrats wuss out on passing what would have been a major major piece of legislation.

Then the Supreme Court overrules the law to decide that corporations can spend unlimited funds to get whoever they want elected.

Talk about a bad day.

If that health plan doesn't pass I don't know what I am going to do. Maybe move to the Brooks Range and make my living by spearing fish.

karate

There is a set way to do every kata. Of course there can be variations, but the kata has to work with the application that you have in mind. At the same time, there are certain principles that remain more or less the same. For example, the tension, inside and outside, in the stances works the same way in every case. There is a certain coordination that will allow maximum speed through stepping techniques, coordinated with their upper body movements. If one always strives to move in that way, then in a real world fighting situation, things may not be so perfect, but your technique will be stronger and faster and will have less extraneous and unnecessary motion than it would otherwise. Shotokan karate as taught by Nishiyama was optimized for speed and for maximum impact for each technique, combined with the greatest possible stability. It is an amazing system and a genuinely new invention in the way the body can coordinate through technique.

Shotokan also has the aspect of kata (forms) which is a similarity to the forms of something like Tai Chi. So karate is not all about fighting, but is also about relaxation and going through movements that may also have a meditative aspect.

fixin' cars.

life is a jaded path and a soporific meandering....

I spent about five hours trying to change an alternator, and almost broke down crying at several different points. The thing to know about alternators is a)have the tools for the job, and b)buy a headlamp so you can see what you are doing. I think I got it in there okay. If I break down somewhere in the pouring rain, probably on the freeway late at night, then I will know that I didn't install it right.

weird-ass ice cream

Here's a bizarre fragment of a story. Completely fictional.



I walked up over the tracks and came to the railroad crossing sign. It looked and felt satanic in the predawn cold, and I felt an evil sort of energy. Down the street, past some trailer parks of the wrecked variety, and the "King Kone", weird-ass fast food shack, I came upon an old and twisted white church. A cat was sitting in front of it, as if waiting for me. I stopped, and then passed by. The street felt more and more threatening, and a strange looking fat guy came out of a wrecked trailer. There was evil looking detritus strewn out all over the front of that trailer. He said "I can't see who it is!", maybe at me, or maybe at someone else. Trucks were rushing by, all the same make and model all in perfect condition, all zooming their engines. I started thinking I was going being watched, but there was a girl my age looking at me. We talked, and she gave me a brownie and some chocolate milk, and blew her whistle at the trucks, called them weak, and said she was just waiting to go to church with her aunt. She said we are all sons and daughters of hippies, and she was getting nervous. I was too. There was a white truck just down the way, revving its engine. I thought I was trapped at that point by some demonic force that was completely foreign to me. We sat down next to a building, and a long-haired type guy came by on a strange long bicycle that looked as if it was custom made and then covered in dirt and grime. He sat down. He said he was going to get propane.

long beard waving in the wind
strange long and silent bicycle
down the dark streets
going across town
looking for some propane.

Pomes '94

#1
to transform a thought into reality
as a cat whose eyes appear first.
or the circular out of the hand in the air
on its way to a certain image,
and the hope, unfolding in manifold leaves
of infinite possibility in the rising sun
or is it the setting of the earth?
or is it in fact that way, Black Peter?
when you feel the force leaving you,
was it there in your old forgotten self
wrapped up in untapped pouring?
or was it flitting by under the thunder
by restless wings?

#2
a girl in a blue volks
pulls up by the curb
a second cup of coffee
the steam rising on the wood
rays of setting sun down Clinton
trees and telephone poles in relief

sonnets to orpheus part 2 number 2

Even as a handy sheet of paper

sometimes catches a genuine masterstroke,

so, often into themselves the mirrors

take the one blessed smile of girls who awoke

and tried out the morning, alone-

or in the attendant lights' glitter.

And where the breath of their real faces

shone

there falls but a mere reflection, later.

What have eyes once seen in the blackening

coals

slowly cooling upon the hearth?

Glimpses of life, forever lost.

Ah, who knows the losses of the earth?

Only one, who praises nevertheless,

can sing the heart borth into the Whole.

-rilke

These poems follow a nonlinear path, kind of like my mind, introducing suggestions here and there, and impressions, but not having some sort of structure that necessarily makes much sense. Life is like that anyway. Logic is one thing, but real life is anything but logical.

Neon Gypsies at the Beanery

The Neon Gypsies played at the Beanery Friday night. They sounded great and dressed in colorful clothing. Thanks to Kalvin's wife, Keri, for scheduling them. They have a different sound and a different approach from any other band that I have heard.

Here's a drawing of the guitarist:

the song the idiot sings

They don't bother about me. They let me be.
They say, "Nothing can happen."
That's good.
Nothing can happen.  It all comes and wheels

steadily around the Holy Ghost,

always around the same Ghost (you know)-

that's good.

No, of course not, one mustn't think any danger

could come in that way.

Of course the blood exists.

Blood is the heaviest.  Blood is heavy.

Sometimes I think I've had too much.

(That's good.)

Oh, isn't that a wonderful ball!

round and red as nothing and all.

Good thing that you created it.

But will it come if you call?

How strangely this whole thing behaves,

into each other driving, out of each other swimming,

friendly, a touch uncertain.

That's good.

-Rainer Marie Rilke, translated by Robert Bly

Nothing can happen.  Things happen under the same essential reality.  So don't stress...I guess..or something.

Drivin' up to Salem for karate.  The weather is rainy.  I'm in okay shape but could be in a lot better shape (karate shape).  But that's the continual quest for karate perfection.  You never get there, and the art does keep changing and developing over the years, which is the fascinating thing.  It's definitely more of a exact science than it was in, say, the '70's ....but the basic forms have been there since Gichin Funakoshi in the '30's.

It was near four o'clock on a September day, so that the atmosphere was well-brewed to a visible haze. There was a deep stillness, broken only by a light rattle, a light chink, a small sweeping sound, and an occasional montone in French, such as might be expected to issue from an ingeniously contructed automaton. Round two long tables were gathered two serrried crowds of human beings, all save one having their faces and attention bent on the tables. The one exception was a melancholy little boy, with his knees and calves simply in their natural clothing of epidermis, but for the rest of his person in a fancy dress. He alone ...

From false astrologies and somewhat dismal rites,
changed into the undying and always laid aside,
I have kept a tendency, a solitary savour.

From conversations wasted like powdered lumber,
with the hummility of chairs, with words wrapped up
in slaving for a secondary will,
having that feel of milk, of wasted weeks,
of air locked above cities-

Who is able to boast a more enduring patience?
Prudence envelops me in a tight skin
of colour concentrated like a snake's:
my creatures are born of a wide recoil:
oh with one drink I can say goodbye to this day,
this day I picked from the sameness of earthly days.

Brim-full with substance of a common colour, silent,
I live like an old mother, patience impaled,
a church of shadows, the res-in-peace of bones.
I go, full of these waters profoundly bedded,
laid down in mournful, concentraled sleep.

In my guitar-like innards an old tune plays,
dry, rosonant, fixated, motionless,
a loyal diet, a puff of smoke:
a steady element, a living oil:
a sentinel bird looks after my head,
an invariable angel inhabits my sword.

Eugene karate

I started going down to Eugene to train with Pete and Marie, who I've known for 26 years, since I started in Shotokan. The vibe is good and Pete teaches a good class, with good concepts, and the feeling is that I'll probably start doing that on Fridays. It's only fifty minutes down there. We are training in a gym on 27th and willamette, whose name I forget. Eight bucks for a day pass, and the floor is a good wood floor. It just feels very relaxed and reminds me of the good old days in karate, when we had some fun and sweated a lot, and nobody broke any bones.

letters on the page

If only for once it were still.
If the not quite right and the why this
could be muted, and the neighbor's laughter
and the static my senses make-
if all of it didn't keep me from coming awake-

then in one thousandfold thought
I could think you up to where thinking ends.

I could possess you,
even for the brevity of a smile,
to offer you
to all that lives,
in gladness.-
rilke, book of hours

thoughtful thoughtations

"I wish to live ever as to derive my satisfactions and inspirations from the commonest events, every-day phenomena, so that what my senses hourly perceive, my daily walk, the conversation of my neighbors, may inspire me, and I may dream of no heaven but that which lies about me."-Thoreau

Is there, for honest poverty,
that hings his head, an' a' that?
The coward slave, we pass him by,
we dare be poor for a' that!
For a' that, an' a' that,
our tils obscure, an' a' that;
the rank is but the guinea's stamp;
the man's a gowd for a' that
-Robert Burns