The Grotto was just a steep stony sink with a green pool at the bottom. A high stone wall, taller than a house, contained three sides of the grotto. A stand of scrub closed the fourth side.

We crept down a steep path. Some girls were climbing out; their dad waited at the top of the wall and watched us. T-roy changed into a tiny swimsuit like European men wear on the beach. E-thang and I stripped to our boxers.

We swam. It felt so good after driving in the desert. We were all tired, sunburnt, dehydrated, hung over. It had been days of driving, months for some of us. We jumped in and splashed. It felt great.

After some time just swimming and laughing, we saw a giant snake coiling at the surface of the water, swimming like a sea serpent, disappearing and reappearing.

Australia is not safe. It is surrounded by great white sharks; its rivers and coasts are home to giant, toothy amphibian lizards that eat more than a few people each year; it crawls with spiders that kill; signs on the beaches warn of jellyfish that kill; and in the grottoes swim snakes that kill.

We climbed onto the rocky shore and then up the path with our bare feet, clothes hung over our shoulders and shoes in hand. Ours was the last car. The sun was way out over the Indian Ocean and a baked plain separated us from the coast. Small trees cast long shadows on the land. We wiped the sand off and drove on toward Darwin.

There were three trees
all 120 years old
all cottonwoods.

I never noticed them
all in a row
all along the seasonal creek.

But you can imagine them
all ten feet around
all mossy.

There were three
all 120 years old
all cottonwoods.

Yesterday, two were taken down
lopped and chopped
to stubs.

II:

Trees are not like people:
they do not think about other trees
they can’t understand a damn thing.
They can’t live on the love of one person alone, as I can.

Trees live on the love of many:
on the love of the burbling creek
on the love of the birds and the squirrels and the raccoons creeping low
on the love of young people, frolicking carelessly.

Everybody was young under those trees
especially the men with their saws
especially me.

III:

There were three
they were all cottonwoods
they were all planted in the same springtime
they all wintered together, cottoned together, yellowed together
120 times.

Only one remains.

When the sun set that day I think we’d just finished. All along the empty track in front & behind was so peaceful with an orange shimmer reflecting the sky, and crickets humming and toads buzzing. We opened one bean sack and poured a pot of water full of them & started them soaking for breakfast.  We rolled our bedrolls out on the flat car and slept. We had an early morning loading those beans up.

I’ll tell you: Only the crow can answer the crow.

This “alley walk” is one of our favorite autumn activities. In October, the serviceberries are ragged in plumage and rich in fruit. As an alleyway interloper munches on sweet berries or overripe fenceline grapes, he can see backyards through bare branches. And backyards tell the stories of the people who mow them. Are there children and are they spoiled? Where do they prop their ladders and bikes? What sort of arrangement do they have for after-dinner smoking? For stargazing? All is visible when the leaves are down.

If the leaves are not down in October then they are robust and jammy, like dessert wine. Muscat golds and port purples trickle down rights-of-way that only raccoons use, most days. People don’t celebrate alleyway foliage, notwithstanding its pluck and splendor. Nobody trumpets the accidental creeper, which suits the creeper just fine.

Many of the alleys in our town are unpaved tracks, fenced by century-old garages, outbuildings and arbors. The dwellings alongside alternate between restored and ignored: Here an ornamental vine is carefully trained along the trellis, there a water-bloated ping-pong table has leaned against the wall for three years. The aggregate effect is charming. Decay and renewal tuck close to each other like lovers.

I have occasionally encountered other alley walkers on my explorations. These men live on the streets or in some halfway home, and usually are far, far away from the economy I inhabit. But sometimes they demonstrate surprising knowledge of some subject dear to them—oil politics, say, or ten-year-old tabloid exclusives.

I stopped recently to read a poem written on butcher paper and taped to a window. As I finished reading, a gentleman approached me and asked about the poem. Before I could answer, he demanded to know whether I smoke cheba-cheba. I demurred. He persisted. I insisted: I don’t smoke cheba-cheba, for it disrupts my peace of mind. He laughed, spun wildly, and staggered on.

Some years ago I met two fellows in an alley who called each other God and Jesus. They were regulars down that way, passing sometimes on foot and sometimes on bicycles. God had a full head of white hair and a long white beard and piercing blue eyes and a clean hoodie. Jesus was unshaven, skinny, pale and a little shifty. He always asked for a cigarette or matches, and God was fond of saying that Jesus was the god of cigarettes. I thought it was generous of God to cede that little smoky corner of the firmament to frail Jesus.

I walked one October night with a friend down an alleyway where leaves danced beyond the cones of light on the street corners. The wind stalked us like a cougar, trying to make us run so it could chase us down and tear us apart. Everything seemed wild and dangerous.

In the middle of a dark block we suddenly noticed a barnwood shack with a door far too small for any modern human. It was sized for a child, but it was too rough, and in too rough a location, to be a playhouse or fort. A weak light shone through a filthy window. The wind tossed our hair and the sky tilted as we gaped. Someone inside moved! We moved, too: Away, away with the wind at our heels!

I have been to the same place since, in daylight. The shed is unoccupied now aside from a half dozen cats of varying temperament. A worn, handpainted sign above the door advertises “Dorellian Motors”. Nobody approaches from either end of the alley. The fallen leaves are thick, and so is the graffiti. Where mystery was are only questions now; but on windy October nights these questions rise to haunt the alleyways.

Here is an exercise: Flatten a map of your city on the dining room table and look for the alleys. You will easily find their starts and their ends, which are known points along official routes. But what about the line in between—the alley itself? It is probably not marked on the map. The back ways are known only to those who take them. And, realizing this, you may be the sort to consider other, more engaging exercises than looking at a map on the dining room table.

If you missed Ignite 11 last night, picture this: cool evening air breezing through the open doors of a sold-out Chautauqua Auditorium; bright dusk showing between planks in the walls; the entire structure buzzing with an eager audience primed with tasty beer. The lights going dim. Andrew Hyde taking the stage to fire up the largest Ignite in the world.

Consider the history of the place: Built in 1898 to house the Colorado Chautauqua’s first season, the building has been in continuous use since then. From its earliest days it hosted all manner of cultural exhibitions, music and silent films and traveling speakers. Lectures covered “current events, travel and stories, often with a comedic twist.”

The crowds attending early Chautauquas came there to participate in civic life. They came to discuss “great ideas, new ideas, and issues of public concern.”. They came for authentic, in-person encounters with their neighbors and with the great minds of the day. They came for community.

But the twentieth century charged ahead. Our cars, radios, and televisions made those early meetups seem quaint. The stage moved into our living rooms. Our neighbors could hardly compete with professional entertainers. Our local dialog was downright provincial compared with the great national conversation. Lucrative industries grew around the packaging and transcontinental distribution of cultural experiences. Many great things came to be; and, quietly, when we weren’t paying attention, many of the Chautauquas disappeared.

Well, we all know the rest of the story. The century turned. What was old is new again. Countless communities of interest have awakened for the first time, and our old geographic communities are shining through the dust of neglect. Inexpensive technology tools have reminded us that we have a voice—a beautiful voice. Our words, music and art are important again. Our neighbors are interesting again.

So: Andrew took the stage at Colorado’s Chautauqua Auditorium to fire up the largest Ignite in the world. The lights dimmed. The old building breathed with summer evening air. Bright lines of sky connected over us like a luminous web.

Of all the many Chautauquas once operating in the U.S., only a handful have survived through the decades, including the one perched in the park above Boulder. And there we were last night with our travel stories, our comical twists, our music. Our great ideas, our new ideas, our issues of public concern. Our local breweries. Our backflips. Our homegrown scene.

This is just the beginning. It’s good to be back.

Oooh—that burns.  I know, I have not updated this “ongoing account” in more than a month.  It’s been too much of the “ongoing” and not enough of the “account”.  But folks, I’ve been busy.

Here’s what’s happened since I last posted:

• I left a great job at Hop Studios to run my own Web development businesses!
• I went to Santa Fe and caused a temporary green chile shortage in certain neighborhoods.  Moxy the dog accompanied me, and we skied some great trails in the Santa Fe National Forest.

• I began working with a super fun team at Solspace on various ExpressionEngine projects.
• I had my kitchen torn out.  All the way out.  We’re still working on getting the new one in.

• I convalesced through the most terrible three-week-long cold-flu thing.
• I did lots of the amazing things associated with starting a small business—twice! (Except, you may notice, building out an actual Web site…)

Yes, I should be talking about all these things while they’re happening, not using them as excuses for not posting.  Mea culpa!  I hope the above list tells the story: A reboot is underway.  I am very excited about it all.  Here comes more Hoosteeno!

We partners all have projects right now that supersede dinnertime and keep us busy when we should be sleeping.  After most of the shops downtown have shut off the lights, the dojo is still on.

When I was at university, I always had people around to jam with—not musically, but creatively nonetheless. We bounced ideas back and forth constantly and produced ridiculous and original projects regularly. Then we all got jobs and khaki pants and important commitments that gradually took the place of those jam sessions.

But, important as they are, grown-up concerns are not a sufficient substitute for spontaneous, collaborative creativity.

That kind of creativity needs group energy, and the dojo is lit up with it right now.  Anyone walking past ‘round midnight last night would’ve seen it shining out and reflecting off the snow.

Ara found the perfect spot.  It has a big community room up front and two smaller offices in back that (for now) will serve as a dedicated office for us and a deadline/conference room to share.  The downside?  The entire space was gutted and trashed.  So we’ve been outfitting it as an office, debating names (winner: dojo4), scraping it, painting it, and performing interior-design-by-committee, among other things.  These pictures show the first finish—we haven’t quite moved in yet, but we’re ready to.

Enroute we established a corporate entity to manage the joint; learned about each other’s carpet preferences; and enjoyed warm beers on its sunny front porch.

As you can imagine, we’re excited. dojo4 promises to be a great place to work.  We’re hoping others will agree, and will come find us there. 

(Check out the dojo4 pages on posterous or @dojo4 on Twitter for the freshest information about dojo4.)