Isn't It A Lovely Day, Mr. Bukowski?

Woody Guthrie: Talking Hard Work

it was Philly and the bartender said
what and I said, gimme a draft, Jim,
got to get the nerves straight, I'm
going to look for a job. you, he said,
a job?
yeah, Jim, I saw something in the paper,
no experience necessary.
and he said, hell, you don't want a job,
and I said, hell no, but I need money,
and I finished the beer
and got on the bus and I watched the numbers
and soon the numbers got closer
and then I was right there
and I pulled the cord and the bus stopped and
I got off.
it was a large building made of tin
the sliding door was stuck in the dirt
I pulled it back and went in
and there wasn't any floor, just more ground,
lumpy, wet, and it stank
and there were sounds like things being sawed in half
and things drilled and it was dark
and men walked on girders overhead
and men pushed trucks across the ground
and men sat at machines doing things
and there were shots of lightning and thunder
and suddenly a bucket full of flame came swinging at
my head, it roared and boiled with flame
it hung from a loose chain and it came right at me
and somebody hollered, HEY LOOK OUT!
and I just ducked under the bucket
feeling the heat go over me,
and somebody asked,
WHAT DO YOU WANT?
and I said, WHERE IS YOUR NEAREST CRAPPER?
and I was told
and I went inside
then came out and saw silhouettes of men
moving through flame and sound and
I walked to the door, got outside, and
took the bus back to the bar and sat down
and ordered another draft, and Jim asked,
what happened? I said, they didn't want me, Jim.
then this whore came in and sat down and everybody
looked at her, she looked fine, and I remember it
was the first time in my life I almost wished I had a
vagina and clit instead of what I had, but in 2 or 3 days
I got over that and I was reading the
want ads again.
--Charles Bukowski
Looking for a Job

ALL THE WAY BY THE
OUTER FENCE

WE SEE THIS EMPTY CAGE
NOW CORRODE

OUR REVELS ARE NOW ENDED

THE LAST DAYS OF THE
SUICIDE KID

A Transparent Dream Beneath An Occasional Sigh

Jefferson Airplane: Comin' Back to Me

Jefferson Airplane: Comin' Back to Me...5/67

The summer had inhaled and held its breath too long
The winter looked the same, as if it never had gone
And through an open window where no curtain hung
I saw you, I saw you, comin' back to me

One begins to read between the pages of a look
The shape of sleepy music, and suddenly you're hooked
Through the rain upon the trees, the kisses on the run
I saw you, I saw you, comin' back to me

You can't stay and live my way
Scatter my love like leaves in the wind
You always say you want to go away
But I know what it always has been, it always has been

A transparent dream beneath an occasional sigh
Most of the time I just let it go by
Now I wish it hadn't begun
I saw you, yes I saw you, comin' back to me

Strolling the hills overlooking the shore
I realize I've been here before
The shadow in the mist could have been anyone
I saw you, I saw you, comin' back to me

Small things like reasons are put in a jar
Whatever happened to wishes wished on a star?
Was it just something that I made up for fun?
I saw you, I saw you, comin' back to me

--Marty Balin

Many Fears Are Born Of Fatigue And Loneliness *

Anything is one of a million paths. Therefore you must always keep in mind that a path is only a path; if you feel you should not follow it, you must not stay with it under any conditions. To have such clarity you must lead a disciplined life. Only then will you know that any path is only a path and there is no affront, to oneself or to others, in dropping it if that is what your heart tells you to do. But your decision to keep on the path or to leave it must be free of fear or ambition. I warn you. Look at every path closely and deliberately. Try it as many times as you think necessary.

This question is one that only a very old man asks. Does this path have a heart? All paths are the same: they lead nowhere. They are paths going through the bush, or into the bush. In my own life I could say I have traversed long long paths, but I am not anywhere. Does this path have a heart? If it does, the path is good; if it doesn't, it is of no use. Both paths lead nowhere; but one has a heart, the other doesn't. One makes for a joyful journey; as long as you follow it, you are one with it. The other will make you curse your life. One makes you strong; the other weakens you.

Kate Wolf: Medicine Wheel

Before you embark on any path ask the question: Does this path have a heart? If the answer is no, you will know it, and then you must choose another path. The trouble is nobody asks the question; and when a man finally realizes that he has taken a path without a heart, the path is ready to kill him. At that point very few men can stop to deliberate, and leave the path.
A path without a heart is never enjoyable. You have to work hard even to take it. On the other hand, a path with heart is easy; it does not make you work at liking it.

--Carlos Castaneda
The Teachings of Don Juan:
A Yaqui Way of Knowledge

* Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune.
But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings.
Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness.
Beyond a wholesome discipline, be gentle with yourself.
You are a child of the universe,
no less than the trees and the stars.
You have a right to be here.
And whether or not it is clear to you,
no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.

Gonna Get Up In The Morning And Go

2/21/71

As we’ve seen earlier, the hallmark of an admirable poker player is that he plays the best regardless of his hands. In the end, not the one with the objectively best cards, but the one who plays his cards the best, wins. You don’t get to choose the hands you’re dealt, only how you want to play them. Your hands in poker as in life are indifferent, learn to accept them equally, without judging. If you can do that, if you can accept rather than resist what happens, then you will no longer be dependent upon things being in a certain way.
--Jonas Salzgeber
The Little Book of Stoicism

Why Not Be Totally Changed Into Fire?

J.S. Bach: Cello Solo No. 1

One of the best stories
of the early
Christian desert hermits
goes like this: Abbe Lot
came to Abbe Joseph
and said: Father,
according as I am able,
I keep my little rule,
and my little fast,
prayer, meditation
and contemplative silence;
and according as I am able
I strive to cleanse
my heart of thoughts:
Now what more should I do?
The elder rose up in reply
and stretched out
his hands to heaven,
and his fingers became
like ten lamps of fire.
He said: Why not be totally changed into fire?

--Annie Dillard

Shipwrecks Are The Hardest

Tom Russell : Sterling Hayden

To be truly challenging, a voyage, like a life, must rest on a firm foundation of financial unrest. Otherwise, you are doomed to a routine traverse, the kind known to yachtsmen who play with their boats at sea...cruising it is called. Voyaging belongs to seamen, and to the wanderers of the world who cannot, or will not, fit in. If you are contemplating a voyage and you have the means, abandon the venture until your fortunes change. Only then will you know what the sea is all about. I've always wanted to sail to the south seas, but I can't afford it. What these men can't afford is not to go. They are enmeshed in the cancerous discipline of security. And in the worship of security we fling our lives beneath the wheels of routine - and before we know it our lives are gone. What does a man need - really need? A few pounds of food each day, heat and shelter, six feet to lie down in - and some form of working activity that will yield a sense of accomplishment. That's all - in the material sense, and we know it. But we are brainwashed by our economic system until we end up in a tomb beneath a pyramid of time payments, mortgages, preposterous gadgetry, playthings that divert our attention from the sheer idiocy of the charade. The years thunder by.
The dreams of youth grow dim where they lie caked in dust on the shelves of patience. Before we know it, the tomb is sealed. Where, then, lies the answer? In choice. Which shall it be: bankruptcy of purse or bankruptcy of life?

--Sterling Hayden
Wanderer

She Will Speak To Thee

La Notte, che tu vedi in sì dolci atti
Dormir, fu da un angelo scolpita
In questo sasso, e perchè dorme ha vita
Destala, se nol credi, e parleratti *

Judy Collins: Suzanne

* Night, in so sweet an attitude beheld
Asleep, was by an angel sculptured
In this stone, and sleeping, is alive
Waken her, doubter; she will speak to thee

--Giovan Battista Strozzi

The Problem With Mazes

Wayne Shorter: Footprints

The tricky thing
about mazes
is that you
don't know if
you've chosen
the right path
until the very end.
If it turns out
you were wrong,
it's usually
too late
to go back
and start again.
That's the problem
with mazes.

--Haruki Murakami
The Strange Library

from havasupai pt.
below garnet canyon
elvis sighting with south rim
colorado river / royal arch creek

We Can't Be Forever Blessed

Paul Simon: American Tune

Democracy is two wolves and a lamb voting on what they are going to have for lunch. Liberty is a well-armed lamb contesting the vote.
--Benjamin Franklin

Nameless

rain

bird songs

river over rocks

Allow the heart
to empty itself
of all turmoil!
Retrieve
the utter tranquility
of the mind
from which you issued.

Although all forms
are dynamic,
and we all grow
and transform,
each of us
is compelled
to return to our root.
Our root is quietude.

--Lao Tzu

Sometimes The Magic Works

from Little Big Man







Human language,
for us moderns,
has swung in on itself,
turning its back
on the beings around us.
Language is
a human property,
suitable only
for communication
with other persons.
We talk to people;
we do not speak
to the ground underfoot.
We've largely forgotten
the incantatory
and invocational
use of speech
as a way of bringing
ourselves into
deeper rapport with
the beings around us,
or of calling
the living land
into resonance with us.
It is a power
we still brush up against
whenever we use our words
to bless and to curse,
or to charm
someone we're drawn to.
But we wield
such eloquence only to
sway other people,
and so we miss
the greater magnetism,
the gravitational power
that lies within such speech.
The beaver gliding
across the pond,
the fungus gripping
a thick trunk,
a boulder shattered
by its tumble down a cliff
or the rain
splashing upon
those granite fragments
--we talk about such beings,
the weather and
the weathered stones,
but we do not
talk to them.
Entranced by
the denotative power
of words to define,
to order, to represent
the things around us,
we've overlooked
the songful dimension
of language
so obvious to
our storytelling ancestors.
We've lost our ear
for the music of language
--for the rhythmic,
melodic layer of speech
by which earthly things
overhear us.
--David Abram
Becoming Animal:
An Earthly Cosmology

I Had To Move (Really Had To Move)

Grateful Dead: Bertha 4/23/77 meets Swan Lake

Once upon a time,
there was a king who ruled
a great and glorious nation. Favorite amongst his subjects was the court painter of whom he was very proud. Everybody agreed this wizened old man painted the greatest pictures in the whole kingdom and the king would spend hours each day gazing at them in wonder. However, one day a dirty and disheveled stranger presented himself at the court claiming that in fact he was the greatest painter in the land. The indignant king decreed a competition would be held between the two artists, confident it would teach the vagabond an embarrassing lesson. Within a month they were both to produce a masterpiece that would out do the other. After thirty days of working feverishly day and night, both artists were ready. They placed their paintings, each hidden by a cloth, on easels in the great hall of the castle.

As a large crowd gathered, the king ordered the cloth be pulled first from the court artist’s easel. Everyone gasped as before them was revealed a wonderful oil painting of a table set with a feast. At its center was an ornate bowl full of exotic fruits glistening moistly in the dawn light.
As the crowd gazed admiringly,
a sparrow perched high up on the rafters of the hall swooped down and hungrily tried to snatch one of the grapes from the painted bowl only to hit the canvas and fall down dead with shock at the feet of the king. Aha! exclaimed the king. My artist has produced a painting so wonderful it has fooled nature herself, surely you must agree that he is the greatest painter who ever lived!
But the vagabond said nothing and stared solemnly at his feet. Now,
pull the blanket from your painting and let us see what you have for us,
cried the king.
But the tramp remained motionless and said nothing. Growing impatient, the king stepped forward and reached out to grab the blanket only to freeze in horror at the last moment. You see, said the tramp quietly, there is no blanket covering the painting. This is actually just a painting of a cloth covering a painting. And whereas your famous artist is content to fool nature, I’ve made the king of the whole country look like a clueless little twat.
--Banksy