Tuesday, March 20, 2012

marzo mio

The gray, wet blanket of winter has finally settled, silent and airless, sealing the rim of this valley. Coldness felt in stiff fingers, through the bottom of socked feet, the frigid aura of the thin glass windows. A line of muddy, wet pants and sweaters hung above the wood stove, crispy and in the form of legs as I put them back on for another day subscribed to their service. February come and gone, reveling in its expected horror- snow moon, hunger moon, short, squat days with strong, lengthy night. The sly onset of March, holding hope for longer light, heat, the movement of worm and microbe, the stirring of life with in seed coat. The first sight of shooting star and fawn lily. The earth brims with water, red clay mud flowing over boot top and into sock, filling ditch and backing up culvert, a fist with middle finger extended crossing road to turn back school bus and mail man. Gophers make a run for higher ground, the souls of ducks come to stay. The soil too wet to work, plans incubate in the warm glow of the future, in dreams of sun browned skin and ripe tomato, bike rides and river swims. Interest fed through book and thought, the entire star trek movie sequence on VHS, days spent in sweat pants with unbrushed teeth...

Wednesday, February 29, 2012

will I am s

My location is Williams, Oregon. A turn off on the old highway, a road that only leads to Williams and "over the mountain," but only in the summer. A rural area, a small river valley, surrounded by forested mountains, the mouth of valley facing north and east, backed by Sugar Loaf and Greyback peaks; the accumulation grounds for water shed into the Applegate, into the Rogue, out to the Pacific. A land inhabited by people for about 10,000 years, people living off the richness of the valley bottom, off fattened salmon, berries and nuts. War came with white man, who drove the natives east, who skinned beaver, who hit pay dirt, who found value in the substance of beautiful trees.  Ox and horse team lead to clear cut, the disapearance of Port Orfords, and Doug fir, to the rise and fall of economy, a major migration of hippies, right-wing survivalists, horsey people, environmentalists, pot growers.  There is no denying the abundance of this land. Summer breaks branches with the weight of apples, pears, plums, one dollar for 12 ears of corn at the Provolt farm stand. High quality cultivated herbs, organic vegtables, wild flowers, mushrooms, medicinal wild plants. Winter is gentle, frost never sinking too deep or staying too long.  A brief look around reveals amateur cabins and mobile homes rotting into the earth along side home scale junk yards, jimmy rigged privacy fences of black plastic and pine poles, a gathering of old men drinking coffee and complaining down at the general store, moms in long skirts and dreadlocks driving subarus. Look deeper and see hay pastures with strong old oaks, dark cold creeks lined with alder and rusting farm equipment, mossy, damp stands of old growth forest.

Sunday, January 22, 2012

space traveler

Has the journey ended? Has it just transformed...? To travel in ones own space, from house to yard to pasture, down to the mailbox, out to the chicken coop. Leaping from dirty coffee cup to dusty house plant, spanning the space from window ledge to table top to traverse between the crumbs of last nights dinner. Time, too, is relevant. The rythm of light and darkness, moon and star, sun crossing the sky (now so far to the south), seeds germinating, growing, setting seed, dying, the shift of birds clocking in to relieve the previous crew. A log burns, the eggnog goes sour, the frozen bowl of dog water thaws in the thin winter sun, its time to cut my bangs again.

Monday, January 16, 2012


A new year, a new post, a year since the last.... A shift of focus, the great eye regains clarity and sharpens its stare. The winged heart settles to the ground, pecks and scratches, turns three circles, makes its nest, allows roots to set. A natural progression, but one never considered. Easier to believe the world is coming to its end than to believe in transience finding a home. A home. Home.
So, as life transitions so does my blog. The need to practice writing for others to read, not just the usual secrets I scrawl in books I keep hidden from you, is apparent. A present wrapped lovingly in paper, tied with ribbon, taken to the ledge and drop kicked, left on the lawn to disintegrate in the rain, to bleach in the sun, to be pawed open by a curious animal. Whatever. Its out there now.