movement

It started as a silence that turned into a drip,
that turned into a trickle that turned into a stream.
It was pleasant, still, and beautiful
it was melodious and sweet,
but it lacked the pure raw knowledge of the silence gone before it.
Then the trees began to creak and crack and shiver in the wind,
the birds began to sing, the insects began to chirp,
the wolves began to howl, the snakes began to hiss,
the sun began to burn, the human began to speak,
and the collective whole was dissonance and ramble
until…
it formed a harmony so transcendent and complex, it broke the hearts of all those singing its strands,
but it lacked the pure raw knowledge of the silence gone before it.
Then saws, then drums, then cymbals, then argument, then cries, then gnashing, then anger, then industry, then guns, then bombs, then
GIVE ME MORE NOISE TO DISTRACT ME FROM THE NOISE!!!!!!!!
PACIFY, NUMB, KILL ME WITH DEAFNESS!!!!!!!
and it lacked the pure raw knowledge of the silence gone before it.
The tranquility of the stream wore off.
Its timbres became melancholy.
Babbling replaced babbling
The silence of light forgot.
Noise over noise made the calm nigh impossible to uncover.
but portals remain.
the sky is in the puddles
the light is in the trees.

TIMidity

He looked out the floor-to-ceiling window at the dusk-lit street corner. Cars were stopped at the light, and he could here the sound of an airplane decelerating above the city street. But his attention was given to the young lady at the table in the back dinning room. She was busy at some kind of work; he could not see what it was. She kept her head down over a large book raising her head a little to make a mark here or there with a pen. She reached down to retrieve something from her purse, and he watched as her elegant scarf loosed from around her neck and fell to the side. The thought was not indecent. If he was not watching her, he was mulling over his thoughts. His mind festered with numerous odd, fuzzy words and theories, like story-book monsters with fury coats. It seemed to him that the thought of prayer was ever with him, but he rarely lifted any of these worrisome meditations to the care of God. No, his time was better spent following rabbits down labyrinthine paths in his imagination or exaggerating his mental complexity to close friends. He paused to take another sip of the expensive cappuccino and a bite of the dark chocolate-dipped macaroon he had ordered at the Viennan cafe. He liked being sophisticated, but had never worn dress shoes that cost more than thirty dollars. Presently, he wore a faded red t-shirt and well worn jeans; his uniform for employment at an after school program. He imagined himself sporting a three-piece suit; the jacket draped on the chair next to him, the cane, overcoat, and fedora neatly placed on the hook to the left of his table. He imagined checking a gold pocket watch from his front vest pocket before standing to go inquire the subject of her study. In fact, he spent a lot of his time imagining himself elsewhere than where he was and as someone he was not. He fancied himself an adventurer, an outdoorsman, an athlete, a seasoned urbanite, a social butterfly, an intellectual, a man of discipline, a writer, an artist, a leader, a thinker, an early riser, a self-motivated worker, a wayfarer, and an avid reader. He wore some of these hats frequently, when around the sort of people that had a strong disposition to that thing already. But when left alone he thought himself without identity. With this train of thought, he decided it highly unlikely that he would get up and talk to anyone except the server. Risk was not something his lack of identity could suffer.
He carried a polar self-image, one a washed up, thought-sore, defeatist who couldn’t decide or move except out of weakness and submission; another a privileged hard-working, sky’s-the-limit, watch me go optimist, who couldn’t but smile in the face of adversity. The paradox enraged him. Some of the time, he believed everyone else was real and capable while he was inauthentic and incompetent. Still he held to optimism as a duty and called it his hope. And this idealism ground him down into a fine dust, for he could not but fall short of his own standard. He wanted to run away from himself, but did not possess the courage. He had been staring out the window for fifteen minutes when the server kindly slipped the bill on his table and said, “whenever you’re ready.” He thanked her and took another breath, another sip, another bite, and another five minutes of meditation before turning over the bill. This is how time passed; thoughts leading nowhere and with no one, in cafes full of creative people in pairs and parties. “I want a happy ending and I want to know about it ahead of time,” he sighed. Then he grabbed his bag, and unnoticeably slipped out the door and disappeared down the the street on the way home. With the wind in his face and fall-time leaves whooshing by above him in the treetops, he drew breath and thought, “Perhaps someone else is fantasizing about what it may be like to work with children at a non-profit in the city, study Theology and management at a good school, bike to work, and stop at a cafe on the way home just to think and enjoy a dainty, caffeinated indulgence.”

sunup to sundown

From a trip in 2008. . .
woke up at 5:00, to begin hiking at 5:30; blazed up Lower Wolfjaw (Sun up at 6:15 on top), Upper Wolfjaw, Armstrong, and Gothics; descended 1200 feet to grab Sawteeth, then climbed it again to link with the trail; broke for a powerbar (10:30 AM); continued down the cables on the back side of Gothics then up Basin and Saddleback; while climbing Haystack got separated; had lunch on top; climbed down Haystack on the way to Marcy; at the spit decided to divide the group in two so that one with hot pain in his knees could return to camp; two continue on; over Marcy without stopping for a view; around and up Grey (the herds path ripped holes in our shirts); up the rock trail on Skylight; from the top, we gazed at Marcy, which we’d have to climb back over to get back home (6:30 pm); summit Marcy a second time; share SHARKIES on top; begin the 7 mile descent back to camp (Sun setting at 7:50 pm); rendezvous with group and share Backpackers Pantry meal with Saranac Ginger Beer (10:30 pm); crash in the lean-to shelter utterly spent (11:00pm).
Ah the woods!

Treetop

I mourn the slow decline of childhood imagination and elasticity, which makes climbing trees such a marvelous delight, and do all I can to combat it. So I think climbing trees in one way an exercise of the child in oneself, and therefore a prudent and edifying activity. Moreover, from the treetop, if you dare climb that high, you are able to observe quite a lot more than you are from ground level. You are simultaneously cautious and daring in your treetop observations, because you are a dreadfully long fall from the ground, and despite this you are courageously balancing on a limb on your way to the sky. You might meet an owl, a bluebird, a squirrel or chipmunk, a robin, a sparrow, a cardinal, a mouse, and if you dream hard enough, a dryad or a nymph! Your purpose of course initially was one of these: to dream, to reach the top, to narrowly escape the chomping jaws of the large-angry-snarling dog, to see something you couldn’t before, to fetch the kite you snagged, to climb, to discover, or to seek the tree spirit’s counsel. And so you proceed to meditate and remember or make afresh all sorts of mind-blowing tales and ideas; just the sort you want to share. Then you climb down and remembering the treetop wisdom to re-tell and follow this day to that proves quite tedious and difficult. Trying to remember and re-tell the wisdom of the sky larks is a worthy endeavor to be fought.

siblings under a fountainhead

When asked to remark on my family history and childhood, I could tell a story of an ordinary American nuclear church-going family, marked only by deaths, births, and the occasional marvel, like excursions to the mountains or beach. At first glance, it may seem I lived a typical, semi-advantaged, Southern American adolescence; the product of a fusion between similarly industrial conservative families, who’s ties string backwards through the great awakenings of the 19th century, the American Revolution, and the Puritanical movements to England, Scotland, and Holland. But this American tale is hardly with no great shakes, and I am of the mind to call my childhood and ancestry exceptional, rather than run of the mill. I’m increasingly impressed by what I learn about my heritage: deceased relatives in the confederate army, in the the Buchanan and Carroll clans, in the Raymond’s Dutch immigrations, and the Bowyer’s court, pioneering parents who sacrificed dreams to create a beautiful home life for their children. . . and then there’s my own childhood. I remember riding in the back of big blue, our rusted out 70’s model Suburban we had in Ohio. We sat watching the road go by and spitting through the rusted grape-fruit-sized hole in the floor. I remember wedging my body between the bench seat in the front and the pedals, straining to compress the clutch, so we could roll the ole blue off when her starter died. I remember playing in run off creeks, living in rental properties behind pig farms, and learning to scrub my shoes in the tub, so they looked new again. I remember mother’s rage when I drew on the wall in the house with a pen. I remember moving 3 times in 3 years. I remember grandmamma coming to live with us in the basement when she was dying, drawing her pictures and taking turns eating supper at the foot of her hospital bed. I remember the night-time fights between mother and father. Katherine would creep over into our bedroom, and we’d crawl in bed together and wonder weather or not they would stay together. I remember fights with my brother that ended in bloody noses, split lips, and shiners. I remember trying to bulk up on banana shakes even though my brother and me were helplessly puny. I remember annual vacations to Michigan, the beach, and one time when I was 10, Australia. I remember the strange introduction to rebellion and the incommunicable inner turmoil of adolescence. I remember practicing profanities first at my family by directing these under-the-breath words at them when I was angry. And I remember family discussions when one or all of us were out of line and not talking about it. I remember all this rough going, but I never fully knew our family’s struggle nor felt our financial strain, and I still romanticize my childhood. I played many days outside, creating my own world under the kudzu plants and in the vine-covered pine forests of the blue ridge foothills. My parents somehow managed to free us rather than keep us sheltered. Remarkably, my parents taught us that life was to enjoy, so we developed thrift naturally, and learned to appreciate life’s less-genteel pleasures and beauty. My siblings and me all seamlessly adopted our parents knack for wilderness recreation and leadership. We grew united, even though we disliked each other as siblings do. They instilled in us values I still keep. They instructed us in the way of the pilgrim. They bestowed to us gifts of adventure and opportunity. But they privileged us the most by living exciting lives themselves.
Mother:
My mother was an only child to a Southern couple who married late in life. Her father a banker and Southern gentleman, her mother a refined Southern lady thoroughly given to manners and etiquette, she was raised in dresses and niceties. But she wanted nothing to do with the traditionalism of the Southern Lady, so she played in the creek, punched boys, got into mischief, and muddied her jeans. An only child, she relished the time she had to spend with her cousins and neighborhood children, vowing to herself never to have a small family, dreaming of a bustling, messy household with 12 children, a dog, a horse. She began her baccalaureate at Middle Tennessee State in a pre-nursing program. But under the lectern of a campus minister, she found a passion for the development of youth and college students. She went on to receive her Masters in Christian Education from Wheaton College. Her summers were spent at a camp in Wisconsin, riding Clydesdale horses, teaching kids to love the out-of-doors and all activities done therein. As a mother, she proved a fast friend and counselor. She never stopped playing, never stopped expanding her mind. Even now, I am increasingly impressed with her life. She went back to become a nurse after we all graduated college. My own childhood was full of the essence of her life and my father’s; marked with adventure, mischief, and strong imaginative memories. I celebrate her today and always, the fountainhead of my youth.

on children

it may seem a greater privilege to control vast sums of revenue, to hold sway over multitudes of people, to directly influence the courses of nations and enterprises and to have bulging pockets… but I wipe the tears of five-year-olds and swoop them up, burying their adversities deep in my arms. I spark their sense of wonder and lose myself in their labyrinthine imaginations. I influence lasting keys to the future: young minds and personalities. it is an prodigious privilege, and an artistry I might argue, to work well with children. and it remains widely undervalued. if god smiles on children and inspires his devotees to be more like children, why do we let them fall and why is it that you’d have to be crazy to work with children? the world will tell the truth as generation unfolds into generation. where o where have you been, my children and who has kept and fed you? for some, there is endless joy, if only briefly amid the chaos of school and program, in the smiles, laughter, and creativity of these, the inheritors of what we leave behind. for me, it is enough.
why is it that we long to be children again? it could be that children know something we do not, or do not know what we do, and thus are more able to thoroughly enjoy a given activity without distraction. their pains are deep and unhindered with duty towards composure. their elation is unabridged, complete and contagious and we are drawn to the purity of their sprite. but age has its way. there is only the never never land that is inside us, a faded memory and a pining that calls us backwards. Is it pure and rewarding to long for the in-complexity and wholeness of youth or is it denial and folly to enter into a romanticized retro-idealism that views youth as some kind of perfection, when in reality, even babies are subject to depravity and decay; and childhood is one bewildering stage of prematurity? i tend side with the poets. . .

“When I became a man I put away childish things, including the fear of childishness and the desire to be very grown up.”
~ C.S. Lewis

“When childhood dies, its corpses are called adults and they enter society, one of the politer names of hell. That is why we dread children, even if we love them, they show us the state of our decay.”
~ Brian W. Aldiss

“There is a garden in every childhood, an enchanted place where colors are brighter, the air softer, and the morning more fragrant than ever again.”
~ Elizabeth Lawrence

“Unlike grownups, children have little need to deceive themselves.”
~ Goethe

I’d give all wealth that years have piled,
The slow result of Life’s decay,
To be once more a little child
For one bright summer day.
~ Lewis Carroll, “Solitude”

Those shadowy recollections,
Which, be they what they may,
Are yet the fountain light of all our day,
Are yet a master light of all our seeing;
Uphold us, cherish, and have power to make
Our noisy years seem moments in the being
Of the eternal Silence: truths that wake,
To perish never;
Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavour,
Nor Man nor Boy,
Nor all that is at enmity with joy,
Can utterly abolish or destroy!
Hence in a season of calm weather
Though inland far we be,
~ William Wordsworth, “Ode: Intimations Of Immortality From Recollections of Early Childhood”

a stranded giant

December 2006-
a Subaru named Ginny left her owner marooned on a Washington state highway shoulder at one in the morning, outside 13 degrees, and with no trace of civilization for miles. It was a marvelous, majestically devised explosion, staged for that moment, now etched into history and memory. chain of events: get lost on the way to the community house in Seattle, “well I’ll just drive home to Montana tonight”, and I’m off driving, sleep…driving, “why’d I choose to leave for Montana at 11:00 pm, brilliant!” singing with the radio, Damien Jurado isn’t lively enough, turn it off, shifting gears to pass a semi, driving, memememe, the check-engine light pops on, weird, slow down, ahhh, I thought they fixed my thermostat! apply the brake, temp gauge off the charts, press the clutch, engine stalls, brake, brake harder, slip on ice, brake softer, smoke plumes from the hood, veer off to the shoulder, instinct kicks, jolts mind into action, jump into sleeping bag, immediately feel the weight of the icy midnight crushing on the car, frozen lake to the right, snow-covered mountain to the left, no cell towers, cursing, haven’t been paying any attention to road signs, “what was I thinking,” I wonder if I’ll get hypoxia, hypothermia, frostbite, have to call for help, bundle in all the clothes, run up the hill, find a tower, call a tow truck, fail at describing my surroundings, no street sign, no clue…dive in the dead beast, crawl in sleeping bag, sleep, freak out whoosh – tractor trailer lays on his horn and rustles the car like a quaking aspen leaf as he rolls by at 70 miles an hour, music, car’s dead! engine is smoldering, 3:30 am, tow truck arrives, run in circles, connect chains, sleep and fear down off the mountain, Midas Auto, crap, Days Inn, memory shuts down, legs shut down, credit card, vague ideas conveying anxiety, I don’t care, just want rest, bed creaks and the pillow is too fluffy, nine oclock am, “it’s shot,” what?, “your engine…it’ll need replacing,” ayayaya … fly home for 2 days, graduate college, surreal, family Christmas, leather jacket, return flight to Seattle, bus to Midas, final bill, ridiculous! fuming, wanna kick the wall, well we’re in it together Ginny, but that wont be your name no more, jerkface! you’ll forevermore be BEAST, new engine, can’t tell the difference, clutch feels weird, figure out the fathead who sold me the car to begin with botched up a radiator job…ruthless chain of events, ahh, so it’s you and me all the way to Michigan in 2 days babycakes, say farewell to Montana ranch people, think, “gleaned what I gleaned, calloused hands, strong back, stingy disposition, spit, curse, drink,” but now it’s off to Dutch Reformed Michigan for the holiday and then to Germany and Switzerland to study philosophy… hope whatever the philosophy, it’ll have some bearing on this madness,. . .

i am often surprised at the chaos that surrounds us. i suppose my mental fortitude is meant to grow with each varying adventure, but each one seems just as shocking or anomalous as the one before it. sometimes life throws her weight into me and kicks me into gear. sometimes she slows me down, puts multiple obstacles in my path. when with with fear and timidity, I ride life’s gauntlet with chattering teeth and paranoia, when with determination and strength, I ride the river with mad, disciplined eyes, and when with mischief and humor, I ride it with head thrown back in wonderment. my aim is to enjoy my endeavoring, be it a stumbling crawl and be it a swift-footed run.

Ginny (a.k.a. the beast)

wad of bills

Usually when I drive, I do so in a trance-like state of mind. . .listening to NPR, or some album that fits the mood of the day: The drowsy dawn, the melancholy midday, the shadow-rich dusk, the lively evening, or the still night. Sometimes I can’t stand the noise so I drive with only the sounds of the road. This is when I’m late and stressed. You’ll note the occasions when I’m late by my unnecessarily aggressive tailing, corning, and acceleration from stoplights. Tuesday morning was an occasion like the former: I had no place to get to quickly and found myself listening to Gillian Welch at 10:30 in the morning as I inched along North Ave. That morning was bright and warm; an odd day for Chicago February. I had the windows cracked and was enjoying the breeze in my face. I was east of Ashland, when I glanced out my passenger side window to steal a peak at the Beemer, which was edging by me on the right. This broke my trance, as askance, I observed the driver of this shiny BMW casually thumbing through a 4-inch-thick wad of bills, licking his thumb every 5 or so notes to keep a proper count. Most of the bills were benjamins, if my eyes weren’t playing tricks on me. The shock of the sheer amount of cash was enough to run me off the road, but I was equally baffled that this was going on while driving down North Ave mid morning. I usually am not overwhelmed by a desire to commit theft. I dare say the thought all but crosses my mind. But as he sped off in front of me, I imagined myself initiating a high speed chase, concluding in a grandiose, explosive wreck and walking away unscathed with at least 8 dimes in the pocket. When I came to, I was parking outside my apartment, next to an overflowing dumpster.

Turn around

I went for a trek through a vast and uncharted wood and became so disoriented that I circled round with out realizing it. I began seeing the same familiar surroundings; this same tree and that same brook, even my own footprints left just an hour before. I was helplessly disoriented, frustrated and annoyed that I had lost my way, and slowly began to realize that I had no choice but to dig in and reorient myself to the landscape. I knelt and waved my fingers over the ridged impression my boot had made in the mud, just touching the drying surface of the imprint. All I needed to do was find where I diverged from my heading, and go straight on. Rising, I retraced my steps and kept my eyes fixed on the ground, paying meticulous attention to the disturbed forest floor. But I never noticed an obvious turn and so found myself looking down at the same footprint I had bent down to touch. Now what! I would have climbed a tree, but what good would seeing a bunch of leaves do me? There was no canopy to look over. I had no compass. So I figured I would trace my steps backwards to see where my initial path fused with the circle I was making. Off I went at a regular pace, now tracing two overlapped layers of footprints and scanning for the tangent I knew must be there, which could lead me back. I found it after a short half hour of tracking, then remembered that going back wouldn’t do at all. My purpose in entering the wood in the first place to traverse it, to find the other side and go on. Going back meant giving up! It meant surrendering to mediocrity and perpetual wonder about what lay on the other side of the wood. It meant brushing shoulders only with those who never cared to wonder about it, living contently one their side. But I had tasted it, the thrill of adventure, and was convinced of the significance and potential of the journey. Moreover, I had a fierce yearning to be fully aware of the mystery, and wouldn’t let up until I knew it. I was plagued already with the questions, and going back would surrender my soul to defeat. Then I remembered that the setting sun meant West and I knew I had come from the Southeast. My bearing to the other side was straight on towards the sun, now splintering behind a wave of a cloud, brilliant with golden and rose-colored accents. But there still was the endless wood, that was just as intimidating as the path backward. I had no map. I didn’t know its size or shape, nor did I know what I’d encounter in it. But the fear of the unknown was less that that of the familiar, so with what some might call bravery, I followed the setting sun further in as the day waned and camped by a small clearing, under an elm tree. . .tbc

4 Square

I exited the building, holding the door for the mass of bundled bumpkins piling up at the bottleneck. As we shot out of the door like a canon ball, I heard someone yell, “where’s the ball!?” Ahh the all-essential and oh-so-confrontational play ground ball! But this time, I had my hopes for a cleaner sort of game, in contrast to the daily pandemonium of kickball lawlessness. The older kids, who have a developed sense of fair play, were playing this classic game, 4 square. . . what could go wrong? I have a wonderfully memorable relationship with 4 square, having employed the game myself on numerous occasions for passing the time, lively tournaments, and mindless leisure. It is particularly awe-inspiring when there are two competing courts and the entire playground is running through round after round, cycling through short-lived and long defended ‘king’doms. This happened once and went on for hours at a certain summertime Chicago music festival. But today I was introduced to a new breed of this most excellent game, one which made vulnerable the very foundations of the sport, which constitute it’s renown. In today’s version, the ‘king spot’ player was not subject to the usually binding core rules, for he or she could set whichever mode of play he or she deemed most entertaining or advantageous: ‘count play’ meant that the player who could not throw the ball in the air and clap their hands one more time than the player before them had, was out. ‘corners’ meant you had to plant your feet in the corners and not move. ‘rocket’ (or something like that) meant the king could call out another player, punt the ball as far as possible, then count to 10. That player had to run get the ball and be back in the court before the king made it to ten. ‘keep up’ meant the ball couldn’t touch the ground. ’sneaky’ meant you could employ your shoes to kick the ball. ‘rotate’ meant that all players excepting the king were required to walk a circle around the court and stop when the king spoke, changing your square. I could go on, but I will draw it to a close, just as the game quickly became a genuine bore and died, due to the power lust and manipulation of whoever had the king square. It was most regrettably dissatisfying; a game of what is usually a quite lovely sport ruined by corruption and frivolous rigidity. Needless to say, or obviously, I was distraught. With all the charisma I could muster, I vocally lamented the loss of 4 square’s original nobility, which this present game mode left behind. But, alas my audience heeded not the musings of their counselor, resigning themselves to the inevitable loss of interest in the increasingly dull game, made duller each time a clever king made up his or her mind to assert his or her utter control…
A lesson for the ages.