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For An Erasure

It was in the days when we walked those many blocks downtown and then across the bridge to the beaches of sand that marked the river as much as the current. In those days we did not count the blocks but walked them and so they were not many, or long, but the way to the river. And the Bridge was huge and colorless and arched itself backwards like a gymnast on the mat to span the river and boats and boathouses and beaches themselves and we did not count those steps or the stairs that went down, made of iron rails with open spaces that leapt up, until we reached the ground at the bottom and walked our heated and sweating bodies until our feet could wriggle themselves into the mud that was washed by the river. Cool and fine and timeless. Because we did not count the blocks or the steps and thought that our houses and the downtown and the river were one thing.

Erasure:

Many blocks downtown
many beaches of sand
the way to the river.
The bridge colorless and arched
made of iron with open spaces
until feet wriggle themselves into the mud
washed by the river.

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Melting Tulip

Melting Tulip

Melting Tulip

So the melting tulip just withers and crawls into itself. Sad really. But and then, I’m not quitting. I’ll get a different flower(s) and will experiment that way. A fuller flower, with lots of pedals around it. Please note: No flower beds have been abused or destroyed in the making of these photos.

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Frozen Tulip in March

IMG_2509
Frozen Tulip
I froze the tulip to see what it would look like. It looks the same. So this is the photo of a failed photo. Although it is melting now, so maybe there will be melting water drops to capture.
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Writing

From: Those Things That Were Not Said

The Mother had gotten quite strange. It didn’t matter that she forgot things so much as the problems it caused for others, especially the dog and the cat. The cat often complained to the dog that she had not gotten enough food. The dog never responded, just lay down on the floor to sleep. Sleep is the best thing to deal with matters of importance that cannot be solved. Or so the dog thought. Mother didn’t know if she agreed or disagreed. It didn’t matter because she forgot.

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The grocer stood up from his counter stool at the cash register at the end of the day after counting all of the money in the till and matching it with the numbers that the register told him. He put on his hat and his coat and walked home to the house where his wife and son waited for him to have dinner so they could have it together. He smelled of celery and apples.

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I am waiting for the snow and the quiet so that I can lie on the couch and read of Uncle Wiggly and The Wind in the Willows.  I liked it best when the automobile rose up on its hind wheels, I wanted that to happen in every one of the stories.

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There they were, in Iowa City. It is said that is the place where you can find your youth. They look for it in all the old bars where they went but the dust has been wiped off and the wood seats and benches and tables have been replaced. Someone else owns The Mill now. The owner from long ago cannot be found. You know, the one who raped your friend in the back room.

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Thoughts

Voices in the Head

Good Grief! August? August really? It’s been that long since I’ve entered here? Apparently I had turned and faced another direction. It happens.

So, for now, some ramblings written at the invisible desk.

  • I find there are some places I went with Wolf that are now sacred. It doesn’t seem right to return to them, even to worship. The place where he got his Indian name, Arroyo Lobo, where we walked through the open space and jumped across deep chasms, later making a fallen-tree bridge. Some things, those things, live in memory, not in any sort of day’s reality. That’s were we came across Larry the Beetle, where we gathered stories and poetry along with the dried gifts of the tall wild weeds in autumn.  We had good luck there, good days.
  • Trapped in the Prism of Self. I know it’s becoming real because it is also terrifying. Are we all caged but unbowed resistors? I think not. I think we’re plenty bowed.
  • Even tho we step outside the bubble of life, the perforated lines that mark the everyday world, that will not give us the right to toss stones at it. Being dismissed, ignored, having little crimes committed (unpaid parking tickets, non-purchased licenses, unattended rituals) will bring misfortune. The world does not tolerate insubordination.
  • There are some books that must be set aside because they are too precious, too fine. I do not like the thought of them ending, they must be savored. One sentence at a time, one page. Notes. Underlines. Then closed to wait on the shelf for another time. The plot does not matter tho it is the brilliant sunlight on the pool of water that draws the reader into the drowning place. One foot on shore, walk on and wait. Draw a breath. Breathe thru the exquisite.
  • The Pleasure Centers move as the brain ages. Now the snow memorizes itself into the road in front of the house. The tree shadows form an embrace laying down their forms on top of the white, mingling stillness. The deer walk slowly, pause to look up at my window and question, “You still here? Still waiting for something to happen?” Only now that they are here, now that they ask, that is the something. Buddha on the altar behind me doesn’t care. He’s busy somewhere else.