AN APPOINTMENT WITH DR AROCHA

vincent van gogh

In town this morning, I went out to the small restaurant outside town on Hwy 21 toward Glade Valley, The Circle L. Had not been there in four years. It's so far out of my way, I need to make a point to go there specifically. Crystal's friend, Natasha Bourne, took it over, something like a year ago. I'd been meaning to go there to see it in Natasha's care and to support her, as I feel like whatever business I buy something from, the purchase is a gesture of support. The place has a new sign and table covers, black and white checkerboard pattern. Just that touch gave the interior a new feeling. The dining area is about the size of a small mobile home. One wall has a huge print in a frame with glass of The Last Supper, not DaVinci's, but a copy based in his. I wanted a Circle L breakfast today. Had a doctor's appointment earlier, checkup on blood pressure, first thing. Ate nothing before going, didn't even have coffee. Already, I'd planned to have a late breakfast at the Circle L, scrambled eggs, sausage, grits and toast with coffee. American as Nascar.

 

vincent van gogh

 

The doctor appointment was painless, even fun. I like my doctor. The nurse, who read blood pressure and drew three vials of dark red blood, I like for her intelligence and her humanity. The young woman at the check-in window is a friend of mine named Winter, a charming girl. I can't help but call her a girl, she's so much younger than me, in the zone where I can't even guess her age, could be anything between fifteen and twenty-five. I knew her brother and her step-dad. Brother died a few years ago and dad a few months ago. Her mother died a few years ago. A sister moved away. Winter is what's left of her family, though she has several relatives. They were good people who had a hard time making it in this world, people I understand better than people who seem to get it. Without even knowing Winter beyond our greetings when we meet, I feel a familial affection for her like a niece or a cousin. I'm always happy to see her. She'd had her hair colored since last time I saw her. It is a dark brown and she added a copper kind of tone to it that didn't change the color of her hair as much as it enhanced it. She apologized for her hair not being perfect, didn't have time this morning to mess with it. I thought it perfect as it was, like at home, relaxed.

 

vincent van gogh

 

The doctor is Cuban from Miami. He is a doctor I have confidence in with my life. I've heard he worked his way through nursing school, worked as a nurse for ten years, worked his way through medical school and turned into a doctor. He is my ideal of a human being's character. Not because he is like me, but because he is way beyond me. I switched doctors to him, Jose Arocha, because the second time he saw me, he remembered me. The previous doctor I went to for thirty-five years is an excellent doctor I have full confidence in. I saw him in the coffee shop one day and he didn't know me. I had to tell him who I was to explain why I spoke to him. I felt like we were in the dark, couldn't see. I thought: a doctor I've seen half my life doesn't know me; a doctor I've only met a few times talks with me like a person when I see him. The women who work for him appear to regard him with respect for who he is, his personality, his character. He came here when Cuban subdivisions had brought a Cuban community to the county. Some very interesting people came here to live.

 

vincent van gogh

 

They brought their culture with them, a culture of really good food, good dancers, intelligent professionals, good musicians, gregarious party-loving people, who don't need to get stupid to have a good time. Then the real estate bust happened. Too many of them had to return to Miami because they could not sell their houses, and could not sell the property here. I liked having the Cubans here. They brought a breath of life with them. And when they went back to Miami, they took it with them. Some have continued here and wove themselves into the community. Such good people they make me want to be born in Cuba next lifetime. When the oceans rise within the next half century there won't be much left of Cuba but the mountains. Cubans survived half a century of American hostility, moving the cities inland to the mountains will be the beginning of a new life, a rejuvenation and reformation of the culture, or so I suppose from the Old World looking to the unknowable future. My doctor even read a biography of Van Gogh a few years ago. He has a wide range of interests that makes him an enjoyment to talk with. He gives me sound medical counsel, too, in language I didn't need to go to medical school to understand.  

 

vincent van gogh

 

 

*

 

 



FOGGY MOUNTAIN TOP

A beautiful foggy day. I call fog beautiful for the way it gives the natural world a sense of a Japanese screen. Rhododendron leaves glossy wet, the crooked limbs in the foreground darkened by the mist of rain. Last year's leaves cover the ground, a soft carpet speckled in shades of reddish brown from light tan to dark like a pointillist painting. Green spikes of daffodil leaves, six to eight inches long, point straight up in clusters, poking through the carpet. Snowbirds and chickadees peck among fallen pine needles, reddish brown. The birds hop and run about, slate-gray and white, quick bird movements. The female cardinal wary, pecks a seed and raises her head to nibble the seed out of the shell, looks in all directions, flew to a rhododendron branch. I suspect a psychotherapist would call the birds hyper-vigilant. The squirrels are too. Heads darting back and forth, looking in all directions, each eye covering half the way around. They appear to shift attention from eye to eye while seeing from both. The cautious bird survives. They have predators in the air and on land. A momentary lapse of attention is all it takes to be snatched out of the air by hawk talons or from the ground by cat claws. That's ok, too. They go on to their next lives and the hawk or cat has a good meal. The cycle of life. Hopping and flying candy bars. Out another window I see Jack grazing a mound of hay in the fog.

Talked with friends on the phone twice during the day. Both complained and drooped to the ground within over how boring it is to have a wet, overcast day. And I was enjoying it, admiring the richness in colors on a wet, overcast day, the windows Japanese screens. The sunlight bleaches colors, while rain and fog bring out the colors, make them shine. I don't understand seeing a beautiful day like today dreary. It wasn't even bad to go out in. Walked to feed the donkeys and back. Walked to the mailbox and back. Did not get wet either time. It was as beautiful to me out in it as a sunny day. I live simply because I want to be close to the elements, the weather, the seasons, day, night. All the green things were perked up and cheery, feeling good, glowing on a warm day above freezing, wet on the leaves and the roots. Winter grows wearisome after several months, heat going all the time, cold floors, but it's not a problem. My car drives well in snow and mud. I have sweaters, coats, heavy socks and hats. As long as I keep the electric bill and the kerosene bill paid, I'm ok. Winter is the time for feeding hay to the donkeys and extra seeds for the birds. Whatever the weather, I go out to take hay to the donkeys and think nothing of the weather. If it's zero, I dress for zero. It is a love gift I'm taking them, so it is not an inconvenience for me. It's what I do. Rain, I wait til the rain calms down. The donkeys stay in their shed during rains. The rains don't last long. It's not like the donkeys go hungry. They stand in their den, side by side, and gaze into their meadow in rain.

photos by tj worthington

*

     

DONKEYS BELOW ZERO

donkey jack

This morning I went out with carrots to see the donkeys and toss them some hay. Jenny was standing at the gate waiting. Jack brayed and I couldn't see him. The steam of his breath I saw blow by the corner of the den. He was standing inside where it's not so cold. I handed him a carrot. He seemed grateful I didn't expect him to step out into the cold and stand on ice. He stepped out a ways, acting like he was so miserable he wanted to curl up into a ball. Jenny's demeanor gave the appearance that she was equally miserable, only more motivated by hunger than Jack. Of course, I apologized to them for not having better circumstances for them, a better barn with a door. I want to put blankets on them in the night, but know in the morning blankets would be stomped into their toilet, worthless and uncleanable. I spread some hay at their den's opening to give them the option to stand inside out of the cold air to graze. Also put some in the place I put the hay down for them day by day. Fortunately, the sun came out for awhile giving them a slight bit of warmth on one side at a time. Since my experience yesterday stepping into their den, surprised by the difference, I feel better about them at night. It was warm and pleasant, no wind inside, warmth radiating up from the floor. By warm, I don't mean summer day warm. Just noticeably warmer. At two below zero, the temperature in there could be two above. They spent much of the day inside the den. Jenny came out sometimes to graze. Jack came out a few times, too, but I had a feeling the ice on the ground made the zero air all the more difficult to bear. Nothing but ice to stand on. Ice to lie down on. He stayed in the den. I felt for him, too. I could easily imagine how agonizing it must be with only the blanket of your coat, below zero all night, and not above six during the day, no reprieve except huddled next to Jenny, the love of his life. 

donkey jen

Much as I want to comfort them, I'm freezing, dressed comfortable for 20, but not minus two, so I did not have a spirit for going into the shed and rubbing Jack's legs to help his circulation. I wanted to put a blanket over his back. My fingertips were freezing. Handling the blue plastic tarp, it minus two degrees, ice chunks from the snow hit my fingertips. Get used to it and do it. Like having cold feet. When the feet are so cold for so long I can't stand it any longer, I change shoes, put on ones I set on the heater. It warms them without making them hot. I put cold shoes there and change shoes a few times through the day. Jack does not have the option. His feet are cold all the time. I want to hug the donkeys, warm them. Later in the day, I took some sweet grain to them, more today than usual. They'll need it tonight. Put out some more hay. I want them to have all they can eat for these below zero nights. Forecast for tonight is minus seven. I almost feel guilty for having heat, blankets, sweaters, shoes, heavy socks. I have to remind self my whole body is acclimatized to the luxuries of civilization, like heat in the winter. I remember Marsha stressing the donkeys can take it and it is good for their health to take it. I think of the Rolling Stones song, Beast of Burden, am I rough enough, am I tough enough? I know the donkeys are tough and I know they can take it, but I feel Jack's agony with relentlessly cold feet. Beast of burden or not, he feels it. I feel like what makes donkeys exceptional is they can take it. Pictures of donkeys carrying things, acoustic pickup trucks, and carrying people, we think nothing of it. It's what donkeys do. If I'd trained Jack to carry things on his back, he would carry up to the very last ounce his legs could handle. 

donkey jack

In my first months with Jack, before Jenny, I was talking to him one day and said I would like to ride him. By then, I knew he was understanding what I was saying. He snorted his expression of agreement. He'd like it too. I said, I weigh so much, I don't want to hurt your back. He moved his head in an expression of appreciation. I heard the words in my head, "Thanks for consideration." This morning Jack seemed like he was shivering so hard it expressed in whimpering like a child about to break into tears, unable to quite get there. He went for the carrot like he was saying, Oh, thank you, thank you. He didn't chew very well, dropped one of the carrots. I'd say to him, Donkey Jack, and he would make a whimpering grunt, like appealing from the bottom of his heart for me to fix this weather condition with my human magic. I wanted to will them a place to get out of this cold at least long enough for their bones to thaw. I think of Himalayan climbers, able to function cold to the bone. Some come back with fingers, toes and nose gone to frostbite. I feel like Jack and Jenny are having a difficult time with the relentless zero degrees, but for having each other. Their hair is thick. Both have rolled in dust so much their backs are like soft clay. I touch either one of them on the back and a cloud of dust rises. I've learned the dust is valuable to them to keep parasites down and perhaps in winter the dust works as a form of insulation in their hair. They can get off their feet, hole up together in a corner and keep each other warm. As long as they're moving about, I know they're ok. Being in love as they are, the inter-dependent intimacy bonds them all the more. Jenny did not appear to be as shaken by below zero ground to stand on and the air so cold. I could see she was not comfortable. She could function. She reluctantly stood on the icy snow to graze on some hay. Jack preferred to stay near and inside their den. 

leaf 

I came to the house for some good, hot African coffee, to see what my friends are putting on facebook, see the political headlines for laughs. I don't need political cartoons anymore. The politicians are already hysterically comic. It gets them on tv. Name recognition. I don't care what you think of me, just remember my name, is their creed. Two-thirds a century of television and stupid is now electable, not just electable, preferred. How else explain the stardom of Sarah Palin and Ted Cruz? They're as vacant as the Hollywood stars, vacant as tv itself. USA is in a pickle, believe it or don't. Already is, not future tense. My younger friends are good at hunting and gardening, heat with wood, are resourceful, good at buying and selling, trading. I have confidence they will be all right. Then I turn to my artist friends at Daily Creative Practice and see the new images posted. I choose to live in this time without a future as if that's how it is all the time, which it is. I make my art objects. Not motivated by money, the absence of prospects to sell anything doesn't slow me down. I paint and put things together for now. Later is not my concern. I have a visual idea, put it together to completion, love it for itself, for the idea it becomes embodiment of, and be happy. Writing these daily entries for no reason but the doing is meditation time. I never took to sitting cross-legged and clearing my mind. Tried it for several years, felt some benefit from it, especially finding empty mind. I don't feel like I need to sit cross-legged on a pillow to go to empty mind. When things get a little to frantic swirling around in my head, I'll go to empty mind and take a break. These mind journeys I write open a door to the subconscious with empty mind looking for, waiting for images, words, a huge museum of memories, dances with them, makes connections, has insights, works out conundrums, and vents frustrations too. 

pole

*

REBEL WITHOUT A PAUSE

marcel janco

Another cold night and day to freeze a crust on yesterday's snow, the surface melted slightly by the sun, froze overnight. I had to poke holes in it with the walking stick each step and punch holes in it with my shoes. Don't have boots. I wear heavy shoes and heavy socks. Getting a grip with feet in today's condition of the snow was easier than in the fresh snow. The crunchy surface adds traction under the shoes, like tiny bits of gravel. Forecast says Friday the temperature will be above zero. Must go to one hardware store to buy sunflower seeds for the birds and squirrels, and another hardware store for a bag of sweet grain for donkeys. They need the nutrition especially now to warm themselves on the inside through the zero night. Earlier today, I stepped into their den, spreading new hay at the opening so they can stand out of the wind in the morning to graze before I get up. A few days ago I spread old hay on the floor and already they'd wet it down good with piss and continue the mound of donkey biscuits in the middle and against the back wall. I can't help but see it's the way they want it. It has become such a pattern I can see it is conscious, they know what they're doing. It was actually warm in there. Smelled like a donkey toilet, identifying it home for them. It keeps the place warm, makes good insulation to retain their own heat. I feel a little bit better about them tonight and tomorrow night. The forecast for Thursday night, not only below zero, but big wind too. If the donkeys and I are fortunate, the wind will blow above my little valley between ridges. If we're unlucky, the wind will fly out of the east directly into the donkey den. If it comes out of the west, it will blow through my house like it was a screened porch. The wind currents in this small valley go every which way, in circles. One minute it will be coming from one direction, and the next minute from another direction, on and on like that. If I'm really unlucky, one or more of the big white pines near the house could break about half way up the trunk.

marcel janco (find the donkey)

I've learned to trust the elements over years of experience. Like I trust the donkeys not to kick me, I trust weather on the mountain not to damage my interests. I have a relationship of trust with my mountain like I have with the donkeys. I love my mountain and it loves me. My mountain knows I respect it. I am the mountain's keeper in this time of my life. I sometimes suspect the mountain, itself, wanted me here and drew me like a mystical vibration. It was like as soon as I was open to the spirit the mountain began the process of pulling me to it. Whether or not this is the case, it is how I feel the connection with the mountain I have spent my life here learning. I have not done it in several years, but am able to go within and connect with the mountain, have conversation with it, ask it questions and it gives me answers. I asked it once about Tom Pruitt, who was the last of the mountain people on the mountain, asked about the mountain's relationship with Tom. The mountain said there was none, Tom did not respect the life force of the mountain. This is the Tom who, instead of putting a fence around his garden, sat in an upstairs window with a .22 rifle in the gloaming and belly-shot deer that came into his garden, so they'd go off someplace else and die. Tom had little respect for the living. One of the first characteristics I saw in Tom, getting to know him, was the passion he had for killing. It was culture, not just him individually. The mountain told me it appreciated my respect for the living beings of the mountain, the squirrels, the trees, the ferns, the rocks, the ground, the mountain itself. Since the time of our communication, I feel like my mountain is a conscious being. Saying my mountain, I don't mean possession. I mean like my friend. At the same time I feel nurtured by the mountain, energized, my battery charger, I also feel protected by the mountain. I feel like the mountain looks after me. I don't kill anything, rather regard all the beings on the mountain my neighbors. Like trustworthy friends, we've got each other's back.

marcel janco

My vision of the direction USA has been going throughout my lifetime, fascism, is here, now. Any attempt to defeat it, reverse it or change it would be at the peril of becoming a martyr nobody ever heard of. Lillian Hellman's Julia. Can't organize, the FBI infiltrates first sign of organizing, sets everybody up for arrest and all go to prison on "conspiracy" charges, for which there is no legal defense. Demonstrate and cops beat the hell out of me, pepper spray, tear gas, real bullets, arrested if I survive and tormented in jail. Police state is so tight and propaganda so sophisticated, rebellion doesn't work in America. I learned this in the Sixties. I have found in my lifetime the only rebellion that works is non-cooperation, what I call the boycott of one. I don't like that Coca-Cola Corp hired death squads in Columbia to kill union activists and their families. I don't buy Coke products. I dislike everything about Walmart; I don't give them my resources. I don't "buy into it." I don't like paying to the military machine, so I have kept income all the way along in the zone that pays no income tax or very little. People that want to fight the tax system end up in prison. I don't want to go to prison, so I live on the very least possible, inside the poverty zone, and pay no taxes, except sales taxes, which do not go to military domination of the world. Sales taxes are state and local. I'd be happy to pay federal taxes, too, if two-thirds of it did not go to the Death Star. Living frugally is my rebellion. It is the only rebellion I have access to that works. It works for me, and I'm the one it matters to. I think of the people who spend a fortune in legal fees and go to prison over refusal to pay federal taxes, and see them not committed to their belief. It's simple. Just live below the poverty line and you don't pay taxes. One man cannot defeat the Death Star, unless you're in a Hollywood movie. I've often thought, if federal government knew my mind, I'd be locked away in solitary confinement for subversion. Like my daddy told me, "I ought to hit you for what you're thinking." I laughed inside. If he knew what I was thinking, he'd have killed me in a passionate rage and never regretted it, no matter what the consequences.

marcel janco

Rebellion has been the nature of my life. Rather than fight back at an oppressor looking for any moment's opportunity to pound me into the ground, I learned to let these foster parents take care of my needs until I'm able to make a living on my own after school. By the age of ten, both had become foster parents. The kid had no recourse. I turned within, followed orders and waited for time to pass. In my time I went as far away as land allows, like an arrow shot from a bow, the string pulled all the way back to the tip of the arrow. Released, I was gone, and gone forever. I knew the flight was not from mad, but from a lifetime of anger so intense I'm surprised I couldn't bend spoons by looking at them. After Navy and college, I learned government is not here for me; I'm here for government. It's the same with the economic system. I have to give up me to play the money game. I am more valuable to myself than money. I don't want to be a success in the money world. I want my success to be inside myself. I want my success to be who I am, not what I am. By who I am, I don't mean a nice guy. I mean I can practice my art expression any way I want, independent of the art-market world. Fame and money have no value for me, What I mean by who I am is able to take an interest in what interests me, not toward making money for somebody else. I saw the equation that we choose time or money. Can't have both. I chose time. Recalling a dream from childhood. It was before I was old enough to drive. I was driving a car on a dirt road at night, came to a fork in the road, did not know which one to take to wherever I was going. In the headlights I saw standing in the grass of the Y the roads made, a white owl. It looked at me and flew down the road to the left. I took this to mean it was my road and turned that way. I was reminded of the dream some years later when I read Good Soldier Schweik. At the end, he was walking with a regiment to war in WW1. A fork in the road. The regiment took the road to the right. Schweik saw some flowers up the road to the left and he took the road to the left, called by the flowers, by life. 

marcel janco, himself

*

SNOWBIRDS, DONKEYS AND PABLO NERUDA

snowbird

Odd snowy day. The day began above freezing by a degree or two. I gave the donkeys their morning carrots and what was left of the hay, just enough to get them started. Backed down the hill to the barn, stacked three bales of hay in the trunk and took them to the donkey feeding station. Rolled them down the hill to Jack braying, donkeys at the fence smelling the hay, excited, something to eat, gave Jenny a swatch of it by hand to chew on while I placed the bales and threw some over the fence. Covered the bales with the blue tarp and came to the house. Tiny snowflakes floated on the air telling me it is a good time to have fresh hay ready to go. Snow came down lightly an hour later. Caterpillar came in the house with snow flake speckling her back and tail. Donkey backs turned white. The donkeys went to their den to watch the snow fall. Snow covered the ground lightly, maybe an eighth of an inch. Snowbirds hop about, pick up the morning's seeds, intermingled with a sparrow, a cardinal female, a cardinal male, chickadees, nuthatches, titmice. The sun came out for a short time, enough to melt the snow outside the shadows. Donkeys returned to grazing hay. Sun went away and snowfall resumed, though less than before until it faded to sunlight again. Cloud drifted over the sun again, the donkeys graze, snowbirds hop and peck. I took video camera to the door, stood in the doorway until the birds came back that scattered when I opened the door. I was getting some still pictures of snowbirds scratching and pecking, and decided to pick one bird and make a brief video. The wind chimes rang a moment from a Takemitsu score. I put it on facebook earlier today. 

snowbird

The floor has turned cold again. So nice it was to have a floor that did not freeze my feet for a week. Cold floor is back for at least the next week. Saturday night/Sunday morning, zero is forecast. The wind is flowing from the west today, so I project it will blow from the west Saturday night. The donkey den's opening is to the east, and the house will block the wind from the donkey den a little. They will be cozy sleeping side by side, the wind's turbulence flowing over and around them. It will be one of those annual nights, the coldest night of the year with wind out of the west cutting straight through the house like the wall is made of lattice. The kerosene heater will never stop. I checked the tank earlier in case it might need a delivery today or tomorrow. It has more than enough to make it through this next cold spell. The guys working the trucks will be busy these cold days. I don't want to run out. I'm not worried about the cold night. It's not the first time. I'll keep feet up off the floor as much as possible. Sleep. It's time to take some grain to the donkeys. They will need the nutrition for the cold night. May throw them some more hay, enough to get them started in the morning before I rise. Done. I dressed up for zero and laughed at self going out the door. Glad I did. Thermometer said 23. With wind, it was blustery. Jack gets so excited for the grain, he brays when I step out the door. He knows what time of day it is. Finished with the bray, he squeals and grunts a pitiful groan of desperation. I and Jack already know Jenny is first or we both better look out. I carried the container up the fence to Jenny's place. Jack groaning and squealing beside Jenny until time for the pour; Jack knows to step back or he might be swallowing some teeth. He walked beside me the other side of the fence. His nostrils pulled the scent of the grain like vacuum hoses inhaling the aroma of his favorite treat. 

jack

Jenny finished her grain and moved to the new hay tossed over the fence. Seeing her at the hay, just now, surprised me. Usually, when she finishes her grain first, she runs Jack away from his and finishes it for him. Jenny is not a donkey to predict from one day to the next. She expresses her feelings without inhibition. Jack does not show what he is feeling like Jenny does. They seem like Mike Tyson and Beyonce together. Jenny likes a rough man and Jack likes a fine lady. It took Jack six months to learn how to conquer Jenny. The day he took her down, took her will, she fell in love. It was overnight, from one day to the next. She turned her Alpha status over to him and settled down into a gentle, loving partner. They graze the hay side by side. Jack took a step toward the remains of Jenny's grain. Jenny darted in front of him and went to the grain she'd left unfinished. Now she has gone to the remains of Jack's grain pile. He doesn't care. In summer I give them the grain every three days. Cold winter I give them their grain every day. It keeps them warm at night and gives Jenny some nutrition for her incubating baby. Jenny has stepped over to Jack's mound of hay, pushing Jack out of the way. He went to Jenny's hay. Jenny ran him off from her hay. Jack went to pick up remains of his grain pile. Jack took a walk to the den, perhaps to stand out of the wind for a while, belly full, in the gloaming. Jenny went to their den from nibbling Jack's leftovers. Time to settle in for a cold winter night. I'm over concern for the donkeys on cold nights. Marsha told me the equines that tough it out through winters are healthier. I believe it. I think of donkeys in the Andes.

jenny

Found an article in a Harpers magazine about Chilean poet, Pablo Neruda. It inspired me to go the the shelf and pick up his book, Residence on Earth (Residencia en la tierra), translated by Donald D Walsh, 1973, to experience some Neruda poems again. I've come to a place I like to read one poem at a time. More than one is too much. I read poetry with more comprehension now than the last time I opened a Neruda book. Morning is a good time, donkeys fed, cat and birds fed, coffee made, half hour or an hour before time for morning visit with Carole on the phone. We talk at least an hour each morning. This morning I read a Neruda poem, something like starting the day with a creative visualization, Ode With a Lament, a mountain stream of lush images. An excerpt:

          I have only fingernails to give you,
          or eyelashes, or melted pianos,
          or dreams that come spurting from my heart,
          dusty dreams that run like black horsemen,
          dreams filled with velocities and misfortunes. 

This is the second of seven verses, a sample of his surrealist imagery, dusty dreams that run like black horsemen. Melted pianos, Salvador Dali comes to mind. Neruda's mind was a mountain stream running into a river, into the sea and beyond, of interwoven images boiling up from his subconscious. Also dipping into Robert Bly's selected poems, Stealing Sugar From The Castle. Bly has reached the potential he promised in his early books. His anti-war poem, Teeth-Mother Naked At Last, was powerful then, in the time of the war and the poem's first publication, and it's powerful now. It does not seem to me to have dated one week. Fill in the blank, the American war of the decade on the poor people of the world. I even feel like the poem is more beautiful now, with distance, than it was then in its rawness.  

snowbird

*

WINTERS PAST

vada

Another good day above freezing. In the weather patterns of the past, mid February was apple tree pruning time. Mid February was the reprieve from winter, the eye of the cold storm that winter is. This winter has been characterized by ebb and flow like winters in the pattern before weather patterns changed. We'd get a wave of cold followed by not quite as warm as before, but warm, then a wave of colder than before, followed by warm not quite as warm as before. The cold came in waves. The most miserable winter in my memory gradually turned colder unto cold and stayed there for weeks, then gradually turned warmer. That winter started late and spring came late. It stayed cold for a long time. The steady cold never let up. This winter is like the winters of several years ago only in the way it comes and goes in waves. Then, snow would be eight, twelve, sixteen inches, snow on top of snow. Now the snow is a half inch, a quarter inch, three inches, two inches. A coat hangs in my closet I've not worn in so many years I've just about forgot it was hanging there. It was a good coat for the winters, a hood for wind. Now I wear a heavy shirt lined with something that holds heat. It is good enough to feed donkeys in and go to the mailbox, a trip to town, It would not be a good one to take a long walk in below freezing. In a way, I miss the winters of my early years in the mountains. I took long walks with dog through forests, over meadows, the waterfalls covered in ice and the water flowing behind the ice cover, the ice a still reproduction of the water flow splashing over rock, glass the water behind could be seen through. 

vada

Those places are now memories. I suspected the waterfalls might be frozen over a few weeks ago, but thought I'd see it in memory rather than go into bear, coyote and wolf country. I don't go into the woods anymore. I would want a .45 handgun. I don't want to shoot anything. I don't want to walk along prepared to shoot whatever might take exception to me being in the wrong neighborhood. Actually, I believe I'd be safer without a gun. That's one on one. I believe I could back away from a bear encounter safely. But a pack of killer dogs. I don't want to even think about facing such a situation without stopping power. I don't want to kill any of them. Don't want to encounter any of them. I'd rather see them from the car passing by, or in photos. I don't like killing anything, don't believe I have a right. The culture I live in tells me I do, but I don't believe everything that comes my way. Too, I'm not interested in getting scared out of my wits. Chances are, I'd never see a thing. And I don't like walking without a dog. Don't have a dog now and it's not practical to have one. Caterpillar would go into fury. The donkeys would hate it. Not a good time for a dog. Martha, next door, is not a good dog to walk with. First thing, she imagines she hears something, takes off running, disappears and that's the last I see of her until I return home. She sits by the door waiting for me. She's not a dog that learns. I can't teach her to stay with me. I'd need a leash, and don't care that much. Though I know what warmer winters mean, I still like winters not being as severe as they used to be. I like snow when it happens, without craving it. We have ice more now than when temperatures went way down below freezing. The air is not cold enough to make snow, so it rains drops that freeze on contact with the ice cold roads and tree limbs. Not a good time for walking or driving. 

vada

I cut firewood in the fall for twenty years, sawing trees into logs to be split. I cut down mostly dead trees. Rarely did I cut a living tree, and then only from necessity. Trees die on their own, standing. They make the best firewood. I learned how to cut firewood from old man Tom Pruitt and his nephews, Bill and Don. It includes sharpening the chain, Every tooth needs sharpening, one at a time. I handled the chainsaw safely, consciously, awake. I felt like operating a chainsaw was the most dangerous thing I did, besides drive a vehicle. I realized from the beginning that I must be in charge of the saw at all times. Once the chainsaw takes charge, it's too late. I thought of it like a motorcycle, one moment's lapse of attention and anything can happen. Tom taught me how to fall a tree exactly where I want it to land. He taught me to fall a tree in a different direction from the way it was leaning. He also taught me, first thing, to cut them off at the ground, don't leave a stump. Whenever I see a stump, I see a good log that could be split into at least eight sticks of firewood, a day or night's heat. Cut the branches and limbs into stove-length sticks, stack everything in the back of the pickup in rows. Packing it tight in rows will carry a great deal more wood than it thrown into the back of the truck in a pile. Much space squandered. At the house, unload the truck, one stick at a time, then stack the wood for storage. Go back and load the truck again, as many times as needed. It was good movement exercise. No big weights to deal with, except sometimes. 

vada

Learn how to sling an axe and a sledge hammer, and it's no effort at all. Set the axe in motion and let its momentum carry it, using hands to guide it. I'd get bored with an axe or sledge hammer, the sledge hammer for driving steel wedges. The axe to establish a crack for the wedge take from there. Sometimes the axe would be all it took. Locust is good for an axe, one lick. Red oak, split right, can be done with an axe even easier than locust. The rest of them require a wedge. Old locust needs a wedge too. Driving a wedge with a sledge hammer I felt was a good exercise in hand-eye coordination. Don't hit the wedge just right, and it may fly off in any direction spinning like a ninja weapon fast as a baseball. You don't want to catch it. I learned the wedge only flies out in one of four directions. I would place the wedge so I'd be standing in one of the directions it would not fly. I learned skill with both axe and sledge hammer, good enough for my needs. Old man Tom could do something that amazed me every time I saw it. He would set the first crack in the log. The next lick with the axe went precisely in the same slot. His aim with an axe was an amazement for me to behold. He was in his mid seventies meaning a lifetime of working with an axe. He was known around for his skill with an axe. He was also known for the simplest moves to accomplish something when he was working. He did not waste movement. He flowed when he worked. He loved working. I learned from working with Tom his economy of making every move count for something. I never reached a place where I could lay the axe down exactly on the spot I wanted it every time. Have not carried wood in several years. To have done something, I believe, is the same as doing it now. I don't need it anymore. 

vada

*

DON'T TAKE ANYTHING SERIOUSLY

jenny

Ground cover snow fell night before last, a dry snow with enough wet to stick where it fell. Years ago I saw somewhere the Lakota language has twenty-eight, or so, words for snow, differentiating the many textures. Possibly laplanders have more. I've lived intimately with snow in the mountains, noting such a variety of snows that I no longer see it just snow. I feel like when I mention snow it requires enough description to give a sense of the kind of snow it is. The Lakota people lived far more intimately with snow than I do. Some snow is so dry, tiny ice crystals, it can be kicked like sand, doesn't stick to tree limbs. Some snow is so wet it sticks to everything, will stand an inch or two high on a wire fence, will stick to limbs and weigh so heavily the snow breaks limbs and electrical lines. Wet and dry are the parentheses all other snows fall between. Since I've learned to pay attention to the various snows, I don't recall any two the same. It happens, the variety is limited, but seldom. No two winters in my experience have been the same. Our language having one word for snow suggests civilization has been moving away from the physical world inward toward mind. For multiple thousands of years humans lived outdoors. Now we live indoors. With the age of reason, we are moving inward, emphasis shifting from body to mind. How we value body and mind shows in the pay scale. Physical work pays the least. The harder the work, the less the pay. Mental work pays more by degrees, until the highest paid work is entirely mental, accomplished in a golf cart. The snow melted through the course of the day until snow remained only in places shaded from the sun. I carried this morning's donkey hay into the meadow to a place the sun lights up first. Cold mornings I'll see the donkeys standing still at the far end of the meadow, the place they know is warmed by morning sunlight first.

jenny at the mineral block

Early humans worshiped the sun as God, life giving, sustaining, destroying. I prefer to call them early instead of primitive. Primitive means first, but popularly is taken for backward. Winter mornings the donkeys stand quietly soaking up the sun's rays in a stillness easily taken for reverence by human interpretation. It is a kind of reverence; it feels extra good. We humans exhibit reverence for whatever makes us feel good, inebriants, money, sex, on one level, and the spirit on another. People new to the mountains know nothing about mountain culture and don't want to, but mention the word, moonshine, and they're all ears, laughing and talking, "Can you get me some?" No. I avoid the word with someone new to the mountains. With hillbillies, we never use the word, moonshine. We call it "white," "shine," and several other names. I bring this up as an example of reverence. I've seen people, both men and women, wax embarrassingly foolish over the idea of moonshine. I'm reminded of a Southern Baptist in New York City without supervision. A reverence for feel-good unto foolishness, similar to a reverence for God in some religions unto foolishness. Killing somebody who shames your feel-good is the ultimate foolishness. All it got the Charlie Hebdo assassins was dead same day or next, whichever it was. They certainly had no peace of mind from the moment of the event onward until flying lead found them too. No matter how many virgins (feel-good) await them, there comes a time none of the virgins are virgin anymore. Even in their heaven, feel-good amounts to a limited time in eternity. Two months or less for seventy however many feel-goods. Honeymoon over, back to the same-o, same-o. Some of the most valuable advice of my life came from Meher Baba, "Don't take anything seriously, not even God." I take it to have something to do with being conscious about reverence. Remember reverence is about feel-good. Don't get stuck in it. The sun moves. The spot that feels good early on a cold morning will shift by midday to a spread of insulating hay someplace else to lie down on, soak up the rays and eat later.

snowbird tracks

It's a tall order to take nothing, not even God, seriously. As a remedy to quiet monkey mind, I can't think of a better way. Taking things seriously charges the mind, makes it race. The more I take seriously, the more I engage runaway mind. For someone not on the path, it doesn't matter. To open self to spirit, mind needs quieting, not swept away, but still as a lake with no wind. The Charlie Hebdo assassinations came out of taking God (Allah), by way of the Prophet, way too seriously. There, again, like freedom of speech, all things in conscious moderation. I learned early to take the candy of good liquor in moderation from the examples of people around me who did not. I wanted to be able to taste good liquor all my life, not have to quit by age 40 or die. I have some easily within reach, but haven't touched it in probably two weeks, and then only a sip for the taste. I've forgotten the last three times in town to stop at the liquor store for some Wild Turkey Rye 101. It's the only bonded liquor I've found to satisfy my palate. Haitian rum is almost equal satisfaction, but I have to go to a city to get it. I can't drink socially anymore for the need to drive home, and hangover avoidance. I like the George Thorogood song, I Drink Alone. I don't like to get out of control and let my inner stupid act out. Not many people can handle riding the bull named Stupid. I know I don't even qualify to sit on him, and him penned up. I sit in the grandstands and learn, watch other people, who thought they were up to the challenge, get trampled. Some people say, Ya gotta have some fun. Trampled by a bull is not my idea of fun. Fun involves feel-good in my dictionary. Like what kind of fun can wrecking a motorcycle be? For masculine credibility it's the ultimate feel-good. I've never been one to need every day of my life to prove I'm not a girl. Can't help but take it for obvious, what of it?

jack

It's a sight how freeing it can be to let go of serious thinking. I don't mean to imply I'm there. I've been conscious of letting go of being serious about one thing or another, especially art making, just enough to have something like a peephole experience. I've seen the good sense in it enough to check myself when taken over by serious mind, to back off and say, this isn't going anywhere, it isn't working, it's not in alignment with the flow. Here again, I see other people acting out serious and it makes me want no more to do with it. It's all about peace of mind. It's unimportant to someone who does not value peace of mind. I confess to some reservation about not taking God seriously at first. Whatever it is we call God isn't even close. If we can imagine it, it's not God. If we can name it, it's not God. Mind is not able to comprehend God. Serious has to do with mind. Mind is limited. The spirit is famous for lightness. Serious is famous for heaviness. We are well trained in the serious, especially in the realms of religion and politics. We leave God out of it, the great unknown we can't even put a handle on, even quicker to run between our fingers than water. I take it for sound counsel to avoid being serious about something I know nothing about, am unable to know about. I believe it is so, if someone were to see God as God really is, it would take one out of the body. While I'm involved with a body on earth, the best I know to do is enjoy being in God's dream. To take it seriously would be like Peter who walked on the water til he thought about it. He took it seriously and got wet. It gives me insight into Jesus mind. He was in the mind of not taking it seriously all the time, not just when he walked on water. He walked on land the same. Remembering when he saw Moses and Elijah on the mountain, I think it was Peter who wanted to build a shrine on the site, take it seriously. Jesus said to let it rest, it was for the moment only. 

sky

*

DONKEY LAUGHS

donkey jack siesta

 

The donkeys are resting in the meadow, lying down on patches of hay I spread on the ground for them to eat earlier. They munched on it all morning. It is donkey siesta time. The ground is so wet from a foot of snow a few days ago, all of it melting over the last two days until it's nowhere to be seen but in shaded places on the north sides of white pines, the donkeys enjoy the luxury of the spots of dry hay to rest upon. Nobody to say, "Get off yer hay! 'at's yer dinner, ya stupid ass!" Yesterday I carried some carrots into the meadow. Jack came walking in a hurry. Left front foot stepped on a spot of ground with a slope to it and I saw his foot slide maybe a foot and a half. He didn't lose balance. After all, he has four feet. I'd have been windmilling arms attempting to stay upright. It's just a slide for Jack. He didn't even notice, like when Jenny kicks him. No big thang. He noticed in that he caught himself at the end of the slide, but not the way one of us humans would have noticed, flailing. The warm the last few days has given me a chance to spend more time with the donkeys. When the temp is between thirty and zero, I have to come back to the house. One day when it was 20, I went out without gloves. By the time I returned, fingertips were so numb I couldn't unbutton my outer fleece-lined shirt. Had to leave it on for awhile. Above 30, the gloves are a nuisance for dealing with the pocket knife to cut baling twine, or the camera. Not a bad nuisance, I learned that day my fingertips freeze faster than they used to. I spent time with Jenny and Jack individually, talking to them while they grazed and listened.

 

donkey jen siesta

 

Jenny swung her rear end on me this morning, though it was Jack she meant it for. I'd put down some hay for her, picked some up and spread some in another place for Jack. Before I took the one for Jack, he came to me while Jenny was eating. I was between them. Jenny's rear end jumped around. I learned my trust is not 100% when I jumped out of the way. I put my hand on her rump to distract her, but used the gesture to advance my exit, too. I just stepped aside and saw it was Jack she was aiming for. She wasn't going to kick, was just positioning herself in case Jack didn't get it. He got it. I went to pick up another chunk of hay that was on the ground beside the hay she was munching. She swung her rear end at me again. She was saying to me, MINE, same as she said to Jack. I reminded her I don't eat donkey food. She didn't care. I picked up a different chunk of hay and took it to another place to spread on the ground for Jack. I came back to pick up the other chunk she wouldn't let me have, and this time it was ok. She was just antsy in that earlier moment with Jack so nearby. They are funny to watch. It's two kids in the backseat of a car. This morning at carrot time, Jack and Jenny came to me in a hurry, Jack playing his tenor sax, teeth and tongue showing. He looks like he's having a spasm when he plays his sax. The look in his eyes says he is the happiest donkey on Earth. After the bray, he took awhile to come down out of the trance blowing donkey grunts. He reached with his upper lip for the carrot. Jenny was right behind him. She came up beside him pushing him out of her way. She made a fake lunge at him with her head and he turned his rump to her, tail tucked between his legs like he does before he kicks. The chunk I gave Jenny was a little to big for her chewing comfort. She let it fall to the ground on my side of the fence, a signal to me to pick it up and hold it for her and let her chew it from my hand. I did. I held it with open hand and she bit pieces out of it until it was small enough she could chew it comfortably. I had the feeling she enjoyed eating her carrot out of my open hand like that as much as I did.

 

jenny's tongue

 

It has been so cold and nasty for so long, I feel like I miss the donkeys. I take carrots and hay to them and hurry back to the house. Staying with them a little longer this morning felt like old times. I find both their personalities charming. Their silence is almost like a vow of silence, like they choose not to talk. It seems like that because they understand everything I say. They've proven it to me over and over. It's about time I get it. And even though my trust of Jenny is not total, I believe her refusal to kick me is total. I just don't get it yet. She swung on me so fast and so by surprise this morning it made me jump. She might have done it for the fun of watching me jump. I know it made her day to see me jump. She's pesky like that. I've seen her make fake lunges at Jack and the calf just to see them jump. I think it's her Alpha status too. The impression I get when I see her make them jump is that she's reminding them who rules. The calf will run off. Jack just moves out of her range and positions himself to let her have it if she thinks she's going to get close enough to kick him. After carrot time, I went to carry the day's armload of hay through the gate. Jack was standing sideways against the gate and Jenny right up next to him from behind. If he moved backwards it would provoke her, so he couldn't do that. He just moved his head out of the way enough for me to squeeze through the gate. He didn't quite know what to do so he let me push him. It was his own fun of not getting out of the way for me, donkey play, making me push him for the laugh he gets out of it.

 

jenny's crystalline mane

 

Jack has been slightly aggressive with me the last week. He's started pushing me out of his way, lightly, not with force. He didn't used to do that. It's when Jenny is antsy and kicks at him every time he steps within range. He's been kicking back as readily as she kicks at him. It's not power kicks, just annoyance kicks, like we'll give a nudge of an elbow or a shove. He's been unusually aggressive with Jenny recently, discouraging her belief that Jack is her kicking bag. He will push up against her to make her move when he wants to. Not having language, they communicate through body language. Often it is tactile, not just for looks. This morning while I was putting hay down for Jack he leaned against me with his side and pushed me sideways. I go with it. They know I don't want their hay. It's an automatic defensive move that says, MINE. He would have snorted at Jenny and swung his rear end at her. I've sometimes wondered why they have such big jawbones. Their heads are like a horse's head in every respect except the huge jawbone. It's that jawbone that makes a donkey's head look so out of proportion to the rest of it. Natural selection. They kick so much, so automatically, so accurately, and so hard when they want to, I suspect the ones with lesser jawbones starved to death from shattered jaws. Eventually, the jawbones grew until they could withstand a donkey kick. They are called an ass, equus africanus asinus, the ass branch of the African horse, because they are so aware of their backsides. It's like they are as conscious from the ass end as from the front end. They have as much control over where the back feet go as a skilled boxer with his hands. It was one of the first things I learned from Jack. I feel affection coming from both of them. I'd have to break that affection before they could kick me. If I were to break the trust I've established, it would be on, and I would lose. Both Jenny and Jack only look at me with warm feeling in their eyes, even when they play a trick on me, especially then. They get a twinkle in the eyes that lets me know it's a donkey trick. For me, it's children's humor, the same. I play with children on a child level, and I play with the donkeys the same, on donkey level. It's a kind of pre-slapstick humor. It's pre-language humor. For me, it's insight into donkey nature, the nature of other four-leggeds, human nature as well.

breakfast in the snow

jack in front

 

 

*

 

SUBJECTIVE REALITY IN EVERYDAY LIFE

The last couple of mornings have been so bitter cold at 0 degrees with wind, I feel for the donkeys unable to get out of the cold. I recall my own need for a long hot bath after enough days and nights of being cold. I realize the need for the sauna in Scandinavia. Cold all the time, it is refreshing to bathe in heat, soak the heat into the bones, warm them, relax the whole body from bracing against the cold. I like the sanity of the Scandinavian countries. I've seen that Sweden has closed down their last prison. Nobody wants in. In Norway, the prison amounts to an apartment complex without walls, without guards carrying guns. Going out in zero weather not just a few days, but for months could get real old real fast. I want to do something for the donkeys, the squirrels, the birds, but there is nothing I can do but feed them, keep them warm on the inside, help the chickadees and the snowbirds make it through the long nights. The temperature is predicted not to rise above 29 for the day. I'll spend as much of the day in bed as possible and tell myself to pretend I'm in Finland, accustomed to it, no problem, it's like this all the time. It actually does help a little bit. It relaxes the body from bracing so much against it. I feel warmer relaxing and receiving the cold than bracing against it. I tell myself it's another lovely day in Helsinki. Sometimes when I go outside to the mailbox and don't want to put on a coat, I relax into the cold on the way out there and back, return to the house feeling fine and my clothes are freezing cold everyplace they touch flesh.

I've noticed in a few Scandinavian films how casual the people are with the cold. In an Icelandic film, I saw a woman putting gas in her car wearing a tshirt and it snowing. I've seen them go into a house and leave the door open, it snowing outside, below freezing, my idea of cold, and nobody has an issue with it. In one of the three Swedish films of the Girl With The Dragon Tattoo, I saw a man go into a small shed kind of building, it snowing outside, the door open, and build a fire in a little stove. He used no more wood for the fire than I would use for kindling. I thought that little bit of fire isn't going to heat anything but the draft in the stovepipe, and it very little. Outside the window, I see the calf standing still beside the gate, one side in full sunlight, chewing its cud. Ground must be too cold to lie down on. Donkeys, too, are standing still, soaking up the sun on one full side. It's the still time of day after morning grazing to soak up the sun and lie down for a rest. I saw Jenny yesterday lying down. The ground is frozen solid. If I were out there all the time, I'd acclimatize, too, to some extent. Back in the summer, I would sometimes sit on the ground talking to Jack while he grazed. Not long ago, one day when it was cold, I sat on the ground beside Jenny grazing and talked with her. The cold ground was not so bad to sit on. Didn't do it very long. I'd like to spoil the donkeys, keep them comfortable all the time. However, this is what it does in the world they live in. Same as I need a motorized vehicle to get around in because the world I live in is built around motorized transportation. I'd be arrested for going about in a buggy pulled by a donkey.

I'm remembering a sentence I saw that my friend Susan McCachren posted on facebook, the image a Tibetan lama, the words, "We are prisoners of our own egocentrism." It is about the most obvious thing to see. I know it, see it in a wide variety of ways, but don't think to house it in so obvious a straight-forward sentence, nor think of it so succinctly. In a way, it's what I'm addressing in these daily writings, approaching them subjectively, owning up to my own egocentrism, seeing it in relation to the world around me that I interact with. We all do everything in first person. Objective depends on controlled laboratory conditions. Out here in the world, it seems to me the closest we can get to reality is the subjective. Reality is a difficult word to give a realistic definition to, so I'll jump in and see how close I can get. When I start with only God is real, this means only love is real. If that is so, then reality is found in the love feeling in every living being. It has little to do with mind. In human society, we value mind above all else. We've come to believe that a head full of information is knowledge, which it is, though it is not the end in itself. After working the farm with old man Tom Pruitt for several years, he introduced me to an old boy of his generation, Lef Wagoner, saying to Lef, "I taught him everything he knows." It told me he was proud that I'm a learner. But the first thing that popped into my mind was he did not teach me about the poetry of WB Yeats or the films of Bernardo Bertolucci. I knew, however, that he meant in their way of knowledge, how to do things, how to fix what's broken, how to work with cows, how to cut down a tree so it falls exactly where you want it to, even when it's not leaning in the direction you want it to fall. It's a very clever trick that is easy as a thought and it works every time. He taught me how to make a rail fence out of locust trunks. He taught me how to put a fence post in the ground so it will never wiggle, and to stretch barbed wire so it will stay taut for many a year. He was thinking one kind of education and I was thinking another.

Tom's way of teaching was by doing. Fresh out of a culture that thinks teaching amounts to telling information, in class lectures, assigning reading, explaining and testing, there came a time I was frustrated with Tom because he wasn't "teaching" me. We'd spend the fall months cutting firewood for four houses, two of which burned it like it was trash. He would now and then tell me something like cut the tree level with the ground instead of leaving a stump. I don't use wood anymore, but I see my friends cut wood and everybody leaves a stump. It runs all over me and I want to say something, but it's not my place. I see a stump as eight more sticks of firewood left to rot. Tom, with no more than a seventh grade education, had more wisdom than about anybody else I knew. The most important word in the language for Tom was "experience." He taught by experience. I helped him do the work at first, watching him, following his lead, and paying attention whenever he told me something. Eventually, I learned wisdom comes from experience, first hand knowing, whereas knowledge comes from second, third and fourth hand information, which may or may not be true per detail. Experiential knowledge, learning by doing, affirms the old saying that experience is the best teacher. There I was, Mr college educated intelligent, in a world where my knowledge from another world, another belief system, had no meaning whatsoever. I came into Tom's world an over-educated ignoramus. I didn't know anything, the same as I say now of the college educated middle class moving to the mountains, who know how to work the remote for the television, and that not very well. By now, I have education by gathering information and by experience. I feel like it is a balance I live well with. I like having both book learning knowledge and common sense, which I think of as experiential knowledge. I see the knowledge of accumulated information is something on the order of objective, while the knowledge of experience is subjective. Experience teaches the heart. Information teaches the mind. I need both for a balanced life.

  

 

 

*