Chop Wood, Compose Your Masterpiece, Carry Water.

When do we get the time to be creative? When is the right time to be creative? Will we get enough time to be creative? These are the questions I ask myself these days. Or I should say the questions I sometimes fret over. Often times I’m busy taking care of the business of living: cleaning around the house, working the landscape, shopping for food, balancing the checkbook, preparing food for the next day, getting some exercise in, and of course working the ubiquitous 40 hours. When do I get the time to work on my artistic endeavors? My endeavors usually need a lot of, oh, how should I say…stewing time. For instance I feel a well written story needs a lot of background research. A lot of reading, note taking, reflecting, assembly in the mind first, as to how it could come together. I’m also an inveterate song writer, and again conception, editing, perfection of performance, re-editing and recording (not to mention the steep learning curve of a good recording software) takes a long time with so many details behind the scenes. A so called “spare” hour here or hour and a half there tends to anchor the projects in perpetual drag and can threaten to kill the enthusiasm. The writing can be managed a little bit better in this way, but music tends to require larger windows of time to make real, tangible progress. And of course one needs time for recreation and the chance to be a simple observer in a host of different experiences. How often do you hear music artists exclaim they need to get off the road or out of the recording studio, so they can live a little and thus have new experiences for writing fresh material?

I once had a film studies friend who hated to do the dishes or other chores, because it got in the way of script writing. He’d do them reluctantly and then quickly, haphazardly. This friend also happened to be my roommate, but as I recall he kept the communal areas fairly tidy of his stuff. But it reminded me of what Charles Bukowski once wrote, “Show me a man who lives alone and has a perpetually clean kitchen, and eight times out of nine I’ll show you a man with detestable spiritual qualities.” We might also assume he believed a writer with a clean house is not a writer at all. I’ve been fairly guilty of sharing in Bukowski and my friend’s aversion to doing the chores. I like to think I’m engaging in wabi sabi, the Japanese word expressing the beauty of incompleteness and decay within any object, which reminds us of the transience of all things. But I’m fairly certain it is just a sign of inattentiveness on my part. And is not just time and the elements aging my living space. Maybe as a result of my sitting practice or in just getting older, I’ve been decreasing the laziness that Bukowski’s sentiment can turn into. Even if I agree with Bukowski, that still doesn’t solve the problem that some mundanity will have to blot out a good portion of “spiritual” or creative time.

The poet Witter Bynner once wrote a book about his time spent with the writer D.H. Lawrence, when he accompanied Lawrence and his wife down to Mexico. Lawrence was writing The Plumed Serpent at the time, but Bynner said he never really saw him writing, sitting hard at the desk. He was always up about doing things. Still when Bynner saw him doing mundane things like washing the dishes or engaging in other activities, he did them very attentively and carefully. We can assume Lawrence would be attentive to absorbing Mexico. It was his first time in the country he was writing a book about. And that attentiveness would carry over to all the things he did in that time. Bynner’s book was called Journey with Genius. Perhaps this is how Lawrence was all the time. Perhaps this was a trait of his genius, or was symbiotic to it.

It’s all that time away from the canvas, the pen and paper, the musical instrument, where grace needs to be recognized. Just for the sake of recognition. Not because you want to perfect whacking the weeds, or using the laundromat. Take one of my weekend days, Sunday, for instance. Take this last Sunday. The day I started writing this little essay. I had first to wash my clothes in the morning. I don’t own a car. So the whole project involves a laundry basket balanced on a kid’s scooter, in order to get 3 blocks down to the laundromat.

I’ll admit there’s a wee bit of magic rolling my basket down the street. Probably the kind of magic they might appreciate more in Haiti or Ghana. Anyway, it presents plenty of opportunities to practice grace. And of course washing cloths in machines gives you plenty of down time while you wait. Bring a book and here I can engage in a little scholarly dabbling. Feed the imagination engine by gathering from other writers.

Besides what are artful endeavors but a series of small, mechanical movements done over and over. Like tiny chores. Repeat motions done endlessly, if we ever want to get truly better at them. We decide we have to do those extra gracefully, as they will be part of a story we are presenting. No matter if it’s a song, a painting or a dance. Each little stroke of the paint brush or pluck of the finger is building to tell the story. But we know doing the laundry is also part of a story. Why should it be done any less gracefully? For it’s our very own story. Of course it helps to have an iPod playing Albeniz’ Sevilla performed by John Williams, while folding cloths.

Now most of us are not in the empty space of no thought, paying attention to every breath, while we dust the furniture. Thoughts will drift in and out as we go about are day doing our duties. If we’re not upset or obsessed about something, then those thoughts can be rather pleasant or at least innocuous. Creative thinking often needs a light touch, at least with the very birth of new ideas. It’s times like these when creative gems can bubble up from the well of subconscious memories in between the stream of thoughts. That is if the chore we are doing is not too demanding. I remember the theoretical physicist Stephen Hawking once wrote that with his neurologically degenerative disease, he has a long time to think about the cosmos while he is preparing for bed. It seems we can’t really, nor should we want to separate the brilliant thoughts from the mundane activities of our lives.

In a collection of vignettes about the life of the Japanese Zen priest Shunryu Suzuki, one of the early progenitors of Zen Buddhism to the West, there is a conversation recalled between an American student and Suzuki himself. The young man asked what a Zen student should do in his spare time. Suzuki looked puzzled at hearing the phrase “spare time”. After repeating it to himself and thinking about it for a few moments he began to laugh heartedly. The idea that there is a certain time in ones daily life that is extra, that is to be paid more or less attention to, that is either more valuable because it is time doing something you really want to do, or less valuable because it is a diversion or a period of less focused effort, was completely foreign to Suzuki. In Zen Buddhism there is no time that is not important and no activity that should be done with less care and attention.

In Robert Heinlein’s science-fiction book The Moon is a Harsh Mistress the master computer that controls the life support systems of the colonists on the moon (Luna), as well as just about everything else, becomes self-aware. The main hero of the book, Mannie, employs the help of Mike the computer, to over throw the colonial government on Luna and gain independence from Earth. Mannie understands that to the newly self aware Mike, learning the skill in telling a good joke is as important as planning out the details of the revolution.

And so I think it is all really just grist for the mill. Trying to separate out creativity from the work-a-day efforts is mistaken. Skillful dishwashing goes hand in hand with skillful calligraphy. Deciding to do one thing quickly and sloppily and another thing with loving attention is perhaps the problem in the first place. Attention to the task itself, no matter what the task, will improve the skill you have with all the tasks, whether they be artful or not. And in this way the time you do get with your creative endeavors burns that much more brightly. I love the Zen story of the monk who searched ardently for enlightenment for many years without success. Then one day at the market he over heard a conversation between a customer and the butcher.

“I am having a special celebration and want only your best cuts”, demanded the customer.

The butcher exclaimed, “What do you mean only my best cuts? All my cuts are the best.”

At that moment the monk was realized.

Laundry Domingo

I believe I have delusions of grandeur for my writing.  I plan something for my blog.  Something simple without too much architecture or planning required.  Shouldn’t have to check out any books to peruse or chapters to examine.  Just a brief but reading worthy vignette of some sort.  Fiction, non-fiction – it doesn’t really matter.  Make it a little of both.  But alas the idea sprouts brontosaurus size legs and wants to wander my interior landscape, constantly mawing the bits of green interest that hangs everywhere inside my mind.  Pretty soon it’s a short story, then a novelette.  Then as I expand it out I think I could reach a novella.  There’s not much plot there, so a novel seems totally out of reach for the project.  But still it started as a possible blog entry.  I think maybe the idea covered too much ground.  Too many days and the entirety of a whole relationship.  You’re probably thinking to yourself, well hell, you could make the entirety of a whole relationship into a novel.  What were you thinking?  Well for tonight big projects will have to be laid aside and worked on later, when I feel like carving at a bit of glacier.  Right now I’m going to write a vignette about Sunday afternoon at the laundry.

It’s early autumn here.  That is if you consider late September autumn.  I do.  There are signs and smells in the air that tell you the oval orbit continues.  They’re subtle but they’re their.  And the breezes are cooler.  That’s good because one whole side of this laundromat is all windows facing south.  I tend to enjoy sitting close to the door up against the windows while my cloths spin.  In the middle of summer you have to move away from there.  The solar rays are too hot.  But in September they’re a light glow on the skin.  And I sit with my guitar, just a little concert size thing.  I will be polite and not call it my banger guitar, but it is something I’m willing to toss around at the laundromat.  I can sometimes catch those gentle sunrays off the pick guard and throw light phantoms up onto the wall as I play.  I’m just playing a solemn Josh Ritter song I learned lately.  A bit of melancholy, somebody dies, something about ‘God being a drunkard for pain’, while watching over this world.  Anyway with all the dryers turning and a few washing machines that rattle with the unevenness of their loads during the spin cycle, most people can’t hear me inside the laundromat.  I can barely hear myself.  But for me my songs become a bit internalized and I don’t need much projection to get me in to that magic space where I’m listening.  But also I find when I play my guitar in the laundromat I can look about.  I can do a bit more staring at people.  I am an innocent bystander who is obviously busy playing his guitar.  Nothing to fear from the guitar player.  Even if he is taking a once over on the pretty Latina that’s decided to wear her miniskirt on laundry day.  How does the line go?  ‘Don’t shoot me, I’m just the piano player.’

Even while I navigate through a song I’m enjoying the sites.  But I do wonder where else was she planning on going today.  Actually the girl isn’t wearing quite a miniskirt.  It’s really a dress.  But it ends up the thighs a bit.  It’s a rather fancy dress with a deep lavender color overlaid with some black lace.  She has pretty shoes but no stockings.  Strong legs with some muscle, but still feminine lovely.  And she’s even made up a bit, some mascara, a touch of lipstick.  Large lovely brown cheeks and that beautiful raven Latina hair.  Definitely some curl to it.  Her boyfriend is here.  They’re not just doing some spare cloths.  They look to be washing a household worth, though they are pretty young.  Maybe a couple’s household worth of cloths.  He’s even dressed up a bit.  The kind of dress up for a young urban youth.  He’s wearing jeans of course, but they’re obviously stylish.  They’ve got some big letters in fancy font emblazoned on the rear pocket.  He wears a t-shirt with a peculiar pattern on the front.  Like something somebody might have tattooed on their backside or if they were a particularly talented tagger, they could drop that on a wall with some spray paint cans.  He has a gold chain or two around his neck and a thin beard trimmed especially fine around his jaw.  In between verses of the song that I sing I watch the girl bend down lady like to pull cloths out of a low level dryer.  Occasionally I can see the dress rise up a bit with her movements, but she is adept at keeping things as modest as she can, even if the dress is a little passed the border of modest.  But I’m not complaining.  I’m just the guitar player.  Actually I’m glad she decided to dress up for laundry day.  Probably she dressed up for church and did not change out to do laundry in the afternoon.  It doesn’t really matter though to my eyes.  I’m increasingly spotting and enjoying the well dressed woman.  And the magic of this Latina girl is full enough to erase any worries or preoccupations with the minutia of my life.  These days I’m much less preoccupied with thoughts then I use to be.  I can even get absorbed into an olive tree if that’s all that is in front of me.  But a pretty young woman is all the better.  I don’t think a well dressed pretty woman knows how tension releasing and pleasing she can be just there in front of a guy.  I ride the bus and some days have to put down the book I’m reading and watch the beautiful people get on board.  If I’m especially well positioned I can practically stare, or better put, closely observe the beauty of a woman sitting up near the front of the bus, while not displaying any rudeness at watching.

A character in the song I’m singing is named Romero.  That’s a nice Spanish name.  Maybe that’s the boyfriend’s name.  The name makes me think back to that one young Mexican guy I use to see every few weeks get on a bus line I use to take.  He was a young man and dressed in that Mexican cowboy style, like a vaquero all duded up in his finest to walk the plaza on a Saturday night.  He wore a wide brimmed felt black hat and brightly patterned cowboy boots.  A big shiny buckle all polished up and a western style shirt.  Mostly you only see older Mexican men wearing such cloths, and not so sharp.  The cowboy hats are usually white as are the shirts, which sometimes struggle to keep the frijoles stuffed belly completely buttoned up.  The older Latino, the one with a wife and family has had his share of carne asada and tortillas enough to power a Mexican festival.  But this young man was slender and rather beautiful.  His skin was immaculate in its dark caramel colored sheen.  I’m as heterosexual as they come, but I can spot a beautiful man.  At least one as striking as this young man.  If I was a Latina, or any woman for that matter, I’d be awfully curious about him.  Where was he headed dressed up like that?  I like to think his name is Romero.  And I’m sure he wasn’t going to meet the fate of the melancholy character in the song I’m singing.  He was too finely prepped to charm the world, or some young muchacha at his final destination.

It’s these sights that make living in a border state so enjoyable.  And I’m not talking a border state like Minnesota, Washington or New York.  It’s a border state where your visit to the laundromat or your ride on the bus is a swirl of a different culture.  Beyond all the arguments about immigration, it’s a feast for the eyes to see a different culture living along side you.  I have a friend at work that goes to a lot of conferences in different states.  When he meets other colleagues and they find out he’s from California they sometimes inquire, “How are you dealing with the Mexican problem?”

“The Mexican problem?  I don’t really have a problem.  If you have a problem with Mexican maybe you should try a little Beano before you eat a meal.  It might help with the gas or whatever problem your having with Mexican food.  Anyway we get some truly authentic Mexican food, so it’s made especially well.  Very digestible.”

Of course foods not what they’re referring to.  But I’m not sure what they imagine it’s like living in Southern California or Arizona.  As if someone speaking Spanish in the bus seat in front of you or opening a restaurant that only has the menu in Spanish, is a problem.  The food certainly is not a problem.  It’s a celebration.

As I fold up my laundry and roll my laundry basket back toward my house I pass the taqueria directly in front of the laundromat.  I decide to close out the day with a meal from that taqueria.  There are plenty of good Mexican places along Milpas Street, but Taqueria El Buen Gusto, is only a hop, skip and a jump from my house.  Carne el pastor is a good meal to close out the weekend.  I’d have a tough time joining one of those religions that outlaws pork.  And Mexicans know how to spice it up just right, in all its fatty tenderness.  That and some frijoles with bowls and bowls of fresh salsa and pico de gayo.  Steamy corn tortillas to use as an edible spoon.

I missed the Mexican Independence Day celebrations on Friday.  Most Anglos and other ethnicities pay little attention to that day around here.  Still I walked by the Sunken Gardens on Friday on the way to a previous engagement and saw the celebration there.  A female singer belted out a song about Mexico.  Even as I went off on my other concerns this weekend, Mexico wants to remind me how close and how beautiful she is, on this laundromat Sunday.

California Spirits Up Toward the Sierras

The hills along Highway 46 are a straw brown in late September, speckled with the tough green of the live oak.  These days the vineyards have expanded eastward from Paso Robles, claiming more wine out of what was once cattle ranch country.  It’s the kind of beauty easterners don’t always understand.  They marvel at the grapevines, but look puzzled at the seemingly dead grass of the rolling hills.  The height of summer back beyond the coast in central California can have the same effect on plant life as the winters back east.  Early morning and evenings are pleasant, but midday is the time to retreat to deep shade or air conditioning.  Native grasses go dormant and turn brown, without the luxury of snow to entomb the pallor of seasonal death.

My friend Dow and I have been on this highway before.  Central coast people take it to reach the Central Valley and Highway 5, which pretty much commands the breadth of California, via the valley, up past Redding and into Oregon.  I’ve taken a few road trips with Dow.  He is a good friend, kind of an older brother to me.  But without the admonishing advice that usually accompanies big brothers.  Dow had lost his father recently and part of his inheritance was a cabin on Lake Huntington in the Sierra Nevadas.  Although others had been partners in the cabin it was up to Dow to close it for the winter season.  He asked me if I wanted to go, do a little hiking, swim in the lake and just be in amongst the Lodgepole and Jeffrey Pine, and the granite domes that peel off layers of stone like great expanding onions in that invisible space called geologic time.  There are not too many Californians who will pass up a chance to spend a few days in the Sierras.  California road trips tend to blend the traveler’s personal reflections into the greater body of historical spirits the landscape holds, in ways staying at home does not do.  They are great memorials, if that is the experience you need.

Memorials are for those that have passed.  For anyone who knows a little California history the Sierras are full of passed spirits.  The ghosts of indians, of settlers stuck on the passes, gold miners, loggers, loners and anyone who required a dose of bitter season in a rugged landscape.  Even before a road trip reaches the Sierras, ghosts will make themselves known.

Highway 46 has ghosts.  In the Diablo Mountains on the eastern side of the Cholame Valley there were many legends of old massacres passed amongst the mestizos during Mexican rule.  Another phantom has been sighted in more recent times, what locals have called the Ghost Driver of Polonia Pass.  The story was, like some demon speed racer, it terrorized anyone unlucky enough to be on that part of the highway at odd hours of the day or night.  As it was, us simple road pilgrims were going to veer off on Highway 41 going northeast before we ever got to Polonia Pass.  Of course, if you don’t know the infamy of Highway 46, this apparition is one of many attributed to the ghost of James Dean.  He met his tragic end right at the intersection of Highway 41 and 466, what is now called the 46.  The actual sight is somewhere in the farm fields since they re-positioned the intersection.  This place is called Cholame (the last syllable pronounced like lamb), which is a Chumash word meaning “beautiful one”.  The long shadows of the hills just before dusk, gives the area a mysteries beauty that must have attracted the Yokuts to build their burial mounds that used to exist along the 466 before they were plowed under.  We were passing the intersection at dusk, the time when vehicles float by and perceptions of distance become distorted.  We were incidentally following the route the other driver in the accident, Mr. Turnupseed, was taking in his 1950 Ford Tudor.  We were casually passing through at a moderate speed, as both of us, being half way between birth and death, were long past the urge of speeding youth.

Of all my friends Dow is most similar to James Dean.  I’ve heard a few amongst our mutual friends comment that Dow is the more bohemian, free living one amongst us.  They both lost loved ones before their time, had difficulties in their relationships with their fathers and engaged in the arts for their self-expression.  James Dean’s loss came early in life.  His mother died while the family lived in California when he was only nine.  His father sent him alone back to Indiana to live with his aunt and uncle.  It must have been a lonely and frightening trip on the train for a nine year old with his mother’s coffin in the baggage car.  After growing up in Indiana he finally moved back to Santa Monica and lived with his father for a short time.  His father was not to keen on Jimmy’s interests in drama and theater.  He begrudgingly did help pay for his son’s tuition for a drama degree, so the relationship was not completely at odds.

Artists tend to immerse themselves in a few different mediums.  My friend Dow’s art forms lean toward music and the visual, but it’s apparent he too could have become an actor.  He will casually mimic characters accents from movies with a startlingly good impression.  But being a reckless rebel is not a similarity they share.  Even James Dean’s reputation is layered with considerate proportions of myth.  Although he was famously difficult to work with, there were times in his formative New York City years when he was harshly criticized by acting coaches, swallowed his pride and continued learning the craft from these mentors.

That reckless speed racer character may reflect more of something from my youth.  Passing through Cholame on a road trip we had a view of this place, with its phantom moment in time, looking down through the eyes of a more mature age.  When your slowly clocking your way through your forties, the idea of racing down a straight stretch of San Luis Obispo back country road in a silver Porsche Spyder with a racing number on the side, to see how fast she will go, sounds ridiculous.  Even Paul Newman, who they say still hit the track in his eighties, probably didn’t try topping them out on Connecticut highways.  But when I was at the age Dean died, I was racing around in a turbo charged red Dodge pushing the envelope at inappropriate times.  Fairmont, Indiana, where Dean grew up, is not too different from the town I was raised in.  The town is right off highway 69 between Detroit and Indianapolis, two auto meccas of America.  It’s out in these cornfield towns with great stretches of straight flat highway that car culture thrived.  Where I grew up, a little town right outside Detroit, at least one parent worked in the auto industry and it seemed every young boys dream was to own a supped up Mustang or Trans Am.  My fascination with cars and fast driving eventually waned, but not before having a few chances to endanger my own life.

During the time of Dean’s accident a family had reported their Pontiac was run off the road on the 46 before Polonia Pass.  Dean and his passenger, his mechanic Rolf, were passing another car and had miscalculated the distance of an oncoming car.  At the moment of possible impact enough swerving occurred so that at one moment there were 3 cars abreast of each other on the same spot of highway.  One of the daughters in the family claims to have looked out the window of the Pontiac at the same moment and saw both passengers of the topless Porsche in dark sunglasses grinning from ear to ear.  Though this story may have a touch of the apocryphal myth to it, I can remember a similar bit of recklessness in my youth.  I recall an afternoon in Michigan driving down a long flat stretch of road along side the Pebble Creek Golf Course and a fallow cornfield.  With my turbo I was into passing drivers I deemed too slow.  I veered into the opposing lane and saw the oncoming car in the left lane was a distant speck.  I stepped on the gas, began to pass and suddenly I see an oncoming car 50 yards in front of me.  Somehow miraculously the oncoming car swerved enough so that at one moment 3 cars were abreast on the same spot of two-lane highway.  No accident occurred, so I continued on down the road.  Like most sport car owners I enjoyed speeding through dangerous curves.  And the only part I can still remember from Jack Kerouac’s “On the Road” was the bit of driving advise Dean Moriarty gives to Sal Paradise about how a skilled driver calculates the proper speed before hitting a curve, but never touches the brake when going through it.   I suppose what saved my life and many a daredevil driver was the luck to walk away from a few accidents relatively unscathed.  After a couple wrecks where I saw there could have been the potential for fatalities, I became much more cautious.  This is in fact what James Dean’s Uncle Marcus, who raised him in Indiana, said never occurred to Jimmy.  When Dean was racing around on his motorcycle at 15 he never once took a spill.

We veered off the 46 in the settling dusk and moved out of the San Andres Fault Zone.  A rift valley some proponents of the paranormal consider a kind of Bermuda Triangle of California.  That intersection just past Cholame sits right on top of it.  We never did see the Ghost Driver of Polonia Pass.  Perhaps we were a week premature.  On the anniversary of his death, September 30th,  a road rally occurs and the faithful make the trip he took from San Fernando, over the Grapevine, past Bakersfield and then heading west on the 46.  They stop at all the stops he made.  Most of them don’t exist as they once were; a gas station that’s now a flower shop, a barren field where once was Tip’s Diner at Castiac Junction.  Blackwell’s Corner where he made his last stop on the corner of the 46 and the 33 is still there.  It is a different building, but you can still buy an apple, like Dean did.  For these pilgrims it’s a kind of Via Dolorosa of their rebel messiah.  They stop and pay reverence to all the Stations of the Spyder.  We were searching other spirits further east up in the mountains, so had to bid adieu to phantoms of Hollywood dream wrecks.

Except for some confused navigation in Fresno the Central Valley crossing was uneventful.  It was only after we passed Prather, a tiny Sierra foothill town, that the night ghosts of my friend Dow’s memories started to flicker.  He spoke of hitting a cow somewhere past Shaver Lake on the windy roads toward Huntington Lake.  The car had been immobilized and him and a friend had to walk in the dark of night along the mountain road.  Without the moonlight or any city’s light pollution, the planetarium of stars swathing the highland skies is vivid and full, but the immediate space in front of you is pitch as a coalmine.  If you leave it alone it is just fine, but if you fill it full of your imagination it can ripen with the potential of fear.   Beside the wild animals that roam the night, the ghosts of white man’s past are not so thick back in the Sierras.  Occasional cabin fever blossoming into murder or a hunting expedition accident resulting in supposed involuntary manslaughter, these are terrible things, but nothing engaging the supernatural.  It is before the white man’s time, somewhere between the Foothill Pine and the subalpine, Mountain Hemlock that the shaman of the indigenous people exercised their power.  This is when the supernatural ruled the landscape and the shaman allied with the spirit world.  To be sure, the shaman was mostly an agent for healing.  But from time to time malevolent souls would acquire the supernatural experiences to assume shamanistic power.  Even well meaning shamans could find themselves in danger when cures did not take.  When family members died shamans were sometimes blamed.  Another shaman would be employed to exact revenge and the forest would be thick with intrigue and even horror.  These are stories that would rival a Stephen King novel.  I read one book on shamanism amongst the natives of California and one story stayed vivid in my mind of a Sierra shaman who through the employ of a disputing family kidnapped the twin daughters of the opposing family, killed and gutted them, then stuffed their bodies with dry grass to be used as a kind of macabre totem.  Later on during our stay the walking we did at night around the cabin held little fear, but I remember as a kid those scary stories around the campfire often started with stranded motorists walking a deserted road at night.  Like my friend Dow’s experience they would start innocently.  But then the footsteps of the friend walking behind would suddenly disappear.  The evil that would entail was only limited to the story tellers imagination, as well as the listeners suspension of disbelief.  The Sierras are a great place to set such tales.

We arrived at the cabin and after watching Dow clean up the rotted dead rat in front of the refrigerator, I was ready to find a bed pretty quick.  I was quite surprised at how cold it already was in September at 7,500 feet and with no central heating, getting underneath a quilt is really the only way to get warm.  The next morning I had to find a sunny patch that broke through the pines in order to warm up.  Like a lizard I lay for awhile warming my seemingly cold blooded body and viewed the mountain forest all around.  Dow sat on the deck of the cabin and played a John Fahey type finger picked blues on his guitar.  I think it was Sam McGee’s “Knoxville Blues”, a tune I saw him showcase recently at a music festival.  I became absorbed in the music and the scenery.

The Sierras are a marvelous wonder, everything from the grey granite batholiths and domes on the horizon, to the chartreuse-colored lichen that cling to the Lodgepole Pines surrounding the lake.  Out in the wilderness nature presents itself extra large and this Wolf Lichen, as it is called, sprung vibrantly from the bark of the trees.  The chipmunks bounced in the branches and competed with the sound of Dow’s guitar.  They were a chatty bunch, probably some of the loudest racket producing rodents I’ve ever known.  Later when we walked down to the lake Dow stopped at all the little piles of shredded pine cones the chipmunks left and announced another Shinto shrine, as he called them.  We wound down through the bracken fern and climbed a gathering of great granite slabs and boulders on and in the water’s edge.

Mountain lakes are much different then the lakes I’m accustom to in the Midwest.  Back there the lakes are sprawling water wonderlands spreading out across the landscape with so many coves and cattail covered inlets.  Sierra mountain lakes instead are usually narrow, long lakes that fill canyons and steep walled valleys, often with a dam or two at one end.  They are dark blue lakes with a surface that shimmers in the sunlight in contrast to the dark green of the pine that climbs the mountainside.  I could imagine the holiday barge that use to float in the lake in the 1920s to entertain the Huntington Lake Lodge visitors, when the railroad track and later the roads were blasted into the mountain side.  Rowboats pulled it about and it offered a dance floor for the visitors.  We had happily arrived at the lake late in the season, and the skidoos and water skiers that Dow so distained had ceased.  Although we would miss the sound of a dance band fiddle off the lake surface, we didn’t have to listen to roaring motor boats.  Besides I had brought my Native American flute and was hoping to create a call and response to my flute’s echoes off the lake surface myself.  Dow proceeded to splash about in the frigid waters, he has a streak of polar bear DNA in his genes.  I, on the other hand could only wade about a bit, then return to the rocks on the shore, absorb the solar energy and find this kokopelli muse of mine.

I had purchased the flute just the past April at our towns Earth Day festival, but had yet to delve into its tonal qualities.  Or even my ability to play such an instrument.  The great thing about a Native American flute is its modal quality that lends itself to the improvisational nature of musical sound.  There is no strict form of notation or rhythm to follow and the playing of it requires a deep listening, of not only the sounds you are making, but also the sounds of the environment around the player.  It is an instrument made out of the natural world itself.  Mine had been made of mahogany, but the Native Californians fashioned the instrument out of the world around them.  The Chumash of the coast where I live made flutes out of elderberry wood.  Other tribes used tule reeds and the bones of animals like pelicans and deer.  The music played was not just a source of entertainment.  It came from a deeper part of the consciousness and were songs to protect the player or singer from evil spirits, darkness and times of turmoil.  For shamans they were sources of power and music was used to bring together rival tribes into ceremonial events.  Almost everyone learned there own individual song and played or sang it in times of need, as well as in times of good spirit.  I soon discovered a song or two I could harmonize off the lake myself.

Perhaps what I was playing was a mourning song.  I couldn’t help but wonder what memories my friend Dow was reflecting on, here at the lake.  At the funeral memorial for his father, only a few weeks before, Dow’s friend Jon gave a lighthearted eulogy about Dow’s father teaching him to water ski at this very lake.  Dow’s father had required a commitment from Jon that if he was going to do this thing, learn how to water ski, he was going to have to stick with it until he was up on the skis flying about the lake.  There was going to be no backing down.  Although I did not know Dow’s father, I get the sense a facet of his character was this determined, unflinching striver.  Jon seems to have succeeded, even if he had to endure a host of purple water ski bruises on his inner thighs.  I’m sure the lake was filled with many memories of his father.  As it was the Monache, the tribe that lived in this area of the Sierras, often held a mourning ceremony at this time of year.  The widows of the deceased singed their hair short and walked around disheveled until this ceremony could release them from this state.  It was usually held in autumn, as the harvesting of the land provided plenty of food for the gatherers.  I would have been one of the singers and accompanying weepers, often hired from surrounding tribes who performed in this way.  Even though it was a mourning ceremony, the gathering included the distribution of gifts, shaman’s contests to demonstrate their power and the burning of effigies of the deceased to release the mourners from their grief.  At some point Dow left for the cabin as I began to get a true handle on the tones of my instrument.  The lake echoed the calls of my flute and I found myself discovering jazzy rifts that veered from a mournful cry.  I would find out later that this lake has had others mourn at its shores.

Later in the day we visited the lakes general store, the only one customer serving establishment that seemed to be around.  It even had a produce section, a table with a few wilted greens and some potatoes.  The shoppers, all of two men with beards, looked to be ready for hunting season.  Or maybe they were permanent residents, uncomfortable with the seemingly placid life of Californians closer to sea level.  We did see a few cabins that had been weatherized for year around stay.  On our way out of the store there was a sign nailed to a tree announcing the showing of a film about a plane crash in the lake.  I don’t recall where the film was being shown; it’s not like Huntington Lake has a cinema, or even a place that can handle more then 20 people in one space.  Maybe it would be shown outside up against a large granite boulder for a screen.  Dow had mentioned something about a plane crash in the lake.  It was supposedly a World War II era bomber of some sort.  As we drove around the lake Dow joked it was probably a story blown out of proportion.  Later you might find out it wasn’t a bomber but a smaller military plane or maybe just a Cessna.  I did find out later it truly was a B-24 bomber and six men had died.  She was called the “Exterminator” and was out searching for a previously lost plane and crew.  The Sierras are littered with plane crash sites, with many occurring during World War II.  Many a flight training crew flew a triangular area over Arizona, Nevada and the Sierras of California.  It was on December 6, 1943 that the plane went down on the lake.  Two men were able to parachute to safety but the other six crew members, including Captain William H. Darden, went down in the lake.  It was only in 1955 when the lake was partially drained for dam maintenance that the plane was discovered.  All of the bodies had been perfectly preserved in the frigid waters.  Cold waters I can attest to.  Dow had told me one year his friend Jon had proclaimed he would swim across the lake.  As Dow rowed a boat alongside Jon’s trans lake crossing, he peered down in the murky depths with apprehension.  If I had attempted such a feat, the knowledge that I may be swimming above a watery gravesite would have made for me, a much more terrifying swim.  Though parts of the plane have been recovered much of it is still down there.  There is even a man still convinced he can raise it, ala Clive Cussler, and restore what’s left for a Fresno air museum.  Others believe it should stay where it is, the lake itself a memorial to lost soldiers.  To this day the last survivor still alive that was able to bailout, George Barulic, periodically comes to the lake to pray.

That evening in the cabin I perused an illustrated book about the different geared locomotives that hauled equipment and materials up to the area during the dam construction era.  These were odd looking locomotives I’d never seen before, huge mechanical insect-like things with names like Shays and Climaxes.  With their heavy loads and the steepness of the grade they sometimes were dragged to a speed of 5 or 6 miles an hour.  The hundreds of curves in the rail line limited car size to only 36 feet long.  The San Joaquin and Eastern Railroad Company started building the 56 miles of rail line up to this part of the mountains beginning in 1912.  The railroad company was a subsidiary of the Pacific Light and Power Company, which later would become Southern California Edison.  And the principal owner of stock for the power company was a man named Henry E. Huntington.  As is usually the case the richest men have their names tagged to the structures and altered landscapes they fund, and thus goes with the lake.  The dam at this lake was only one in a series of dams in this part of the Sierras.  All intended to provide electricity for the expanding metropolis of Los Angeles.  Like the harvesting of water from the Owens Valley, L.A.’s tentacles reached far and wide in search of resources to provide its growth.  Surprisingly enough when the electricity was first being generated from this area 78% of it powered the 355 miles of LA Railway, owned of course by Mr. Huntington, and 868 miles of inter urban electric lines.  At one time L.A. had one of the highest used mass transit systems in the nation.  When the rail line was first being built in the mountains the working conditions wouldn’t have been unlike that of a John Henry tale.  Two men teams worked the jack drills to place the dynamite and blast out more rock.  One man held the drill and the other swung the sledgehammer.  When the rail line finally reached Big Creek, the area where the lake is now, the dynamiting continued for the dam’s construction.  Along with the sound of train whistles, explosions echoed through the valley at all hours of the day and night.  By this time holiday goers were already arriving by “bleacher” train car to the newly built Huntington Lake Lodge and along with them the forests were filled with “Sivil Injuneers” and construction stiffs carrying their bindles to sleep on.

The shores around the lake are less populated these days, and were even more so during the late season we were there.  Dow and I took a walk down to the lake after it was dark and the moonless sky displayed the heavenly firmament that is always present when the cities are so far away.  Standing out on the floating docks I swore I saw flickering light on the opposite shore.  It could have been someone night fishing, though Dow told me it is illegal to fish after dark on this lake.  Rational explanation would dictate it was some person, though as far as I knew that part of the shore was uninhabited of any cabins or living areas.  The darkness of the Sierra forests at night can play tricks on the mind.  It wouldn’t be a stretch to imagine the phantom of a long past shaman in search of his tutelary spirit.  To the Monache, the owl was the true mythological shaman and the totemic sponsor of all shamans.  Although most people of the tribe had one or two supernatural experiences in their lives, it was the “acquiring” of many of these experiences that separated a shaman from the rest.  They stressed their body and minds through fasts, the use of emetics and hallucinogenic plant sources.  Most people found these methods too troublesome and let others become shamans.

Shamans were not the only ones with totemic spirits.  All the people of the tribe belonged to a moiety.  The bird moieties were more common.  One might belong to the eagle, roadrunner or dove lineage.  There were intertribal assemblies for ceremonies honoring the different moieties, in which a captive eagle or vulture would be danced over.  I like to think I would have been a member of the eagle lineage, but it is more likely my totem spirit is the bear.  Dow’s lineage may very well be the same.  I have come upon a bear while in the wild more often then any other large wild animal I’ve experienced in the wilderness, with the exception of deer.  It was only a few years before Dow and I took a trip into the northern Sierras.  We had just finished a swim in another mountain lake and were driving down into Oroville when we struck a bear.  Although we were not going fast and the bear bounced a bit off the bumper and fled into the forest, I do worry we injured it at the wrong time.  It would need to recuperate during the critical season moving into autumn, when it needs to feed heartily for the winter season’s hibernation.  Perhaps this occurred because we did not perform the bear dance before we had left.  According to the Monache the people of the bear lineage must perform the dance before the bears holed up for the winter.  It was to be held in September or October and if missed the people of the bear totem might get sick and die.  They were not allowed to eat of the new acorn crop until this ritual was performed.  I would be happy to learn the bear dance if someone could show me a few authentic steps.

One ritual that I’m glad I did not need to experience was the jimsonweed ceremony, that all adolescent boys and girls of the tribe were required to endure.  It was a 6 day ordeal involving the consumption of the Datura plant with all its hallucinogenic properties.  From the recorded experiences that I’ve read, of more latter day imbibers, Datura is a very intense and harsh psychoactive plant – and potentially lethal.  We headed back to the cabin and the only ritual I supposed I performed that night was to tinkle a bit on the keyboards of the piano sitting next to the fireplace.  I can’t help but think on remembering that night, that the flickering light across the lake could have very well been the ghost’s of some lost airmen.  Training flight boys looking for their plane and still anxious to finally get at those Germans and Japanese, for the war effort.

The next day we walked around the lake, sometimes losing the trail, but staying close to the water.   The large granite boulders lay everywhere, like some old abandoned cemetery for giants – the gravestones fallen over and half buried.  In amongst the Lodgepole and Jeffrey pine, the great Pacific Ponderosa pine displayed its mighty dragon skin.  Its bark like the armor of some mythical reptilian beast.  An occasionally we would come upon the old man of the forest, the Incense Cedar.  Of all the trees up here, the cedar belongs most in a fairy tale forest.  With the draping moss and the broken branches, it would be the one to most likely open an eye, move a branch and gobble an orc.  Dow asked me if I knew the name of a common scrub with spiny fruit that grew abundantly.  I couldn’t say for sure, but the word chinquapin kept popping in my head.  These plant names from my botanical enthusiast days still want to sprout up in my mind, when I’m staring at particular plants.  It turns out on checking a plant guide later it was the Bush Chinquapin.  That spiny husk disguising a sweet edible nut the Monache ate.  The Monache made use of most of the plants in this area.  The Manzanita berry yielded a beverage and pinenuts were plentiful.  Of course acorns were a staple, though usually gathered at lower altitudes or acquired through barter with the Yokuts in the Sierra foothills, where the oaks grow.

This area is littered with arrow head points made of obsidian. The obsidian, a type of volcanic glass, was used in so many different ways and can be considered the resource for making the principle sharp edged tool used in all forms of domestic life.  Of course it is a superior hunting tool and tipped many an arrow. The obsidian was gathered by the Northern Paiute of the Owens Valley and from places further east by other tribes.  It was then traded through the Monache into the Central Valley and can be found as far as the coast.  Seashells traveling by trade the other way can be also found in the Great Basin region of the country.  It seems the Monache were a kind of exporter/importer for goods traveling between the coastal and Central Valley tribes and the continents interior tribes.

As we hiked we stopped at a few places along the shoreline.  The granite boulders litter the landscape even into the water’s edge.  We sat amongst the boulders with a few tortured pines growing from cracks in the granite.  They looked like oversized bonsai of the style called fukinagashi – windswept, or ishitsuki – clinging to rock.  There are two pine covered islands in the lake and we could see the one nearest the edge of one of the dams.  Dow said when he was growing up this island had a more mystical aura to it.  From our view it seemed to be sitting on the edge of the world, as the lake seems to end abruptly, not much further past the island, with no seeming land meets water’s edge beyond it.

We eventually reached that dam and found a few people fishing off the edge of it.  The backside is covered with earth and boulders to help protect the concrete from erosion.  A wonderful blue delphinium was blossoming in the backfill.  We toured the end of the lake where the four dams are located.  The largest dam has an impressive intake tower jutting out of the water a few feet from the water’s edge.  Below that tower is the intake tunnel with a diameter of 9 feet.  The tower is probably obsolete anymore as intake is controlled remotely.  Still it had an omniscient and even foreboding presence.  Like it controlled the point at where the lakes very existence is determined.  Before the dams were constructed this area was used by sheep herders in the 1870s.  It had the name Big Creek Flats.  The dam project was the brainstorm of a pioneering civil engineer named John S. Eastwood.  He was not suited for office bureaucracy and spent much of his time in the field.  He combed this part of the Sierras and knew it very well.  The dam project included several dams at various altitudes and drains a 450 square mile watershed.  The water falls 6000 feet through the dam system and at the time of completion was the longest distance between reservoirs and turbines and had the largest generators of its kind.  The project was truly massive at the time.  There are two more lakes, Florence and Edison, at higher altitudes that were also formed by dams built during the same period.  Florence covers a place once called Jack Ass Meadows.  In order to create a tunnel for the water to flow from Florence to Huntington Lake they had to blast out 6 ½ miles of rock and earth below Kaiser Pass.  It was so long a dining car rode down into the tunnel to feed the workers at lunchtime.  The Florence encampment behaved like a small town.  A hog farm was managed to take care of all the organic garbage.  A total of 12,750,000 pounds of ham and bacon was consumed at that encampment.  The work at the Florence dam went on through the winter.  An Alaskan dog team transported goods from Lake Huntington up to the Florence dam project.  As it is, somewhere along the road heading up to Lake Florence is a gravesite for the much loved lead dog, whose name was of course, Babe.  I wonder if the musher’s name was Paul.  Though these mountains are quiet now, the spirits of industry can also be felt lingering along the lakeside and back into the canyons.

The next day was the last day of our mountain sojourn and Dow began in earnest to close the cabin for winter.  We both share an interest in Zen Buddhism, so he tried employing my help in the duties with the exclamation, “We must clean the zendo”.  It is a tradition, in Zen monasteries everywhere, to clean the meditation hall in a more or less ritual way.  I was most happy to comply and as we scrubbed, shut down plumbing, water pipes and shuttered windows and doors, I silently began my farewells to the host of silent spirits, and sometimes loud animals, that had been making my acquaintance here.  The Sierras have a streak of history through my friend’s childhood.  As far as I know this cabin has been in Dow’s family for quite sometime and he has many childhood memories of this place.  Although this part of the Sierras aren’t as famous as Yosemite or the Sequoia region and maybe there aren’t as many ghosts wandering around as there might be at Donner’s Pass or the goldfields, it is a place rich with spirit and beauty.   As for me, I am an immigrant to California and only read about what came before, so that I might glimpse a few shadows of deeper meaning in the places I visit here.  But then again, so were most of the gold seekers, pioneers looking for new land, service men who trained here for war, acting students with ambitions of Hollywood stardom and the dam engineers and concrete pourers of the hydroelectric projects.  Even the ancestors of the Monache must have migrated to this part of the continent at one time or another.  In the end we never know where we might leave a few phantoms of our presence.  The Sierras and her roads up to them, is just as good a place as any.

As we drove down toward the Central Valley my friend Dow winced.  He suddenly remembered he’d forgotten to set the rat traps.  In the eyes of the other cabin owners he might look to be a bit careless.  I think he was just trying to keep the ghost rat population of the Sierra cabins down, or at least postpone it.  Even if that meant an increase in the real rat population.  The rats would get a reprise and Dow’s karma would be minus a few tiny ghosts.

A Virgin to a West Virginia Hoedown

My friend and I were traveling to an Appalachian music festival in a town called Clifftop.  It wasn’t really a town, more like a few scattered houses and a chapel.  We had just climbed up out of the narrow Kanawha River valley.  The Kanawha River runs a gray brown over shale deposits and the coal is heaped up in train cars lined end to end, waiting to roll on, buddy.  Coal is still king here in West Virginia; barges of the black stuff lined the river and we passed more then a couple refineries and coal burning power plants.  My friend considered it a dark kind of a scene, with what looked like little company towns crowded into the valley floor and the smell of refinery chemicals.  Well, what can you do?  I use electricity, too.  I think West Virginians have a kind of stubborn pride for their coal industry.  Like the song says, “A man must have lust for the lure of the mines.”  We saw more then a few “Coal, keep em’ lit.” signs.

From the valley floor the mountain sides look like they are covered in jungle.  Lush hardwood forests of white ash, beech, chestnut and oak, here and there the kudzu or some other rampant non-native vine would inundate a few acres.  Once we were up in the mountains and away from the industrial valley floor, the air was cooler and our spirits lightened up.  We had the feeling we were returning to our “Cabin on the Mountain” to learn more about “How Mountain Girls Can Love”.

I don’t know just what I had anticipated in a traditional music festival, I do less anticipating as I grow older.   Things are never what you thought they would be.  I had seen pictures of old bluegrass festivals from the 50’s and 60’s, men with brush cuts and women in country dresses.  There were the proverbial smiles with missing teeth and the outrageously tall fiddler whose canvas pants hung like drapery from the great circumference of his waistline.  What we found though were many kinds of people, all tucked into the mountain forest on a rolling hilltop campground.  Fiddlers, banjo pickers, musical instrument stalls, field recordings, fried green tomatoes, beans and cornbread and enough campers to keep a bathroom brigade unplugging toilets 24 hours a day.  These festival goers knew what they were doing; some brought oriental rugs and coffee tables and set up living room accommodations outside their campers.  At first it was all a bit overwhelming but still it felt homey and comfortable too.

My friend and I play music but we did not bring instruments.  Why we did not bring them is a mystery to me.  Maybe we thought there would be too much music to hear, to worry about playing anything.  For me though, it is agony to watch people play music and not have access to something to play myself.  And everyone seemed to be capable of playing an instrument.  By the first evening the urge to participate in something drove me to the big hall built of logs that stood at the entrance to the camp.  People milled about as light and boisterous music spilled out from the entrance to the hall into the lonesome night.  Inside the cavernous space of dark tones, wood beamed ceiling, and great stone fireplace a string band played and everyone seemed willing to give a shot at square dancing.  Though the mountains of West Virginia were cooler then the muggy Midwest my friend and I had just come from, the cavernous hall where the square dancers swung emanated a sultry heat.  Giant floor fans billowed dresses as couples broke and headed to the doors for a few moments of fresh air between dances.  The step caller would talk the dancers through the steps for each dance, giving those on the floor a couple of trial runs, then the band would start.  Although it looked a bit chaotic, the grouped couples seemed to be managing the steps, twisting and turning, do-si-do and swinging their partner.

The well-lit space on the bandstand rolled and whooped with the musicians.  The fiddler commanded with a fiddler’s stance and his bow fenced with the air above the band.  Fiddlers are a band in themselves, melodies and counter melodies, call and response quivering and jostling over each other to get at the listener’s ear.  Fiddle music is a marriage of chaos and precision, like a train threatening to derail at any moment, yet staying glued to the tracks; Casey Jones no longer driving the train but being carried along in the wave of excitement that is the Orange Blossom Special or the Wabash Cannonball.  Of course, there was also a mandolin player, a banjo picker, a guitarist and even a drummer pounding on a lone snare drum.  The step caller teased the band members as they played and lightly harangued the square dance groups that ran afoul.

I watched with fascination as the dancers bounced off each other, sometimes getting it right, sometimes not.  Oh sure, I thought, I could do that.  I pictured myself swinging my partner round and round like the occasional couple I saw spinning about like a whirling dervish.  But first I had to find and ask a partner.  Oh, this is the difficult part for me.  To step up and ask a fair young maiden if they would like to dance.  The sweaty palms, the hesitation…     Ah, just ask somebody!  I had to barrel ahead.  I couldn’t end the night without trying this at least once.  Meanwhile, my roving eye had already found a preference.  The gal with the auburn hair and black country dress with white lace stood with a couple of her lady friends.  They had just come in and already two men had asked her two friends if they’d be partners.  The pale blue eyes and the way she chewed on her full lower lip spurred me to action.  The pretty mountain girl fantasy in my head had to make room for the fact that this potential dance partner also sported pagan and Celtic tattoos and a ring in her pierced lower lip.   Yeah, old-time music festivals aren’t just made of backwoods mountain folk anymore.

“Would you like to be my partner?”

She looked at me with a your-in-for-it-now grin and said, “I’ve never done this before.”

“Neither have I,” I replied and we headed out on the floor.  We eventually found three other couples willing to bounce off of us as we attempted to hoedown.  It became apparent we were in for a calamity when our group stumbled around and constantly scattered in confusion during the instructions.  But there was no waiting for us to catch up and the square dance music flared up.

“Now first couples come on up,” the step caller announced in rhythm.  “And now go on out and around two.”

We had only figured out we were the first couple by the time we were supposed to be on opposite sides joined with the couples on either side of us and coming up together as a line.  The more we tried to catch up the worse it got.

“Now swing your partner round and round”, came the call.

I looked up to see that I was not only about to swing somebody else’s partner but they also had a mustache.  I don’t think I was supposed to be swinging a man, at least not at this square dance, so I broke that off and looked for my partner.

“Now make a circle, go around two times.”

The band played like barnstormers and seemed to speed up just as we thought we could pull it together by forming a circle, a move we all recognized. Our circle bowed and pinched like an oil bubble in a lava lamp.  It was all so bad I couldn’t help but feel guilty.  At times I felt like the main culprit, the head monkey wrench and distinctly remember somebody in my dance group yell, “You’re going the wrong way, fool,” as we were supposed to weave through the circle and back to our partner.  Well, my subconscious probably added the word “fool.”  I actually considered turning and walking away in the middle of the square dance like a dejected child losing a board game.  It would have been more out of absolute embarrassment then dejection.  But I am an adult and I must reap what I have sowed.  It didn’t occur to me that I could have properly “prepared my soil” with a square dance tutorial given earlier in the day between the morning yoga and lunch.  But still, I wasn’t the only one in our group that was completely befuddled.  We all sprawled out in every direction trying to follow the steps.  I held on desperately hoping it would all end.  As it was my partner seemed to take it better then I did.  She grabbed me with some sense of vigor as we attempted to do-si-do or dance with our partners.  Near the end of the dance the step caller must have recognized how badly our group was doing and showed some pity by telling the dancers to break, move toward the stage and clap along with the music.

After it was all finished my partner smiled at me and said, “Whatever could go wrong, did go wrong.”

Road trips tend to throw off my peristaltic rhythm and that dance triggered it back into action, so I bolted from the dance hall and headed for the bathroom.  The speed at which I moved increased by the distance I wanted to make between me and that square dance scene.  I couldn’t bare to return just then to the square dance hall, after using the bathroom, so I wandered out into the cool night amongst the crowded campsites aglow with lamps and musicians alighting into Appalachian melodies of joy and sorrow.  As I listened to the music some part of me still reeled from the fiasco on the dance floor.  As it was, I should have returned to the dance floor and made amends with my partner and maybe had a good laugh.  It would have been a kind of assurance that in another time and space, maybe in a galaxy far, far away, we would have surely met with some knowledge of the steps and performed like candidates for the Grand Ole Opry.  I saw her the next day on the festival grounds and gave her a sheepish smile.  She looked the other way with what seemed to me a frown.  Now there is a gone goose, I thought.  Oh well, I’m a musician not a dancer.  Maybe I’ll breakdown and buy that mandolin with the crack along the f-hole I saw at one of the instrument stalls.  I could linger on the edge of the forest blending the jangled sound of a couple of mandolin chords with the crickets.  It’d keep me away from square dance floors anyway.

It probably wasn’t as ridiculous as it all seemed.  Shades of mild self-deprecation flowed through the place right along with the music and gathering joys.  Old-timey songs ring of unrequited love, rejected lovers drowning their sorrows (and sometimes their lovers), highways of regret, and men of constant sorrow.  It’s natural to humble yourself in the thick green mountains of West Virginia.

The morning after the fiddle competition I greeted our camping neighbor Skip.  “Congratulations on placing with your fiddle playing!”

“Ah, the judges musta bayn tone deaf,” he scoffed with a laugh.

Skip owned a small farm in northern Virginia and was an old timer himself.  He told us how the crowds get thicker every year here and the bizarre antics of some of the competitors in the non-traditional band contest.  Having learned my friend and I were from California he told us of adventures he has had out west and of his recent visit with his son stationed at Vandenburg Air Force base on the California coast.  Talking to folks like Skip gave me an understanding that even though these Appalachians and people of the surrounding areas have a regional style and manner they are well versed Americans.  They know their country and have been to all parts of it.  Staying the few days we did back in these West Virginia mountains with these people, sharing a love of traditional string band music, made a person feel as though they had discovered long lost kinfolk and an ancestral home.  It was as if all the regional differences and modern trappings were stripped away with the historical reach of the music.  A participant like me was not so much a time traveling visitor, but became one with the mountain people, playing and dancing to the music.  As I lay in my tent on the last night before we left, I could hear – against the background whir of crickets and cicadas from the forest – the high lonesome sounds and joyous melodies of musicians gathered in all corners of the camp.  I decided I would have to return to this home in the mountains, where there were no visitors or rank strangers, but only family welcoming you back home to join in the song and stomp your feet – even if your feet are a bit clumsy.  Christian Layow

No Saticoy

Somewhere along the Santa Clara River Valley,
Saticoy.
The Chumash call it “a place protected from the wind”.

Aging men without women, pass it
on their way to a prospector’s desert.
Only want of being temporary Nabataeans, hiding out.

We set up camp at Emigrant Pass.
Vista of wild expanse.
Cold, stony ground – fine comfort for lonesome sleep.

The ravens cack,
fill the air with the woof of beating wings
and follow careless, cashew-dropping emigrants.

Wind whipped through Mesquite Spring
bending bachelors into weather thrashed bristlecone pine.
No saticoy.

Wabi-sabi we are becoming.
Japanese for old, bent, broken.
And as such – beautiful.

Kangaroo rats squirrel into the cab at night,
eat a hole in the bag
and nibble on date crumble.

Out in the desert even your loneliness
is something of value
and will get eaten up.

Or dry up
leaving only salt pan
to rub into your wounds
and wake your sleepy awareness.

Silence reigns supreme here,
and in this silence you need no saticoy,
taking refuge in voidness
and endless desert horizons.

New Born Evening

Along the California coast as the short winter glides into spring, the sunset light changes.  The pink blush fades from the scattered cirrus clouds and amphitheater of mountains, to be replaced with a slightly duller, waning day.  The evenings do get warmer and the promise of the Ceanothus’ bloom soon covering the mountains in a white frost is well worth the trade off.

It was one of these early spring nights when a few of us were invited to Dave’s apartment warming party.  We had all worked with Dave at the library and although it had been about two or three months since he had moved in, the showing off of his current dwelling was the excuse for the gathering.  Dave was a recent photography school graduate and his new walls were liberally hung with portraits of his one year old, adorable daughter Natalie.  To be sure, he hung a few artistic photographs – abstract things – here and there, but the man was predominately interested in displaying Natalie in different lighting angles, different places amongst the bedding blankets or out in the sunshine in the arms of mother.  Baby pictures can be quite intriguing in the hands of a professional photographer.  We all enjoyed the evening chatting and munching on the hors d’oeuvres that Dave and his wife Jen had laid out for us.  The trumpet of a long past jazz musician emanated from the stereo, red wine was poured and we watched Natalie bounce into the coffee table, reach for forbidden objects to put in her mouth or peer coyly at all of us from around the corner of the sofa.  My friend Nicole was there with her husband Dana.  Nicole certainly hoped to have children someday and she couldn’t stop giggling at the antics of Natalie in perpetual discovery of her world.  It is amazing how sometimes a small child can provide bountiful entertainment for a room full of adults.

Out on his back balcony Dave had a small barbecue fired up.  Two or three of us gathered out there as he turned chicken and shrimp kabobs and fat red peppers lined with grill marks.  We listened to the marinade hiss as it dripped into the charcoal.

“Now you’re a vegetarian, right Dow?”  Dave turned to my friend Dow.

“You thought of something other then bird feed for me, that’s great,” Dow smiled anticipating a little jest.

“Well, we mashed up an extra portion for you, of avocado and bananas that Natalie is so fond of,” Dave explained as he reached for a plate of marinating tofu kabobs.

“Oh, I am so glad you considered my dietary preference.  I was hoping of using my adult teeth though.”  Dow is always game for a bit of satire.

Dana sipped from his glass of Pinot and looked at the wreath hanging on the wall catty-cornered from the glass sliding door.  “I see you still got the Christmas decorations hanging Dave.  Are you too fond of the season to let it go?”

Dave shook his head.  “No, that’s not Christmas, it’s seasonal, wintertime decorations.”

“Winter doesn’t last long out here.  The middle of March and we’re well into spring,” Dana said letting the memories of his Canadian winters fade.

“Yeah well, we haven’t taken it down because we noticed a bird’s nest was being built in the bowl of the wreath.”  Dave pointed at the lower part of the wreath where a little dried grass could be seen coming out from behind the evergreen.  Everyone smiled and got up to look.

Dave gestured toward the trees with his barbecue tongs, “They fly in with bits of stuff and cram it in with their beaks.”

Jeff, the friend who could be found more often then any of us, hiking the trails in the mountains, hadn’t been saying much as he sat close to the balcony rail and looked out at the Eucalyptus trees draping their silvery thin leaves over the landscape.

“Yeah, they’re black phoebes, I’ve been watching them try to fly in,” he said.

At that moment everybody saw a speeding bullet of a bird head in toward us and then veer off as it succumbed to the fear of human proximity.  Jeff looked over at the wreath and then back out at the trees.  He stood and pulled a chair up to the wreath, but not too close, and said with a little skeptical curiosity, “Building a nest hunh?  They’re acting a little too anxious for just nest building.”  He stepped up on the chair and peered down into the wreath with a growing smile on his face.  “They’re feeding baby chicks.”  Grins of astonishment appeared on our faces as each person took a turn stepping on the chair or standing on their toes to see four baby birds covered in downy feathers tucked down into the nest.  The tiny altricial young did not make a sound with only slight twitchings to reveal their aliveness.

Everyone’s voice took on a shade of wonder as they discussed the merits and potential hazards of building a nest so close to human habitation.  At some point Nicole put Natalie up on her shoulders and stepped near the wreath pointing at the nest.  It took Natalie a whole minute, while her little blond curls wafted in the breeze, before she saw what she was supposed to be looking at.  When she saw the baby birds she let out a little yelp of excitement.

We decided to cut the balcony barbecue part of the party short and retreated into the apartment.  Who knows how long we held off a crucial feeding.  As the evening whined down we had to content ourselves with discussions of our favorite novels or who was going to do what after graduate school, as our source of entertainment Natalie, had exhausted her energy and was fast asleep on Jen’s lap.  Occasionally one or two of us would move over to the sliding glass door and peer out at the wreath in order to catch one of the parents feeding the baby birds.  We didn’t see much, as the night had poured into the balcony space and concealed the activities of the burgeoning family.

We all left that evening with a touch of wonder at life in its new stages.  I never did inquire with Dave how that bird family made out.  We figured the merits of that nests location outweighed any detriments and left it at that.  Nature celebrates new life not only before our eyes, but also in the secret places folded into our world.

Gardening and the Novel Idea

Something about toiling amongst weeds, trimming hedges and raking plant cuttings that busies my mind on the novel idea.  It can be anything.  A novel I’ve been thinking about writing or a brand new storyline.  I hem and haw over character’s and their potential predicaments as I snap my clippers at the weedy Oxalis, it’s buttercup bloom simple but elegant.  I’d let the yellow flowers grow all over the yard, but my landlady says a yard unkept looks like a place that has been abandoned.  So I snap, clip and trim and yet as I do this, a computer programmer or an accountant falls in love with a strange girl somewhere.  A girl he’s not supposed to fall in love with.  He lives with his mother who is a domineering  critic of all his love interests.  Or no, his mother is a sweet woman and the new girlfriend is the castigating shrew.

I pull up the dandelions, or dandelion-like plants, as these weeds seem much bigger then the dandelions I remember in Michigan.  They come out easy and I let them lie, root ball and all, for the rake that will come by soon enough.  The mallow will grow prostrate for awhile then throw up a stalk with its palmate leaves towering above the other weeds.  Many of the weeds perform this earth hugging trick and the push mower will only cut what extends above a certain height.  If I don’t want to see it again for a awhile I have to come back over with my clippers and nix it right close to the dirt or pull it out completely.  As I weed, the cast of characters in my mind can grow if I keep a running storyline.  Since my last gardening day I may have developed a number of scenes during my walks home from work.  New scenes often introduce new characters.  It can get cumbersome.  It might be fun while the novel is embryonic in my head, but it soon feels like a neighbors yard that has gone fallow.  It makes people wonder if a neglected child lives inside the house of that yard.  I remember one conversation with my friend Dow while on a road trip through the Sierra foothills.  I talked a bit about a Western gold rush story I had in mind.  Somewhere in my litany of characters Dow got a bit satirical, as he does when he thinks I’m carrying on.

“Then there’s going to be this woman that lives on a ranch by herself.  She’s beautiful but fierce,” I say. “She endured a rape and the loss of her child.  Or something of the sort.  She has some Indians that work for her; they also have suffered at the hands of white men.  She is strong and doesn’t take any crap from miners or anyone else.  Sometimes I build characters off of actors I’d like to play the parts I develop.  I picture Cate Blanchett in this role.”

The dry yellow grass of the hills speeding by as Dow holds the wheel and turns to me, “Yeah, you just want to meet her when they make the movie.”  We both have a thing for Cate.

“Well, maybe.  Anyway there is also this Chinese group that dig a claim.  And the patriarch is an old Chan Buddhist or a Taoist herbal master.  He saves the life of the runaway slave who gets sick at the Negro Hill claim.”  As I go on it gets a bit confusing in my head also.

“I think you should leave the Chinese out of it.  You have too many heads in this story,” Dow states.

“Yeah, but this is a historical novel set in gold rush era California.  The Chinese were an integral part of that time.  You know, this is like a Michener novel.  You’ve read him haven’t you?  Alaska, Hawaii, Texas.  He portrays all these different characters through the history of the place he is writing about.’

Dow staring straight ahead now.  “Does he portray them or parade them?”

Dow is right of course.  I’ve never finished reading a Michener novel.  Too much going on for me.  I need to see the story arc of one person and the few characters that play off that person.  So it is the same with my yard.  I clear everything out I deem a weed and rake them all in a pile to be composted.  Maybe the coffee plants will get a boost if the weeds aren’t soaking up nutrients and water.  Cafe arabica is not doing too well in my yard.  One plant seems to have filled out a bit, but the other is still spindly and weak.  Its leaves brown and dying along the edges.  I’m not sure what it needs.  I’m not that good with fertilizer.  I tend to believe if it can’t make it with the compost I give it, maybe it’s just not destined to grow here.  Will I ever develop these novel ideas into published works?  Maybe I need to find the right fertilizer in my head that will turn suffering seedlings into berry fruiting bushes.  Even if it is not meant to grow here.

I have cleared out the Oxalis and some other jungle grass-like thing that grows around the banana plant.  She has been doing well, the banana.  And I don’t think she cares one way or the other whether the weeds root around her rhizomes.  She’s called an Ice Cream banana and she is getting big and gorgeous, though she may never produce fruit here in this subtropic climate.  No, she favors the tropics where it rains every night.  I’ve lovingly tasted her and her kin varieties on the island of Kauai.  Peopleless road stands where you shove in a dollar or two into a little tin box and take a bunch of apple bananas (that’s a variety, not two pieces of fruit).  I meander down the road between the sugarcane fields and marvel at the orange-red dirt, a novel idea sprouting somewhere in my head.  I know, I’ll have this couple on vacation on the island.  They are trying to save their marriage with some restoring time together.  They fight about everything, but do share a love of hiking.  So they take to the Na Pali trail.  It’s winter and wet and the trail gets monsoon muddy.  She did not want to come in winter.  “But it is hot as hell in summer,” he protests.  Soon a tsunami comes and they must fight to save each others lives.  Lives they were ready to divorce from only a month before.  Yeah, two characters.  I can deal easily with that.  Back in the Hawaiian rain forest amongst abandoned, terraced, taro gardens, the domesticated banana and guava have gone feral and the weeds grow into jungle forest plants.  Thick, vibrant life with nothing out of place.

Yea Though I Drive Through the Shadow…


Yea Though I Drive Through the Shadow…

A brother and I
	traveling somewhere
		through the Valley of Death.

Salt pans and borax,
	brittle Hollyleaf Saltbush
		little sustenance for 20 mule team trains.

My traveling companion,
	from the lush summers of the Midwest,
		says it’s frightfully barren.

What’d he expect when passing this way,
	still I fear no evil
		from flash floods and scorching sun.

Yet here in the afterlife
	jackrabbits dart, ravens caw,
		a tarantula clings to a door frame.

Who would have thought
	Death would be so sublime,
		really just the other side of a coin.

Coins made of gold and silver,
	zinc, copper, talc and borax
		scrabbled and cored out of these badlands.

The 49ers who stumbled into this valley
	must have figured to mint something
		to pay Charon, the ferryman.

Hades though, all dark and shadow,
	was not like these
		clear skies and blazing light.

This Death more like
	the brilliant white expanse
		of the Void, past the borders of Time.

Maiden Death reclines
	on the basins and ranges of life
		spreading her bajadas and alluvial fans.

She lets the wind, water, cold and heat
	nibble and caress her down,
		a tantra of erosion, the colour of every mineral.

We wandered out onto some dunes
	above the mesquite and saw a rainstorm
		swirling around Tucki Mountain.

Not quite ready to let the rain
	wash our ashes and residue away,
		we headed back to the car.

Tomorrow, maybe we’d go south
	and try at Furnace Creek
		to incinerate more of our lives.

Soon we will leave this valley
	and I am softly saddened to know
		that death is only temporary.

It’s not the blissful, eternal sleep of nirvana
	but what we leave behind a high elevation pass
		into valleys and basins further west of here.