we are all a diameter.

The horses with their black manes, walk in circles around a post. How is it that their thin legs hold them, one with a small woman sitting atop its back? She wears a black helmet and riding pants. My mind jumps. I am on that beach in the Dominican Republic with Suzanne, riding one of the gentle beasts through the woods along the sand. It was hot, and my shirt was off. Long hair on the back, the humidity oppressive.

I look right and see a green field spotted with black cattle, their necks bent to the ground. Giant pink tongues slipping out, and pulling the grass into their giant pink mouths, a mess of teeth. Crows standing in a bunch. Huddled like old women, chatting about something or other. Worms perhaps. Their bird bone feet the tiniest of claws, quietly crunching on twigs. I imagine the sound of ice. Snowshoes. I have never worn snowshoes.

A farmer in the driveway leading up to the barn. He waves as I ride by. I imagine him shaking his head at all of the people out there in tight clothing on those bikes with such skinny tires. I am amazed at the trust we place in small diameters. Tires one inch across, if that. Dreams we can’t even measure. Hearts the size of an apple. Phone lines made of copper wire. I imagine this thin line running the length of the earth. As thin as veins, and full of the same blood. People calling other people to tell them they love them. People calling other people to tell them goodbye. People calling other people to tell them their son is dead. Their mother.

I push my legs up the hills and they burn. My mind complains about my bike being too stiff and hurting my hands, and then I think of Heather Starshine Jeavons, over there in Liberia watching people die in a refugee camp. Doing all that her enormous heart, steeped in courage can do to save those people, but some cannot be saved. Pregnant women who stumble into the bush to die.

I won’t even begin.

We are such fools here with our American bullshit. Cars and movies and houses and gluttony gluttony gluttony gluttony gluttony. More more more more lmoemr eomroemroemromeormeomre. Give me more.

And then the sound. The buzzing. I begin cussing immediately. Fuckers. You fucking pieces of shit. FUCK YOU. FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU. And in a blinding mess of yellow and blue, the last one in red, the motorcycles pass me going 100 {?} mph. 100. How will I ever live to be 134 with these assholes out there. They hug the turns which means their right/left knee drops and they drift into the bike lane. Diameter. Distance. Small, small, distance. You are a mere 9 inches or so from me sir. One slight twist at the wrong instant, and that’s it. Lights out for Jeff Pitcher. You too you fuck. They should make those motorcycles cost more. Much much much much more. It shouldn’t be so easy to thin the already thin line of my existence. They whir off into the vast expanse of road, and I carry on.

I am back to Heather, and remember how quickly our own woes take over. our lives are truly relative. How do we empathize with others?

I look down at the storm drain. The sides of it climbing up and forming a sloping gutter, are covered in moss, and a rust colored stain. The amber, and deep reds are overwhelmingly beautiful with the green. Somehow, the water running its course looks white. Is white. I’m not sure how, but it is. Its beauty causes me to stop. it is one of the most beautiful things i have ever seen. I Drink water, and think about my favorite things. Remind myself that patience is indeed a virtue.

I grab the bars, and pedal. Push and push and push and push and push…..

We are all horses walking the circle. We are all a diameter of some sort. A measurement. A life.

"you say my eyes are crazy eyes..."

is it possible for one to listen {and i mean listen} to Jane's Addiction's first record without drinking red wine? i say no. any Jane's Addiction for that matter.

the broken glass and the potential for crepes

I don’t quite understand why there are broken bottles littering the side of the road out in the middle of nowhere. Well not the middle of nowhere really, but relatively removed from society at large, as there is little there but road and trees which are inaccessible by foot. {ask me, I know. It wasn’t so long ago that i received a “hiking ticket” out there. There is a reservoir, and apparently ‘they’ are concerned about terrorists putting something in the water. Jesus. Uh-oh, maybe those beer bottles are filled with some terrible biological atrocity, and the wackos are trying to throw them in the water to poison us all.} Anyway, all I can figure, is that a bunch of assholes drive around out there drinking beer, and throw the bottles out of their windows. Or maybe they’re not assholes per say, but I don’t like that they do that so I call them assholes. There. To me, it seems an act of aggression, or potentially rebellion, but easily definable under the umbrella of stupidity.

1. Drinking and driving is most likely involved, which is stupid.
2. It is not beneficial for the environment, which is stupid.
3. There is no 3.

Well there is, and I could carry on I suppose with some intellectual banter about the inherent problems with throwing bottles out of car windows, but I don’t want to at the moment. Incidentally, when I was stopped 24 miles from my home yesterday, picking the remains of a bottle of Budweiser out of my tire {flat tire #2 of the day}, I wasn’t feeling all that intellectual then either. I was tired and cold, the rain had begun, and the patching process wasn’t going all that well. I spent some time imagining that these people would be caught, and their punishment would be that they would have to stand out there on the roadside and repair 20 flat tires. Who knows how long it could take, but they would have to stand out there every Saturday and Sunday until they had paid us back. Wouldn’t that be great? I get a flat and just walk my bike forward to the next “drunk, bottle throwing, piece of shit, tire fixing station” where I stand and stretch. Have a snack. Perhaps we could make them prepare crepes out there too, and tea on cold days. Ah well. I rode home watching for broken glass, ignoring the still water off to my right. The hawks searching out their food. The deer. I was though, still able to drift off with my thoughts. What amazing places they take me.

stumbling through straws

the skies fall dark again, and with it my mood drifts. i spend the week toiling in my head and heart, attempting to pull the melodies out through my hands. some are fluid tumbling out like water, and others seem to be like pushing rocks through straws. rocks that don't fit through straws. but then i ask, "is this difficulty one that i create for myself, unwilling to let the music breathe?" i try every conceivable thing to help the songs grow. wine, candles, slippers. believe it or not, slippers often help me in the process of composing. it really makes quite a bit of sense if you think about it. i tell them secrets, for what are they but secrets of the heart wrapped in the hands of sound?

but perhaps, the new melodies are scared. perhaps they are just as human as all of us out here, stumbling through straws sometimes. so i must then caress them. love them. the amplifier warms, the orange glow of tubes casting a dim light on the wall. i begin my search.

acknowledging fear is not a cause for depression or discouragement. because we possess such fear, we are also potentially entitled to experience fearlessness. true fearlessness is not the reduction of fear; but going beyond fear.

~chogyam trungpa rinpoche

ice and balance

last night i saw a documantary called touching the void which quite simply fucked me up. though i won't tell you anything else about it, i will say with confidence, that i believe it was one of the more intense things i've ever watched, and they somehow {how did they?} captured the extreme degree to which the situation was filled with despair. okay, so it's the story of these two brittish guys who find themselves in the midst of a disaster 21,000 ft. up a mountain of ice in peru. it reminded me of hallucinations i had as a young boy with high fevers; immeasurably overwhelming things. i'm often stunned at the degree to which certain pieces of art can impact my emotions.

i stumbled home after crying through the credits, in a euphoric daze of calm. the world felt loud, though it was quiet. in the wake of such things, my own trials feel so terribly small. we humans, with our human undoings can be so fragile at times. of course, as illustrated in the film, we can also be strong beyond what we would ever conceive possible. i found myself wishing for a gentle hand on my chest. the warmth of arms.

a light mist fell on me as i walked, and i thought about the size of the universe in relation to me out there moving my legs up the hill. there were parts of the documentary, where the cameras would pan back and show these tiny, little dots of men clinging to an enormous wall of ice. how small we really are. in the wake of this i wonder, "why do we ever quarrel with the universe?" i suppose because the universe, or whatever it was/is gave us both brains and hearts. balance my friends, balance.

couch

how is it that sitting on a couch, in a basement all day can be so bloody tiring? do my ears really exert that much energy while listening?

oops

one of the great things about owning a car that i don't give a shit about, is that when i back into a wall with decent force {as i did yesterday} denting the bumper a bit, and taking off some paint, i really don't care.

of flowers and such

and spring begins its slow opening. the fingers unfurl, displaying the gentle insides of hands curled for the winter, and the skin soaks the vitamins from the sun. we will surely have more rain and cold nights as winter is simply hiding for the day, but new flowers are breaking the ground, and hanging lightly from the arms of trees. i've begun to notice new smells as i run in the hills, and today found me in shorts for the first time since early november {?} my pale legs, a blur of white as they stirred the air. the squirrels seem to be out in greater numbers, munching on things in the trees, and young deer walk gingerly with mother. meanwhile, my own world spins. my bald head begs for more sun {or hair} and i dream crazy dreams of death by machine. giant swinging things banging into my head. though no, i did not actually die in the dream. that is said to be a sign of bad things no? i am reminded of the monkey wrench gang. oh how i loved edward abbey at the age of nineteen. maybe i should read that book again soon. but next on my list is away by jane urquhart. as a matter of fact, a list that begins now. sleep well children. dream of flowers and such.

pluck.

i finally pluck the long eyebrow hair that keeps building its home on my face. it is about 3/4 inch long, and the white-blond extends well into my right eye. though a wise hair, it is indeed a nuisance.

from the book titled "children's letters to god"

"dear god, i want to be just like my daddy when i get big but not with so much hair all over." ~sam

a rudder.

Last night in the hills, my run was a mess. I went out fast and hard, charging up, up, up and racing down the moon. It is full tonight, but it seemed full last night, and the yellow was astounding. I broke out of the houses and into the trees by Tilden Park, and stopped to smell flowers in bloom, the sign of an early spring. Then it dipped and fell. The rush, the joy, the complete love for my existence at that precise moment, crushed by the hand of hunger. My blood sugar fell to the floor in a crumbling dance of clacking bones, and weak-kneed dreams of a million broken snail shells. A shipwreck of blood. how dramatic jefferson.

So I sat, and stretched, knowing that it would pass, and I would walk the miles home, and I would shower and eat and everything would be fine. But then I had my stroke of stupidity. I saw a lemon tree, and thought “fuck it, why not?” of course my stomach would explain why not shortly thereafter. I pulled a large yellow orb from the tree, and began frantically attempting to peel it. The skin was tight, and I was quite unsuccessful, so I just ate it like an apple. It was so sour, and horrible, that my mouth watered the “I’m going to vomit now” watering. But I did not. I ate the lemon in it’s entirety, and began my descent from the hills. I was running again soon, fighting off the worst indigestion and oncoming stomach ache. The stomach ache came on, and my evening was full of a twisting and turning belly. Suggestion: do not do that.

Meanwhile I ask myself, was that yet another lesson in patience? Why is patience so impossible for me? Why does my sadness sometimes cloud the staggering beauty of my truth? Alas I quote myself from an old song. “there’s still a young boy inside crying out, ‘I just don’t want to hide’.” simplistic perhaps, but true. As the water moves, I tell myself to lay my arms gently upon my chest, and let the life flow with beauty and grace. I only serve to muddy the water with my swinging arms. Perhaps my arms are lemons. Big yellow rafts, afloat on the sea of life. don't i at least get a rudder?

A difficult thing to photograph properly. Much better in person.

how?

last night, i sat in my room drinking wine, and listening to the joshua tree. candles washing the walls, and still windless air. the air that is never seen, but only felt. this we know exists. a fact. but how, for the love of god, did they make that brilliant record? how? i just can't seem to wrap my head around it. i guess only my heart really fits. sometimes, someone creates something entirely beyond their human limitations, something that we cannot explain, but can feel. this morning, it is the queen is dead. how, how how?

do they have feet?

Yesterday, I woke slowly to the thundering sound of raindrops. They hurled their equestrian bodies onto my rooftop, flying off into the abyss of air and cement beneath them. What courage. I admire their willingness to leap. Perhaps they are just less cognizant of their mortality than we are. {not to mention the fact, that life itself has us confused enough at times.} These drops of water never die, but sink into the earth, or dry up in the sun; an evaporated life. a life of running down window panes, and across floors. So much to see and do. Perhaps there are the tiniest of mice living inside of each drop, running about looking for scraps of food. Much like our own lives, the water knows not where it will go, or just when it will turn. It too must trust in the giant hands of the universe, only it lacks heart and soul and mind as far as I can tell. Well, maybe just mind.

So I sat quietly in a cocoon of steamed windows, thinking about my own life and the lives of people around me. Some close, and some far. I pulled back curtains, and found myself enshrined in my slow and private world. Do these drops dream? Or do they live here, feet strongly planted in the present? Do they have feet? Alas, these rivers, this water, it does shape the earth, and similarly our lives. We are balls of dirt and skin and sand, swollen with blood and thumping hearts. The collection of our hope and our anguish rises in the form of leaves each day, and attaches itself gently to the highest branches of the highest trees. Perhaps we are the leaves of the earth, rising and falling with the wind, and the changing of seasons.

Last night, Ron and I mixed the last of “I Am Not In Spain;” a perfect example of unpredictability. A record that was supposed to take one week, became a walk of two years. One never really knows I guess. We must simply trust the water and breathe. Let the sun touch us. The light.

water

the rivers of my life:
moving looms of light,
anchored beneath the log
at night i can see the moon
up through the water
as shattered milk, the nudge
of fishes, belly and back
in turn grating against log
and bottom; and letting go, the current
lifts me up and out
into the dark, gathering motion,
drifting into an eddy
with a sideways swirl,
the sandbar cooler than the air:
to speak it clearly,
how the water goes
is how the earth is shaped.

~jim harrison