the truck loader

The automobile is a strange thing. Sitting in a seat {comfort level entirely dependent on make and model of vehicle} you rocket the highways at 75. In the morning, you are in the red rocks of the desert, and by nightfall, you are surrounded by 14,000 ft. mountain peaks. This Telluride is breathtaking. And cold. Cold, cold, cold, cold, cold. Admittedly, we were all a bit overwhelmed by the idea of camping in the snow yet again, for this time, though the skies were clear, the temperatures were quite a bit lower. The roads covered in black ice. eaves, lined with frozen water. Spears. The greatest dilemma was figuring out how to clear a spot for the tents with two feet of snow on the ground and no shovel. But our good fortune remains. I stop to ask a man loading his truck, where we should eat dinner. I then ask him where we should camp. Just then {his wife?} Jenny appears through the door with an armful of odds and ends. He suggests we sleep in her now abandoned office, which proves to be absolutely perfect. We have Chinese food for dinner, and a beer in a pub. We play pool. We sit up on the floor of the empty office and laugh. We walk the fluorescent halls to pee. Brush teeth. We are warm and we sleep. My gratitude abounds. How I adore these reminders that the world is filled with greta people. Clay {the truck-loader} asks if we ski. I lament the fact that we couldn’t go out with him for the day. Go back and cook dinner. Stay up far too late drinking wine. So now we breakfast, and prepare for another day. Denver. Or more perhaps. The road knows.

currently reading “The Cave” by Jose Saramago. He writes, “we would know far more about life’s complexities if we applied ourselves to the close study of its contradictions instead of wasting so much time on similarities and connections, which should, anyway, be self-explanatory.” This trip, so very different from the first. Beautifully so.

skeletons of snow on the ground

Moab, Utah. We finally give in {after discovering that our #1 campsite was a mudfield} and check into a hotel. Super 8. Mike and I seem to have some uncanny way of chasing the worst weather across the country. Headwind. Now snow. It has snowed {sometimes quite heavily} every day of the trip thus far. Which is indeed amazingly beautiful, but with car chains, and three season tents {and bags} this becomes something of a nuisance. We left Lake Tahoe and drove up highway 50 {stopping in Carson city where the last words occurred} and out into the desert. I cannot begin to really explain how surreal it has been to drive the route, but the main thing I have discovered, is that the sea between driving and cycling is immeasurable and indescribable. It is interesting for me to contemplate what it must have been like to read the writings from the trip. Though I feel that they were raw and honest, I really believe that it is impossible to explain the severity of riding a bicycle across the desert. Aside from the physical toil, the perception of distance and time is so greatly altered when moving at 70 mph rather than 8, that it becomes an entirely different place. So much less is seen, and the absorption levels are altered by the lack of time to process anything. As the miles pass, I appreciate the bike trip exponentially more.

So we awoke to snow. It had just begun as we ate dinner, and we wondered how much would fall over night. A difficult night’s sleep, as any movement brought the moisture into the tent, thusly making us colder. We attempted {rather hopelessly} a fire the night before, and finally gave up, crawling into our tents at 8pm. As we broke down in the morning, digging out the car, the snow continued to fall hard; the quiet and fierce beauty of it mesmerizing. We drove down off the ridge slowly, the desert obscured in white.

I’ve found it so interesting to experience such extreme contrast in a place, for it could not have been more different. Before, where the eyes could see fifty miles in every direction, the view was now limited to a mile or so, a product of the weather. Even during the two most extreme weather conditions, the desert feels lunar. It is vast and endless and inhospitable. It was though, as before, stunning. Absolutely stunning.

So after passing through the towns where mike and I fell apart, the roads where we found new psychological places, the snow ceased and rain fell. We stopped in Milford, Utah where we all peed in a gas station. The cop said to the two young men, “you out huntin’ today?” The large one held up a bandaged hand, in silent response. The other spoke for him, “He done gone did banged it up.” Hmmmm.

And then it is cedar city. A night of laughter and stories and chili and homemade cookies and the love of friends. Wine. We stay up late talking, and lament the fact that we must go so soon. We sit on the floor in the morning, and watch Addison shake around in her diaper. Erin laughs on the floor beside Lannie. These are people I miss.

And then we drive. We sit in the car for some time before leaving, deciding just what to do as altering our route will cause us to miss things we want to see. But the talk of 50 inches of snow on the ridges and potential closure of roads brings us here. Moab. It is now morning and we plan to hike for a few hours before leaving. Today we drift back to the route and head for Telluride. The sun is out and the earth dry. There are skeletons of snow on the ground. White like bone. Gone for the day.

still up on the hill.

you sit in the toronto airport, far too early in the morning. no poetry on the tarmac. it comes in the plane. you still hate flying. you would write more about how uncomfortable and unnatural it feels, but you sit currently in a cafe punching away quickly. it is a cafe where you and mike sat during the trip. you had been in nevada for one mere day, and the desert was out there, laying itself bare before you. this travelling by car is nonsense by comparison. it is like comparing airplanes to shoes. they are entirely different. it is like the old saying that "writing about music is like dancing about architecture."

so here we are. moving ever so fast. there was time with friends, oceans of laughter and love really. how they all fit in so well in such a short piece of time is a wonder of the world. there was a new mix for a new song from the new record, which was great. there is fire in these songs. there was a day in davis, one of the few places that truly feels like home. there was a family reunion, full of kids on couches sucking their toes. moments with my mother and father; moments that i miss. a new down jacket which has come in quite handy, as we have been met with quite a snowstorm.

last night as we drove up the mormon immigrant trail, the snow grew deeper and deeper as the elevation increased. the road had not been plowed, and with heavy snow last week, we finally had to break course and turn back. hours out the way, and in the dark, we arrived in lake tahoe. dinner, and the hunt for a camping spot. rainfly on the tents and down jackets in with us. and then morning. we awoke to a world of snow, the stillness of which was stunning. mesmerized. i was completely mesmerized. we pack up {cold, cold, cold, cold, gloveless hands} and head to the car, which was parked up the raod in a safeway parking lot. we get tea. breakfast. we buy chains. apply them. drive the ridge. stop to take them off in carson city, nevada. one is still up on the hill. we stop for apple cider. we will leave and buy more chains. food at the store. and into the desert. we all wonder if it will be snowing there too. the contrast is absolutely surreal.

at this point, my main thoughts about travelling the route again {mostly} is that so much is lost in a car. an immeasurable amount, both physically and emotionally. tunnelvision. don't misunderstand of course. we are having a great time, but the field of vision is simply much more narrow. i guess it comes back to how incomparable the two means of movement are. how differently they impact time and in turn how it impacts us. how strange this thing we call time. how strange.

about the concept of home

an old Jawbreaker song plays. a sample of Kerouac reading. k and i scramble about, packing things. soon, in days, we will be in my old places. familiar places. places called home. people i love. some i will get to see, and others i will not. such is life i guess. and then we will be back in the car on those roads i've only seen once from my bicycle. mike too. a trip powered more by the movement of my ankle than the strength of my legs. how different it will be to see those places in a car. how amazingly different. and how strange it will feel to be home for a mere matter of hours really. i miss home. i wonder how long it will take for this place to feel like home.

alas, i could write and write. a bit odd no, that my new record {"the work of kings"} is about the concept of home. foreshadowing? how it effects us, and we it. what it means. is it physical or emotional? spiritual? i suppose there is great feelings in all of this, down in there. but alas, the plants beckon. they want water before we go. the cats asked to be petted. the bags, finished packing. my god i love the way it feels during this last hour before leaving. entirely unique. reports from the road to follow.

america runs with the guns.

{pj harvey currently.} windows, fogged and wet with rain. a cold walk through the woods. snow on the trees, and wooden things. walkways. footbridge. we climb a fence, and wander through a large piece of property for sale. k says the kids used to come in and steal his vegetables. i imagine his sadness at the implications therein. the bottoms of our pantlegs grow wet. they do not drip. there is an old building, a schoolhouse, which has been abandoned. we speak of climbing in through one of the windows, until we see that the roof has caved in. there is an old truck, with plants {weeds} growing out of the back. there are planks of wood, bridging a small pool of water. it is slick with moss and wet snow. we run, and slide on it as though skiing. {lucinda williams now..."junebug versus hurricane," she sings.} the leaves on the ground, obscure the cement. it is glorious this overpopulation of leaves. it gives one hope.

meanwhile, george bush signs more papers to make it illegal for women to have abortions in over thirty states. i am exhasperated. disgusted. what is "progress" with this nonsense. it is frankly {as much of what he has done while in office} absolutely inhumane. 13 million people worldwide {including the leaders of most nations} can protest a war, and still america runs with the guns. i begin to wonder when the revolution will begin. {if?}. for are we all too apathetic? i ask myself, "how can this all come to be?" i am exhausted with him. all of it. the nonsense. the partiality and dishonesty of the media. the utter lack of democracy. the not so gradual increase of a police state. {rufus wainwright now..."pretty things, so what if i like pretty things"} the patriot act. what horseshit. apologies for such an ineloquent discussion {or lack thereof.}

i raise my head, and look up to the plants on the kitchen table. the bowl of fruit. i think, "we should eat this before we go, or it will rot." there are things to do. many things to do today. we fly tomorrow. the big things up in the sky. {reid [spinoza] now..."the road that i am walking, is so very long indeed."} i miss reid. that week in new york. how is it that we can miss so many people at once? all over the world. "nothing comes from nothing," he sings. i will rise. a cup of tea perhaps. monday.

we are all animals.

{while on the subject...re: yesterdays post}

WE ARE ALL ANIMALS.

Chockstones fall.
They get wedged between large rock formations,
In Utah canyons.

I know those canyons.
That endless stretch of red rock,
And the land that dries out the lingering shit.

I know waking in the dirt,
And seeing the full moon drop
As the sun comes up.
The horizon orange.

I know rising from the earth
On a small piece of grass in the dark,
And vomiting all night.

Losing myself in that trailer-park bathroom.
Falling to my knees on the lawn,
and looking up at the black sky.

I do not know
What it is to have your hand crushed
Against that wall, unable to move.

After six days of it,
You sever your arm at the wrist,
Thankful that you brought along the knife.

But I want to know what happened
To the hand that was left.
What ate that piece of rotten flesh?

Maggots? Birds?
Some kind of rat that lives out there?

I sit here looking at my extremities, and
I wonder about that one-armed man.

I figure he must have learned how
to do things with his left hand.

Indeed, we are all animals.

[October 8, 2004]

just mentioning

I thumb the books for quotes and find none. First Jim Harrison, then Neruda, then Edward Abbey. My mind rolls off to that Utah desert. Currently reading a book about a man who was trapped there, his wrist pressed to the wall by a boulder. While not all that well written, the story interests me. Though I’m not sure how he prevails in the end, I do know that he severed his own hand. I have thoughts on this of course, but sometimes, just mentioning, not explaining feels best. Today I am quiet. The sun drops earlier. The squirrels look more frantic. Walnuts in their teeth. Fires in Califonia. Rain here. Vicente Amigo.

it is no longer a "shower"

When one showers but once or twice a week, the entire process takes on a rather intensified glow {as one might imagine}. It is no longer a "shower," but instead, a more "complete experience"…one that involves a walk, and the climbing of a small fence. The decision about whether or not one wishes to shower in the dark or daylight? What shoes does one wear for the event? {pre and post} what does one want from the whole thing? silly questions of course, but the desire to have the best experience possible, when it has become so much less frequent than I would like, is paramount.

So my days become days of work. New songs. Revising less-new, new songs. Writing. Etc. I’ve begun writing a poem and painting a painting each morning, before I create anything else. I’m not quite sure what purpose this has, or what effect yet {if any} but I enjoy the regularity of each activity. Poetry, and painting, are for me, free of many burdens and weights I place on music and other writing that I do. Perhaps this alone makes the task valid. The removal of weight. So many artists have said that a schedule of some sort, regularity, is imperative to their craft. I’ve never had much trouble with being self-disciplined enough to put in the work, but I am constantly trying to push myself to do new things. Or at least do things in a different way than I have done them before. I’m not really sure what this all amounts to, other than feeling good about having accomplished something at the start of my day, but I am enjoying it immensely. So I place the paintings here. Poems at some point.

I have been reluctant to put paintings and poetry here ever since the inception of this journal. Alas, I have been doing both the whole time, and long before as a matter of fact. Why is this? A lack of confidence? I suppose. I have never thought my painting or poetry to be “great” but then, what the hell does that mean? What is great art? And does what comes out in the end, really matter at all if I enjoy the process? Does this have something to do with the "lack of weight?" Big questions, for a man who just really wants to play guitar this morning.

On that note, I should also mention, for you smashing pumpkins fans, that I found a website that has quite simply been a dream come true. For years and years, I collected the b-sides and the rarest of the rare, as I was so stunned and captivated and moved by his songwriting. Anyway, one of the things that I have always been stunned by with Billy Corgan, is both his creative output {quantity} and the quality of his work. From what I understand, all of these downloads are things that he wanted to get out to the public in some way, but couldn’t do so because of his label. Needless to say, I have spent much time gathering the good stuff. You can find the music here.

Billy Corgan himself, also has a website which I have enjoyed pieces of now and then. Go here for that one. Bye.

friends with those skeletons

Alas, what is terrible is not the skeletons,
but the fact that I am no longer terrified by them.

~Anton Chekhov

i have of late been obsessed again with the concept of my mortality. {and flamenco.} are they intrinsically linked? ah well, nothing new, just the inner workings of my mind. perhaps marriage is doing this to me. i find myself thinking ahead fifty years {a thing i am really quite unable to grasp} and then fifty more to my death. well, fifty, plus fifty two and two months {102 total for those counting, which adds to 134.}. in keeping with my intuition {read more here} it seems as though i should have plenty of time of ruminate on such things. plenty of time indeed. perhaps i will even make friends with those skeletons. who knows?

stretching out my ears. {internally} {sort of}

My habit of sleeping with earplugs began years ago, as an infrequent remedy to a noise situation. Don’t all habits begin with infrequency? I was living with a friend and his girlfriend in a rather small house. Sometimes, we all forgot that it was a very small house, and so I wore them now and then. next it was steve who would sometimes have his then three year old son around in the mornings. Or he would be fucking jenna. Both kept me awake. Earplugs. Then I moved in with Dana, who taught yoga at five o’clock in the morning. More importantly, she was not the quietest person at five o’clock in the morning. We lived in a small place with a loft, and all manner of things bothered me. There was no door we could shut to escape each other’s little noisemakings, and so the earplugs continued. Then it was the tent in mike’s sideyard, in downtown davis. {self-explanatory} Then it was Tina and her goddamn cat. A cat, which in hindsight, was without question the most despicable domesticated animal, I have ever encountered. Then it was the back of my truck, and various people’s couches for a while. {again, self-explanatory} Then it was the house with Natalie and Mira. Good god that was awful. Aside from their general lack of acknowledgement that someone was actually sleeping in the house, the overly loud, overly bad music, was a nuisance. Not to mention natalie’s complete and total psychological unraveling, which was incidentally directed at me. Then it was the flat with Pam, and Meghan, and Lucy, which was actually, perfectly, beautifully quiet. But of course, the room where I slept was right on the busy road, and full of windows, thus quite loud. Then it was the bike trip.

Now…..i am at this point, perfectly situated to cease this practice {with the exception of a terribly chubby, fluffy, immeasurably cute cat, which unfortunately also happens to be terribly AMAZINGLY, {a wonder of science really} determined. Which simply means that he {I won’t name any names} will go to great {read: obsessive and completely insane} lengths to lick any living thing. While the licking itself can be stopped by locking him out of the room, the incessant {read: relentlessly for hours} whining does not stop.

Honestly though, the main problem is that it became a bonafide habit somewhere in the area of three years ago, and habits are difficult to break, especially when they result in the loss of sleep.

I justify this, by telling myself that as far as habits go, it really isn’t all that bad, but here is where we come to the current delimna I am having with the problem. Aside from wishing to be completely adaptable when it comes to sleep, possessing the ability to sleep anywhere, on any surface, whenever I am tired. To be able to sleep without pillow or blankets on dirt or cement. On my back even. With no covers between my knees, and none nice and snug around my scrotum. None. But I am not that guy. I am the guy who wears earplugs even while camping in the woods, in the middle of nowhere, making himself thusly more susceptible to mauling by bear, or murder by wacko, as he won’t hear them coming. But the true problem, the reason I write all of this {as I was saying before} is ultimately because I have begun to feel lately when I stick my pinky in my ear to itch them, that the cavity has grown larger. Of course my only explanation for this {as irrational as it sounds considering how soft the damn earplugs are} is that the earplugs are stretching out my ears. shit. Is everything bad for us? So do I continue to enlarge my ears and sleep like a baby, or finally sleep amidst the noise of the earth? Sometimes the small questions of life seem so important. Green tea or black? This bottle of wine or that one? I could go on and on, but that’s a different story altogether. Cheers to the hard ones to break. Cheers.

oh yes...and if you live in the states {or are american living elsewhere like me} you may register to vote by clicking the little button on the top left corner of this page. don't get me started.

making wet the earth.

Watercolors.

Lobster.

There is this house out there in the woods, where we drank copious amounts of wine. Sat by a fire. We had champagne with dinner, and broke the shells. I quietly enjoyed ripping off the arms and twisting the feelers between my fingers, though it made me feel sad in a way. The cracking of the shell, and slow tearing of sinew that holds the arm in place. It was in some way, the most sensory experience I’ve had with my food. There is a small ‘papercut-like” cut on my finger. The claw.

The house was down in this valley surrounded by trees changing color, and a mess of wild grasses. A rock wall, that tim built, inspired by andy Goldsworthy. Stories of unfortunate incidents on airplanes, which made me uneasy, though I laughed. Iridescent globes in the tree, with small bulbs inside, floating the light out like fog. Impossible to describe. Imagine geometric bubbles of light, sitting in the branches. Imagine tinkerbell. Imagine atlantis, for they were somehow waterlike, these lights. After dinner, we walked out to the tree to watch the lights in their motionlessness, and we saw two porcupines in the tree. They lumbered on the branches, moving like sludge. How does something so graceless, and chubby, perch itself so precariously? Why do I find them to be so amazingly adorable? An absolutely gorgeous night, with such wondrous people. People so very alive.

Then, in the middle of the night, I awoke with great thirst. Too much wine. I drank. I urinated. I lay in bed thinking. Thinking that my previous theory about why I get cankersores to be inadequate. It couldn’t simply be a lack of nutrition and sleep, as both have been in great abundance of late. There must be more components to this problem. I thought of the drive form California back here. The question of just where my home is. Where it will be in the near future. The distant future. The fact that I discovered on Friday while at both the American embassy and the Canadian immigration office, that It will be in my best interest to bring as small an amount into the country as possible, since they can effectively deny me entrance if they feel like it. It is that simple. Though I am legally allowed to live in this country for six months, then apply for an “extended stay,” then apply for permanent residence, then apply for citizenship, they can tell me “no” at any time until I obtain a permanent residence card which can take years. No, it does not really make sense. I can dr ive up to the border with my wife, in my car, with a few guitars and a bit of recording equipment and they can say, “no sir, you cannot enter this country.” They can let my wife in and not me. They can tell her that she can’t come into America either, in which case I suppose we would both move to Spain or something. Which I suppose is not the worst of fates.

So I begin to wrap my head around the fact that I cannot bring my things. No more clothes than what I have here. No books. No cds. No paintings, or blankets, or handmade mugs. No candle holders. No plants. Yet another lesson in what really matters. The week begins. Jeff Buckley sings. The rain fall, making wet the earth.

etchings on glass

A new song called “they will see me rising up,” which is not yet about anything in particular, though I am in love with the chorus. In love.

A beaver, swimming across a lake in the dark, its tail thudding the water like the dropping of a two by four {though the beaver is somehow delicate.} It leaves a faint trail in the water; etchings on glass.

Mist, rising off that same lake in the morning, beneath a full moon. The sky pink off to the left with the sun, I move my head in dismay at the arresting wonder of the earth. it is magical beyond belief. The perfect scene from the perfect film. feet crunching the frost. The limited movement of cold hands. The restless geese. As the beaver glides the water in the morning, with the sun rising, he seems to float upon the mist, as though the properties of mass and volume no longer exist. He is a boat, soaring on an enchanted sea. There should be angels and fairies out here. Lights twinkling in the trees. This is Canada…the one that I had imagined.

An email from an old friend, that causes me to research a. dead Italian poet

A new comb for my face, as I have again ceased shaving. {notice the small print, it made me laugh}

There is a difference between growing a beard, and the cessation of shaving. Psychologically and physically, a big difference. The fact that I don’t “need” a razor for the time being means something. If there has ever been the perfect winter for me to put in a true beard growing effort, this Canadian-snowcountry-winter is it. Yes indeed. The main problem being the great level of discomfort, which if you know me well have certainly heard me complain of during past {mostly failed} attempts. Though many say the itching will go away, it does not. I’ve waited nearly two months in the past with no solace. Also, my facial growth is rather sparse, thusly leaving me with a somewhat pubic looking beard. Alas.

And so I bathe, and I itch. Simple.

Today, we go to Toronto. A city full of people. Watercolor paper. Photography store. Peat moss. Plant hanger. Wine. Blank cds. A trip to the American embassy. Passport photos before the beard takes over. Hard to believe that it was ten years ago I renewed that passport for a trip to Spain. Where has the time gone? {perhaps the greatest unanswered question of all time. Pun intended}