I liken a certain girl to an area of land that had grown beautifully from being an over-exploited and under-appreciated field to a lush meadow of New England Aster, Goldenrod, White Clover, Purple-Fan Thistle, Black-Eyed Susans, and a mix of variegated grasses. And now this pristine meadow was in danger of being dozed over and developed into the sterile, puerile lawn for some god-awful country house built by someone who made their money in the Financial Markets and spent their lives in some horrendous place like Pittsford or Webster. And there is little I can do in this world of sacred Private Property and aversion to protest over land-use. To save her I would need some massive Proudhonnian revolution...and that is just absurd.
Another day of snow and slush. To drive in this weather is to suffer from mild anxiety. You don't know if there is ice or slush or if you are going fast enough or too slow or if the car coming up behind you is going to take you out. You don't know if the big rig coming alongside of you is going to jackknife or if you are going to get pulled into his orbit. It is all very disconcerting and the only proper thing to do is smoke cigarettes and listen to decent music rather loudly.
I spend a lot of time at work. More than I ever thought I would spend at any workplace. I realized this whilst standing on the back docks this evening, smoking a cigarette and looking out across the lots toward the smokestacks of the old Eastman Chemical complex. I think that is all Carestream or DuPont or some such shit now, but it doesn't matter. It occurred to me that that vista was more familiar to me - at that moment - than any other vista. Amazing, really. Amazing that in three-quarters of a year I have grow so familiar with a place. Chalk it up to long hours. I imagine that I will sink slowly into this job and into this industry. I've already about seven years into it. Parts management. And still slogging it out in the pits. Or, rather, in the racks. Up and down Mt.Read Boulevard working in shit-hole warehouses doing third- and fourth-party logistics, chasing accounts and desperately flaunting my specialized knowledge in IBM, HP, and Dell parts inventories. Like so many other parts jockeys up and down the Thruway.
There is a song by the Tragically Hip called "Bobcaygeon" and the lyrics go like this (as I type them as I listen to the song):
Left your house this morning
'Bout a quarter after nine
Could have been the Willie Nelson
Could have been the wine
When I left your house this morning
It was a little after nine
It was in Bobcaygeon
I saw the constellations
Reveal themselves, one star at a time.
Drove back to town this morning
With working on my mind
Thought I may be quitting
Thought of leaving it behind
Went back to bed this morning
As I am pulling down the blind
And the sky was dull
And hypothetical
And falling one cloud at a time
That night in Toronto with its checkerboard floors
Riding in on horseback and keeping order restored
'Til the men they couldn't hang stepped to the mic and sang
and their voices rang in that Aryan twang
Got to your house this morning
Just a little after nine
In the middle of that riot
Couldn't get you off my mind
So I'm at your house this morning
Just a little after nine
It was in Bobcaygeon
Where I saw the constellations
Reveal themselves one star at a time...
Fucking beautiful. The constellations revealing themselves one star at a time.
I remember one night so many years ago when I liked this girl and I was desperately trying so hard to impress her and to capture her attention. I went on and on about the stars and the myths behind them, making sure drench them in as much romantic frivolity as I could muster. Of course I failed. Of course she wasn't as enthralled as I became as I talked about it. Of course she was much more interested in the drunken flirtations of my buddy. Of course I rationalized it away. Years later, many years and in fact last year, I stood in a pitch black field on top of a hill above the Conesus valley and pointed out the same constellations to a wonderful girl who did seem as enthralled as I was with those distant pinpoints. But she is the girl I mentioned above...the beautiful meadow perched on the verge of callous development. And no amount of stargazing will change it.
Monday, November 24, 2008
Sunday, November 23, 2008
The past week has been cut out of February and pasted onto this part of November. Temperatures deep into the single digits, snow crusting over in the chill, and tingles inside my nose when I take hearty breaths. It is wonderful. It is invigorating. I want crackling campfires and slow pulls from a cup of hot, percolated coffee.
In the morning when I first go outside to start my car, I am caught for a moment in the almost paralyzing cold. It passes quickly. But I think in that moment about life in these colder climates before the development of and widespread use of furnaces. It wasn't that long ago that most homes in this rural region depended solely upon wood for its heat. And the woodstoves were not the efficient and technologically enhanced wood-burning stoves of today; I mean the pot-bellied cast-iron monstrosities of old that radiated heat the old-fashioned way. I then think about the dream of the solitary life in the farthest reaches of Wilderness. This means I think of Dick Proenneke and his forty years alone in the Wilderness of Alaska waking up every morning to temperatures well below twenty-degrees below zero Fahrenheit. What incredible fortitude. I imagine both my grandfathers in their youth, waking up to similar temperatures in similar wood-burning situations, getting ready in the deep chill to go and milk the cows at Four-in-the-morning. How impressive and wonderful was the body heat of a cow after that long, dark, early-morning walk to the barn?
And yet, I would prefer a cold experience similar to my grandfathers' and Dick Proenneke's to the brief moment of almost intolerable chill I feel every morning when I go to start my car in order to warm it up for the long ride into work in Rochester. But, oh well...right? We do what we have to do in this day and age of plenty. I need to pay for electricity and processed foods. I need to pay for gasoline and parts for a car so I can go to buy these things. I need to keep myself afloat in the slow river. I need I need I need. So much shit.
On another note: loneliness is a half-full rock sled. Being lonely is having the trudge behind that sled and heave rocks into it as you pick our way across the field in early Spring. The more rocks you pile onto that sled, the heavier it gets and the slower it moves across the field. Often, I find myself stopped in thought, in the market or after talking to people, pondering my loneliness. The other evening I was in Wegmans to buy some bread and fruit for dinner and everyone seemed to be coupled up. All I could do was walk slowly and take in the fact that I was silently making my way across the parking lot alone, to get into my car and drive, alone, back home where I would eat my bread and fruit...alone.
In the morning when I first go outside to start my car, I am caught for a moment in the almost paralyzing cold. It passes quickly. But I think in that moment about life in these colder climates before the development of and widespread use of furnaces. It wasn't that long ago that most homes in this rural region depended solely upon wood for its heat. And the woodstoves were not the efficient and technologically enhanced wood-burning stoves of today; I mean the pot-bellied cast-iron monstrosities of old that radiated heat the old-fashioned way. I then think about the dream of the solitary life in the farthest reaches of Wilderness. This means I think of Dick Proenneke and his forty years alone in the Wilderness of Alaska waking up every morning to temperatures well below twenty-degrees below zero Fahrenheit. What incredible fortitude. I imagine both my grandfathers in their youth, waking up to similar temperatures in similar wood-burning situations, getting ready in the deep chill to go and milk the cows at Four-in-the-morning. How impressive and wonderful was the body heat of a cow after that long, dark, early-morning walk to the barn?
And yet, I would prefer a cold experience similar to my grandfathers' and Dick Proenneke's to the brief moment of almost intolerable chill I feel every morning when I go to start my car in order to warm it up for the long ride into work in Rochester. But, oh well...right? We do what we have to do in this day and age of plenty. I need to pay for electricity and processed foods. I need to pay for gasoline and parts for a car so I can go to buy these things. I need to keep myself afloat in the slow river. I need I need I need. So much shit.
On another note: loneliness is a half-full rock sled. Being lonely is having the trudge behind that sled and heave rocks into it as you pick our way across the field in early Spring. The more rocks you pile onto that sled, the heavier it gets and the slower it moves across the field. Often, I find myself stopped in thought, in the market or after talking to people, pondering my loneliness. The other evening I was in Wegmans to buy some bread and fruit for dinner and everyone seemed to be coupled up. All I could do was walk slowly and take in the fact that I was silently making my way across the parking lot alone, to get into my car and drive, alone, back home where I would eat my bread and fruit...alone.
Monday, November 17, 2008
I spent the greater part of this past Thursday with my mind locked onto coming up with the perfect metaphor for a feeling I had. I can easily go through the motions of work while letting my mind run in different directions. But it didn't run very far. A weak metaphor came up for a moment to sniff at the bait, but it soon disappeared into a hole beneath an old fallen chestnut tree.
There has been snow off and on all week. Inches upon inches. In some areas just to the south there were somewhere around 16 or 17 inches of snow. All along Lake Ontario, there has been almost continuous snowfall. And the air is getting frigid. Frigid as in brittle and dry. Squeaky, crisp, and sharp. Frigid like it should be in late January and early February. Frigid like it should be right before Winter finishes sharpening its knives and lacerates us with the wind.
Whole regions are emptied out by fighting and only a few pockets of civilian life remain. Quietly, like Stalingrad whenever the sides were reloading, frost moves across the puddles and into the spaces between coats, shirts, and skin. Into the boots and above the socks, pushing moisture in between the toes. Flying across the empty lots like leaves in full retreat after a month of captivity underneath petrified snow. Whole regions like this. Fields in muddy disarray. Leach fields blown out into the open and months-old shit festering underneath the cold moon's glow. Shit and rags. Smoke. Piles of used cartridges. A small, surprisingly untouched and unsoiled stack of magazines taken from a bombarded convenient mart. Magazines so boring and puerile that the combatants pass them up in favor of bathing in the fetid ponds. We wait.
There has been snow off and on all week. Inches upon inches. In some areas just to the south there were somewhere around 16 or 17 inches of snow. All along Lake Ontario, there has been almost continuous snowfall. And the air is getting frigid. Frigid as in brittle and dry. Squeaky, crisp, and sharp. Frigid like it should be in late January and early February. Frigid like it should be right before Winter finishes sharpening its knives and lacerates us with the wind.
Whole regions are emptied out by fighting and only a few pockets of civilian life remain. Quietly, like Stalingrad whenever the sides were reloading, frost moves across the puddles and into the spaces between coats, shirts, and skin. Into the boots and above the socks, pushing moisture in between the toes. Flying across the empty lots like leaves in full retreat after a month of captivity underneath petrified snow. Whole regions like this. Fields in muddy disarray. Leach fields blown out into the open and months-old shit festering underneath the cold moon's glow. Shit and rags. Smoke. Piles of used cartridges. A small, surprisingly untouched and unsoiled stack of magazines taken from a bombarded convenient mart. Magazines so boring and puerile that the combatants pass them up in favor of bathing in the fetid ponds. We wait.
Sunday, November 16, 2008
Set sights upon a chunk of good land in the hills to the south of Rochester and Buffalo.
Set about growing any number of wonderful vegetables and fruits.
Be prepared to go it alone.
~~~
It follows that those whom we admire from afar will be attracted to idiots. It follows that those whom we admire from afar will travel in opposite directions from the silent admirer. I want to compare it to Quantum physics, really, about the Uncertainty Principle (where I cannot determine both the location and the velocity of that which is being observed, or, in my example, that which is admired) and, even more so, the strange fact that our simple observation alters the state of the observed. Of course.
~~~
Winter is easily discerned by the Winds it sends as its advance guard. Blasts from the North and West scraping through the recently barren-ed trees and across the hibernating ground sound the imminent arrival of Winter like a trumpet blast from the approaching herald. After the Winds read aloud their proclamations, there is only a few moments left to be ready.
In those winds I scan the horizon for a break in the steely grey skies. A glimmer of that dying golden Autumnal light. So that I may once more sink spade into the sod. That I may once more walk through the garden and cover the endangered Thymes and Fennels. That I may imagine there being a purpose to it all.
Set about growing any number of wonderful vegetables and fruits.
Be prepared to go it alone.
~~~
It follows that those whom we admire from afar will be attracted to idiots. It follows that those whom we admire from afar will travel in opposite directions from the silent admirer. I want to compare it to Quantum physics, really, about the Uncertainty Principle (where I cannot determine both the location and the velocity of that which is being observed, or, in my example, that which is admired) and, even more so, the strange fact that our simple observation alters the state of the observed. Of course.
~~~
Winter is easily discerned by the Winds it sends as its advance guard. Blasts from the North and West scraping through the recently barren-ed trees and across the hibernating ground sound the imminent arrival of Winter like a trumpet blast from the approaching herald. After the Winds read aloud their proclamations, there is only a few moments left to be ready.
In those winds I scan the horizon for a break in the steely grey skies. A glimmer of that dying golden Autumnal light. So that I may once more sink spade into the sod. That I may once more walk through the garden and cover the endangered Thymes and Fennels. That I may imagine there being a purpose to it all.
Friday, November 14, 2008
Saturday, November 8, 2008
What was it about an un-chiseled, non-sculpted slab of marble that sparked the pistons in my mind today? I was reading about Robert Browning in the next-to-current London Review of Books and they mentioned a poem of his called "The Statue and the Bust." My mind went skating toward metaphor and - voila - dense slabs of marble and granite remain fixed across the warehouse of my mind. Each boulder represent something else. Or they are all the same, in a way. There is that well-worn quote from Michaelangelo regarding the imprisoned figure withing the uncarved material. So on and so forth.
Nicotine.
I have not written any lines of verse in over a month. I had a burst of energy and wrote out the outlines and skeleton frames for about five poems before succumbing to laziness and emptiness. Out of those five poems, one or two lines were fine. Maybe even very fine. And that reminds me of what a couple old women said about John Reed's poetry in the movie "Reds"; very fine.
Nicotine.
I have not written any lines of verse in over a month. I had a burst of energy and wrote out the outlines and skeleton frames for about five poems before succumbing to laziness and emptiness. Out of those five poems, one or two lines were fine. Maybe even very fine. And that reminds me of what a couple old women said about John Reed's poetry in the movie "Reds"; very fine.
Sunday, November 2, 2008
Swirling in an eddy within sight of the main channel and its lazy progress.
Like the cream and brown coloured foam that grows in amongst the sticks and leaves that gather along the edges and in the nooks and crannies.
Like so much debris dragging along the bottom until it meets a fallen tree or a submerged limb.
A sharp rock or a long-forgotten automobile.
Or sitting along the banks watching it all. On the grass and out of the sun. Heavily breathing after a long descent into the canyon. Or a long, ever-downward walk into the valley. Watching with some apprehension as the climb back up and out weighs heavily on the mind.
Or with John Wesley Powell through Glen Canyon in battered boats looking for mappable features. With an eye toward exploration but a mind set on survival. With beautiful country up and out of sight. With the reality of a water-less future hanging over the inevitable colonization you are about to open up when you report your findings. Perched upon a mesa far from the maddening crowd.
Mostly, though, just swirling in the eddy. Removed, but moving. Not progressing other than in circular motions.
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