Henry's Logbook

We’d Be Different

2012-01-21T20:35:00.000-08:00

World of Messes, world of Botch.
Modern war was on their watch.
Too many cocktails, too much Scotch.
            We’d be different.

A corny joke, an old wives’ tale.
Off to work—lunch in a pail.
Sawing a board, driving a nail.
            We’d be different.

No smooth edges, no Degrees.
Easy to anger, hard to appease.
No taste for strangers, no mercy for trees.
            We’d be different.

Then actors We, much like a film set.
Schools of words writhed in a fishnet.
We told each other, each time that we met
            We’d be different.

Next flew some years, everyone stoned.
We laughed together as if we were cloned,
And yet, at times, still we intoned
            We’d be different

Last came the money, worshipped instead.
Getting and Getting was getting ahead.
Forgotten now was the time when we said
            We’d be different.

New ones rise, each with a screen.
Youth has ever that silver gleam.
Perhaps somehow unforeseen
            They’ll be different.

History loops to a steely bight.
Hobbes points out Appetite.
Perhaps by fortune, even if slight,
            They’ll be different.

Malthus’ smirk, Darwin’s glance.
Mark Twain tossing an old man’s lance.
Not their fault. Not much chance
            They’ll be different.

*

Roads

2012-01-02T11:56:00.001-08:00

        Why go the west road now?
The youth who raced the sea-storm’s ire,
‘Mid heaving trees and hissing wire,
        Has lost his name somehow.
        Why go the west road now?

        Why go the south road now?
Those ivied walls—like climbing light ! —
Yet we who swore to van the fight
        Dimmed our luminous vow.
        Why go the south road now?

        Why go the north road now?
The rush, as if no time to spare,
To mountains fixed in snowy air,
        Old knees will not allow.
        Why go the north road now?

        Why go the east road now?
Her love of me so time-away—
In a desert land, and safe to say,
        Faded anyhow…
        Why go the east road now?

        Why go any road at all?
Winter comes in dragging chain,
Frosted breath, and soon the rain
        Turns to snowfall.
        Why go any road at all?

Cf. T.H.

Writing a Poem While Watching Football

2011-12-17T10:24:00.000-08:00

This is a MUST game
                                    the announcer says—
So I push my poem aside.

I have to defer—it only seems right—
          for there is no Must in my game plan today.

Only bad snaps, mental errors, false starts.
And now I seem to have entered
              a sort of morality play:

A wide receiver at this level, John,
                          just has to make that catch!

The chastened receiver runs to a frigid huddle.
My pen rolls off the table,
and after it I go a-fumbling.

My goodness, John, he had a similar drop in last year’s playoffs!
Now they are showing the tape.

Yes, I too have tape, lots of shameful tape—
But who can truly say catching the ball is better than dropping it?

                    (Off-sides, number 62! Off-sides!)

At least I played the game—even if
cheerleaders don’t know I exist, even if
        ,peculiarly,
                        the ball slips through my fingers
                                                 every time the game is on the line.

.

Subject to the Wind

2011-10-24T19:03:00.000-07:00

Out walking before dawn this morning, I saw what I thought was a darting mouse crossing the road.

The mouse rushed forward, closely hugging the ground, then it stopped suddenly—seemingly to reconnoiter—and then it rushed forward again. As I approached, however, the mouse reared its back and seemed ready to flee in the opposite direction.

Then it settled down. A slight uplift in the wind skittered it forward—for it was a leaf, only a leaf.

An honest mistake, I say, for leaves are particularly animated.

From buds they leaf-out, and from that point to the end of their existence they are subject to wind. In their prime, they are beautiful ensigns fluttering from a billowing ship. In a great wind, they show their under-leafs saucily—making me thing of French Can-Can girls!

I am here this morning—to orient myself in Space and Time—drinking my Peets coffee. Here (Space) is my place, and Time is the date above—but no use really trying to get a fix on that. No use triangulating it, or capturing it in a quadrangle, for it too, like the leaf, is purely subject to wind.

Peets Coffee, however, seems have a great deal more fixity than a leaf, or a scribbler’s fatuous musings. It can be found on a regular basis at NE 15th and Broadway in Portland, Oregon.

Don’t think. Just be—though subject to the wind.

Breaking Into Henry's Logbook

2011-07-29T20:20:00.000-07:00

The porch is draped with fat spiders, but a broom disperses them. What right do I have to destroy a single strand of their art?

Ah, but the exquisite webs are traps, after all; so all is fair, or not fair.

Inside Henry’s Logbook there is a distinct smell of rodent droppings, and there is dust, and faded papers. I had left a light on, but it is burned out.

What am I doing here anyway, in this shipwreck?

I am looking for Amy Winehouse.

All Ronnie Spector, Shirley Bassey, and Dinah Washington in one, and young, with spittle and a jagged London edge.

Amy Winehouse—I came looking for you tonight, and I thought my best chance was to look here, in the dust and the droppings and the broken webs.

Was the lake ever that blue?

2011-03-06T17:10:00.000-08:00

The prevailing winds of memory
                                are from the Northwest now
they are bandit winds
                                adept at clever showmanship
breezy antics
        and gusts of truth and fiction
I applaud the skillful plotting
and warm to their bucolic tales
                                yet weep at one sad story
they hurl at me over and over again
                                in the twisting words of wind
yes, my father—
they do a nice job with him
he looks and sounds like himself
he has
                                        what’s that word?
verisimilitude
                                but

was the lake ever that blue
did my father really die
was the boy really me?

Before Daylight

2011-03-05T19:46:00.000-08:00

The silence has weight, but the coldness thins it—
And the knives of a few stars,
Hanging from their icy posts.
They seem as sentries unaware the war is over.
At least their mission abides, their nights in caves,
The challenges they issue—to the unknown,
To these stains of light, and shadow-streets,
Shaking rifle and bayonet.

When did cars become so squat and snub-nosed,
and so obedient—hunched and queued
along the curb, like oxen on their knees?
What was that thing that brought me here,
Where trees are dark sprockets against the night?
How did it happen—isn’t there a place
Where I am expected, where
I need to be employed, need to be?

It’s such a curious thing—insignificance.

..

A Conversation with My Dog

2011-02-20T16:20:00.000-08:00

I’m home at last— your so-called master—
Terrible day! A complete disaster!
        Stop wiggling, please!
Tell me, dog, what can it mean,
This mad world, its mindless careen …
        WHY do you sneeze?

Why fall to the floor to rub your chin,
And jump back up, shaking your skin
        Like a tumble dryer?
Then dance, then snort, then twist, then curl,
And leap—and then—begin to whirl
        In a widening gyre?

And BARK!— a verdict on my dithering—
(The day is late; the light is withering)
        BARK! We must go!
— (I know that)— hold still for the lead—
Dare let nothing further impede
        Nuestro paseo.

So here we go, out into Weather –
But O my cares they hang like leather,
        Smothering air.
You pull me forth to fill a lung
As we pursue our Wanderung—
        My savior.

I ask just who is walking who,
Who is cracked, and who has glue—
        A dog’s view? :
As ever—you do not respond—
But press your nose to every frond
        That summons you.

Of Property Rights you pay no mind,
(A very big thing with human kind—
        Watch out! )
And to a patch of godly lawn
You are a Pilgrim piously drawn—
        A pure Devout,

A Rolling Dervish in silken blades
Mounting transcendental raids
        On shrubbery—
Leashed as twain to a stolid man,
Stolidly facing (the best he can)
        The foolery

Of this drivil-nation! Of it’s greed…
Whose lasting flower shall be the Weed…
        Okay! Okay! —
My god, you run most like the wind!
You’ve reached the ball, and have it pinned,
        Fly back in play —

Back to me!

…

New Years Eve 2011

2011-01-16T09:52:00.000-08:00

Frigid Night on a cold planet,
and hands were like to freeze.
The bombs went off at midnight—yet
there were no casualties,
although we sometimes hear of fingers
lopped—or fire in the hair
that summons running drunken singers
to douse a fool in beer.

It seemed a quite bedraggled year,
the crowd inclined to head
where warmth and pleasure might appear
before TV, or in bed.
Yet I kept peering at the Night
un-hung with festive wreath—
that wheeling stranger reft of light
and all his rotten teeth.

Rotten because the moon was down
and all the stars were stowed
in fog—or my mood cast a frown,
and to that the vision owed.
I wondered if I could be trusted
to write to you at all—
the Night above so black-encrusted,
and all of us so small.

“I’ll hold my peace”— I swore to do—
But still I staggered on—
in words as such are nothing to
the Breaking of a Dawn.
I saw the light on Eastern spines
(a threadlike, golden vein)
then—threw away my shameful lines—
and only these remain.

Stumbled-Upon Water

2010-11-20T08:11:00.000-08:00

My dog likes stumbled-upon water
        Better than water
                in a bowl.
Mud-puddle flavor is perfect,
        A sort of mocha -
                in a hole.

When rain is pelting Autumn
        And leaves are floating
                A-sea,
My dog reckons the planet
        Is filling the kettle
                For tea.

She runs along the fieldside
        - Stopping now
                For an itch -
Then sips with satisfaction
        Vintage wine
                from a ditch.

And when I try to stop her,
        She keeps one eye
                A-lee,
And drinks till the very last second,
        Then runs away --
                From me.

You were stumbled-upon water
        A soggy field
                Ago -
A bright winesap apple,
        A Frog’s leap
                In the snow -

You were the smoothest skipping-rock,
        Skimming across
                A stream,
Landing on the other bank,
        Lodging in
                My dream.

So where in the world are you?
        The world was yours
                To own -
If torn from a discordant lover -
        Older, shyer,
                Windblown.

But now my dog comes running,
        Flushed with the doings
                Of wrong -
And thinking of stumbled-upon water
        - Both of us - move
                Along.

656-B: The Sea's Version

2010-10-17T19:02:00.000-07:00

As I was heaping Waves in Racks
— It was a windy Day —
I spied a Form along the Shore
Who saw my Air away —

I forgot about my Briny Home
— Though That was all I knew —
My Mermaids in the Basement —
My Seabirds in the Blue—

I raised myself above myself —
Tall — in a foaming Curl —
And felt the bolt of probing Eyes
Thrown by the Slant of Girl —

Thin she was — as Hempen Rope —
Lean as a Sea Eel be —
Billows none — kelpy hair —
Yet she fathomed the Deeps of me! —

I knew not what — could not stop —
I sped across the Sands —
Gulfed her shoes — bathed her legs —
Saltily kissed her hands —

Whelmed her Apron — Bodice — too —
All in a Silver Whirl —
And weeping o’er her Brilliant Wrists —
Overflowed with Pearl —

Yet when We met the Solid Town
I lost my Emily! —
And grieving on those ignorant streets —
Withdrew — into the Sea —

Thx E.D.

A Twice-Found Poem

2010-10-04T18:45:00.000-07:00

I found this poem the other day while cleaning out a garage:

      Strange Things

Ownership is a strange thing,
      A strange thing to me,
Declaiming there, they claim the air
      And call it property—
A realm of sand, a piece of land,
      Made of vanity.
Yes, ownership’s a strange thing,
      A strange thing to me.

A Soul-owned is a strange thing,
      A strange thing to me,
To say that hearts can never part
      Conceals fragility.
I see my love in clouds above
      For eternity.
Yes, a Soul-owned is a strange thing,
      A strange thing to me.

A Truth-owned is a strange thing,
      A strange thing to me.
To say you know, but yet the snow
      Is growing silently,
And in the Tar a single star—
      Blinking frostily.
Yes, a truth-owned is a strange thing,
      A strange thing to me.

That was the whole poem—but there was another verse written below it in a different hand:

We found theses sheets a-mouldering
      In a book from the library.
We think him lost and these the cost
      Of idiosyncracy.
We laughed aloud and disavowed
      Such eccentricity—
The things he scorns are Great Things!
      Great Things—we all agree!

The Photographs of Darius Kinsey

2010-09-04T18:15:00.000-07:00

The men hold still—the years
behind them and the years to come—
because no sooner do you move than
the picture is ruined

There is something the tree is starting to say
for they have opened a mouth on the trunk
and words big as bibles
lie round about the stump and spruce gas
pours from the wound of the tree
the wood of the whale
a thousand miles of forest in full sail

No doubt the photographer quickly encased
that frozen moment as the mouth of time spoke
until the tree bowed terribly from the waist
and the men ran wrong
        for their lives—
                    headlong
                                into the downfalling generations

My Genealogy

2010-07-05T19:53:00.000-07:00

What a sorrowful bunch they were,
picked out by fate for slaughter,
scattering sons into the wind—
not one begot a daughter!

A sister might help soothe a scar
or half rub out a mark.
For their wives—only lonesome boys
stunned by the sudden dark.

Each time they saw their Mother leave
so burdened with her woes.
Each time they saw her bringing home
a bundle of his clothes.

The Generations drifted West
wherever that would be—
New York at first, Wisconsin next,
and far to a rolling sea.

They lost each other, lost their way,
lost their hopes, and worse—
a mother lost to a dangling rope,
and never an end to the curse.

They lost their lives just barely reared,
left wives and babes alone—
to lay within a pauper’s grave
and sleep without a stone.

So when my turn had come at last,
I saw the pattern clear—
in marriage, home, and babies born,
I felt the chill of fear.

I saved myself. I never wed—
I always slipped the hold.
I walked this land from hill to sea,
and now, they say, I’m old.

I walked this land from hill to sea
and taught not one to hear—
the laughing way a river talks
at dusk with a river near.

In wilderness, a secret place,
I hailed forth none to show
how gilded was the fir tree’s crown
in day’s last waning glow.

On cliffs above the rolling sea,
the crashing waves and spray—
none did follow my pointing hand
to myriad shades of gray.

The only voice beyond the pane
is lash of wind and rain.
The only one that calls my name
is creak of the weather vane.

I saved myself. I broke the curse.
I never had a son.
There’s none to follow my pointing hand.
My god what have I done.

The Poet Examines His Face

2010-05-23T18:09:00.000-07:00

The only things remaining are the eyes.
What frames them frames them furnished for demise.

The sagging bags below are seashell-shaped,
Ornately splined, scoured, glacier-scraped.

The face is hanging from a splintered chair—
Greasy saddlebags, a sway-backed mare.

The skin’s afloat with spots and scabs and moles,
A sea of ghastly archipelagoes.

The mouth is apt to buckle when it shuts.
A smile begets a labyrinth of ruts.

The lips are such as cannot be my wish—
Fit only to bedeck a Bottom fish.

The ears are mushrooms rotting past their time—
Crumble each and bury them in lime.

Yet my eyes are silent, young, and free!
Miraculous things found among debris.

It’s bound to put ripeness in a thought.
So much I feel I am, yet see I’m not.

I Have Forgiven the Dog

2010-05-21T07:37:00.000-07:00

Today I am sick of everything and everyone
even my dog is on thin ice

I notice that behind Reason and opinion
is always the grinning face of self-interest

I notice that behind the moral homily
is grinning self-interest

I see that we do not notice that which is
not convenient for us

I notice we are soiling our planet, our home,
pretending not to notice

I see that honest work is not valued
but clever tricks that produce revenue out of nothing are celebrated

I notice the total asininity of sports.

I see how the red cape is flashed across our eyes
so that the sword can be inserted

I see how the exploited cheer their exploiters
hoping one day to join them

Today I am sick of everything and everyone—
yet I have forgiven the dog

Bleaberry Fell

2010-05-01T07:26:00.000-07:00

I have returned to the Lakes

        and I have climbed to the top of Walla Crag

and now—Right Now!—in rising wind—

        the summit of Bleaberry Fell is before me!

I don’t know how it happened—
        Those claiming responsibility
must send me their sacred books
that I can bless them, sincerely
        with a laugh and a shrug—
like an average man

The Suspect I suspect is Luck—
No wars in my life or place
no bodies lying in the street
No staggering in agony
            not killed with a shovel when I fall
none of these human wrenchings
that are more a world of misery
                than a world of bitterness

The Suspect I suspect is Luck—
Or—have I been given this moment
not for anything I did (for I did little)
but for what I didn’t do?
I couldn’t live without desire,
        but I lived without greed
These days I take nothing for myself, except myself
and so receive this treeless hill
        and with gratitude enfold
                the unruly wind in my arms

Surely it’s a matter of chance and luck—
Or—perhaps it’s the longevity of my English aunties
The world was not always as kind to them
as they were to the world
but the purity of their sympathies
                couldn’t be done without
and so the years were continuously awarded and stacked upon them

The lakes walk downhill when I walk up!

            I had to grow old to learn my bitterness was preposterous

I have chin-strapped my hat or it would be sailing to Carlile!

            The stones—make perfect steps—up Bleaberry Fell—

If the wind lifts and casts me down this slope

            I will not be bitter

Oh, I would say Luck is the prime Suspect—
And yet there is the strangest feeling
that I have been bearing toward this spot all my life
and the disappointments that fell upon me
and therefore could not help but fall on others
were always written, albeit
as an engraved stone
        whose name has been
                erased by time and weather

    O silly Coleridgean delirious with the horned moon!

            O fierce, staggering wind!

O Walla Crag below and summit of Bleaberry Fell before me!

            O Derwent Water! O Crummock Water!

I sit on the stones, gather in my knees

And now I bow my head—

            The wind, the wind, the wind, the wind, the Wind!

Pioneer: A Cut and Paste

2010-04-24T20:51:00.000-07:00

My father hauled grain to Michigan City
There I saw the white sails of many ships in the harbor

Well, in 1849, my Father sold out
And loaded the family into two wagons drawn by four fine farm horses
The wagons were of the old lynch-pin type
The tar bucket hung under the rear axel

There my father died in 1850
And lies in the little graveyard
My mother was left with six children
To stem the tide in a new country

Donati’s Comet swished his tail
Up in the northwestern sky in 1858
In the winter of the deep snows

Many deer were caught by gray wolves
Three different crusts had formed and the deer broke through
while the wolf packs ran on the surface

The first reaping I recall was in my father’s fields
Men with sickles cut through, then swinging the sickles
Over their shoulders, and binding to the place of beginning

We made our hay from the finest of prairie grasses
By the swing of the good old scythe
The swath was scattered with a pitchfork, dry-raked into windrows
It was no play spell to bind grain from the ground

We had Cobb’s spelling book, Parley’s geography, Colburn’s arithmetic
We had mumblety-peg, crack the whip, marbles, kite-flying

It was the custom for teachers to board around
They were often partial and tarried longer than the allotted time
With certain of their patrons, but enough of this
Our county was blessed with some of the finest springs in the State

I call to mind an execution
All the county far and near assembled on the appointed friday
Pale as a ghost he looked for the last time to the blue sky
Then from the gruesome sight we turned our faces homeward

The soldiers boys had no Pullman cars
In which to ride in those days
No motor-drawn bakeries to follow up the forces
Boys grown to manhood, growing whiskers and mustaches
Thousand of boys went down and are sleeping

My father heard of the fine country to the north
And started out, crossing the prairies, fording the streams
We settled 360 acres of good land—
White and black oak, hickory, maple, and red cedar—
Dried venison and prairie chicken were most excellent
And palatable, and without a cent to pay

Quail and rabbits were plentiful in the groves
Fish were plentiful in the streams and there were deer
And bear in the timber, wild turkey, geese, ducks in season
Wild honey bees with a few stings in them
The sky was clouded with thousands of pigeons
as they passed to their roosts in the timber

My father died in 1850
And lies in the little graveyard
My mother was left with six children
To stem the tide in a new country

During Pike’s Peak gold excitement a man about to depart
Was serenaded with an original song
But the seeker came home with his wallet on his back,
Footsore and alone.

Adapted from Pioneer Life in Delaware County, br D.R. Witter

Harmonica

2010-04-18T21:07:00.000-07:00

Forty years ago he stood on a rail platform
from which no trains ran. His harmonica
played such mournful sounds that he wasn’t sure
who played!—though he was mournful, though he could play.

So far away from home and so homesick,
missing his place and people (that’s the way
he would have put it, would have thought of it),
he sought to embrace a home where he truly belonged.

But the harmonica played a different song
all out of proportion, bending deeper
into the chords of time, the pitch of distance.
He lowered the instrument in its black shell—who played?

For a note hung in the sky like a quarter moon
to fall back to earth dressed in silver rain.
Flinty sparks burst from the reeds, to weep,
to soar, to break off without a tonic.

Henry's 100th Posting

2010-03-20T17:38:00.000-07:00

Henry is amused that he has managed to create 100 separate Absurdities and foist them off on an imaginary readership. Doing that, is not so easy. Why does he do it? For some odd reason, he occasionally feels a need to speak of what he has experienced, or witnessed, or dreamed—and then—words are pretty things, like seashells, and they are fun to arrange and rearrange in their seashell box.

Remembering

2010-03-20T17:17:00.000-07:00

Remembering how it felt
When I descended beneath clouds to see
(through the airplane’s window)
the gray bay dotted with little islands
and the deep green hills against gray skies

is not the same as being at the airplane’s window
And suddenly seeing the dotted islands, the hills, and the skies.

Remembering when, at the summit, I filled my lungs
with ripe air off the Irish Sea
is not like filling my lungs with the taste of the ocean
at the top of the hill.

From now, I will reserve my memories:
perhaps I will welcome them on evenings of the Sabbath
and other times only experience life.

A Few Reasons to Praise America After Returning From the UK

2010-03-19T19:15:00.000-07:00

Water Pressure

Have you have ever tried to take a shower using one of those sprinkler cans that people employ to water their flower gardens? Well then—you’ve been to Britain! It makes you wonder how America managed to achieve such great water pressure. This accomplishment needs to be recognized in some way. And—consistency of water temperature also eludes the British. As a result, you must generate an escape plan before you take a shower. If the shower stall is roomy (highly unlikely) then you prepare to back away from the trickle should it suddenly turn freezing or scalding. If there is no room for movement, then you must practice reaching quickly for the shower head to turn it away before serious freezing or scalding damage is done to your cardio-vascular system (freezing) or your skin (scalding). Don’t assume that by increasing the flow of the hot water tap that the water will get warmer instead of colder--that would be naïve.

Shoulders of the Road

This is something you would hardy think about being grateful for. In America, if you don’t have a car, or if you just like to walk, you can almost always walk to the next town along the road. This is rarely possible in the UK. Many of the roads have no road shoulders, and you would be risking your life walking along them—it would almost be suicide! The UK has lots of public foot paths, to their credit, but if they don’t eventually lead to the town you want to visit, you are out of luck. Between you and your destination it is only private property and the suicide road. No car, no bus fare, then you simply can’t get there!

Showing Signage Restraint

Here is another issue many people may have never thought of. In Britain, there are so many signs telling you what to do and what not to do, giving you confusing directions with arrows pointing everywhere, and warning you against every possible danger, that you soon give up attempting to learn anything from the blizzard of information. And yet they are very haphazard about putting up signs telling you the actual names of the streets—virtually guaranteeing that you are continually lost, doing something you are not supposed to do, and gravitating toward danger. There must some standards established about how many signs can be erected within a certain span of cubic feet. Otherwise, it is a classic case of too much information.

Likewise, Britons should not be allowed to write walking-path instructions or design websites. Their websites evince all the same clutter and multi-layered confusion as their street signs--just moved onto a screen. Sensible foreigners need to be imported to write their walking-path instructions.

Not Always Saying “Are You All Right.”

The British always use this phrase, especially in the morning, as in: “Morning (or “Hi-ya“), are you all right?” And the inflection they use makes it sound like they are very, very concerned, to the point that you are attempted to answer “Why, are my clothes on fire?” The phrase and the way they deliver it make it seem like they are expecting you to be hung-over or sick. But I guess it really means “how are you,” although that is an odd way to say it.

But the UK is a great country. In Westminster Abbey they bury their poets only a stone’s throw from their kings and queens. What other country would do that? It would be as if America had Whitman, Longfellow, Dickinson, and even Allen Ginsburg entombed next to the Lincoln and Washington Memorials!

Down in the Trough of Bowland

2010-03-19T12:08:00.000-07:00

Down in the Trough of Bowland
where witches are said to fly,
my cousin, nervous and unsure,
drives the winding, narrow roads
to the River Dunlop and the Dunlop Bridge,
just above where the River Dunlop meets the River Hodder.

Sometimes my cousin will take a sack lunch,
alone, she tells me,
to the graveyard of the witches, and there tries
to forget about her ex-husband--newly married now--
although that is really not so hard to do
because true love is the love between
A mother and her child, and men are just an old mistake,
And at this age, a bother.

My cousin with her skinny legs and now her aging face.
She of the maxi-coat and me of the Fu Manchu—
An English bird and an American revolutionary!
Mungo Jerry puffed on their jugs and my cousin and I held hands
And dashed across Cross Lane,
before Cross Lane met the wrecking ball,
And we never kissed, but I think we wanted to.

My cousin, nervous and unsure, searches
The skies over the Trough of Boland
For a Harris Hawk, and other birds of prey.
We haven’t forgotten that we held hands
although that is not mentioned
as my cousin nervously shows me her secret places
down in the Trough of Bowland.

The Best Tourist Town in the World, Especially if You’re a Dog

2010-03-18T18:28:00.000-07:00

If you are a dog, you might want to drop some brochures about Keswick in the English Lake District at the feet of your human caregivers. When they get to Keswick they will gasp at the beauty of the place and you will be by their side hearing them gasp, because Keswick is highly dog-friendly town. You can even stay with them at a Bed and Breakfast, although I do not recommend the Full English Breakfast in the morning because that might not be good for a dog’s digestion.

You can even go shopping--perhaps picking out your own dog chew or new, comfy dog bed. Many of the shops welcome dogs. I should point out that Keswick opens its arm particularly to “well-behaved dogs,” so you might want to be sure that you meet that criteria.

And after a long day of walking in the beautiful hills (called Fells) of Cumbria, you can even accompany your caregivers when they go to the Pub for a refreshing pint. I walked in to the Dog and Gun Pub last night and there were fine dogs all around, resting under the tables. Your caregivers will probably dine on the famous Goulash, and a couple of pints of Old Peculiar will make for a mellow walk home to the B&B.

Ah-but the walking is what you will really love. You can frolic without a leash most of the time. Occasionally, during lambing season or crossing a field of sheep, you may have to wear a lead-- since the farmer or the animals may not know what a well-behaved dog you are.

You will have a open world to ramble, filled with a thousand smells. On cool days, a whipping wind will scour the fell-tops and fill you with exhilaration. You can drink fresh water from becks and ghylls and run back to your caregivers to express your appreciation. If the weather changes and becomes tongue-hanging hot, you can always find a pool or tarn to cool off in.

So that is why Keswick is a great tourist town for all you dogs. They are enlightened there. They know how fine and interesting you are!

London is a Labyrinth

2010-03-12T09:46:00.000-08:00

“I wouldn't go to London again unless they paid me!” But, please, let me explain why I say that.

London is overwhelming--certainly it is to the newcomer. The most prominent impression I felt in London was one of hurry. No sauntering here; sauntering is explicitly banned. There are torrents of people moving everywhere--in the Underground, on the sidewalks, driving in cars, and crowded onto buses--flowing all directions like snow-melt, braided streams. Every possible language seems to be spoken on the street, as well as dozens of versions of English .

The newcomer has no sense of direction. There are no mountains for bearings, and often, the sun is hidden. The newcomer blunders, flounders, and gets lost. What an awesome display of humanity flows before and around him so that--

he begins to doubt his identity altogether!

Perhaps this would not have happened to me if I were not traveling alone, but I began to wonder who this person was, the so-called me, observing, and being buffeted. I’ve never felt so insubstantial in a corporeal sense. Not exactly in panic, but with some anxiety, I began to review who I was: someone’s son, someone’s brother, a few people’s friend, and a care-giver and significant-other to a beautiful dog!

How interesting that is-- I could only find my identity in relation to other creatures.

But none of them were in London. I can see why people must make their little, sheltering worlds beneath the canopy of the big world.

Living so much with Samuel Taylor Coleridge lately, I know that he believed in hints and emanations of the Divine that were everywhere to be seen--in nature, a budding tree, a newborn child. But he also seems to say that we must naturally content ourselves and have faith (for he was a man of faith) that these emanations speak for the Divine, and avoid any attempt to confront the Divine itself, because it can easily destroy us.

And that is how I experienced London. I will hardly use the word “Divine” here, but teeming London to the solitary traveler seems like a powerful symbol of a kind of All in All--beautiful, awesome, and terrible.

So I won’t come back here unless they pay me. I would need to come here with a purpose or for a job, a reason to belong. I would have to be paid, whether it is for doing research or making lattes. I would have to make a little sheltered world here, and always have a thread to lead me back to safety, because London is a labyrinth