You never know what we'll churn up in cleaning a stall
The land was often golden in the bright sunlight. Not green, but a permanent range of yellowish brown only flecked with green in a few weeks of spring passing.
Once I adjusted to its palette and air, I hoped we’d live there forever.
~*~
It’s the background for some of my novels and poetry now appearing at Thistle/Flinch editions. To read more, click here.
Is the Donald about to go Missing in Action? Or is he just a Prisoner of Wordiness?
Or, more critically, did he just misjudge his fan base … and their power to fire him?
We didn’t expect anything this damaging to Trump’s White House campaign this early in the race. He already has the largest paid Republican staff in the state. Who knows about real grassroots volunteer motion. But I, for one, expect a new frontrunner each week on the GOP side … a lot like the last time around. And maybe the time before that.
Who will be the next to implode? Please stay tuned. And it’s just beginning to be summer, heating up, in New Hampshire. It really can be a sport to watch.
The grass grew tall in tawny tufts. One bunch here, another over there. Sometimes in the company of sagebrush.
~*~
Here a man will learn to pace himself more steadily. To watch for the rattlesnake, especially at river’s edge. To recalibrate his vision to the American Far West, where natural beauty assumes such spectacular proportions few notice the thinness at hand. The spider will teach all this. Clarity, like the desert itself, strips away to essentials. Sweeps away clutter. In what appears sparse, the man will gaze for episodes of miniature grace. Even elegance.
~*~
For a free copy of my newest novel, click here.
I’m tempted to say there are two sides to the mountain – a wet one and a dry one. Or even the side you see and the one you don’t. Or what’s ahead of you and what’s behind.
But none of that’s quite accurate.
You could, for one thing, be standing on the summit.
Or you could realize it’s one continuing side, like a Mobius strip, to explore. Even in your mind.
~*~
For a set of related poems, click here.
Not every desert is a Sahara or a place of giant cacti. The interior Pacific Northwest is a prime example. Its dry grasses rattle like swords in the unobstructed wind.
~*~
It’s the background for some of my novels and poetry now appearing at Thistle/Flinch editions. To read more, click here.
Appealing to the heavens for rainfall was only one of the reasons for dancing. Your feet could pray as well as your hands in this landscape.
~*~
Somehow, the novice begins dancing, if only in his head. Something simple, at first, until familiarity gains ground. Feet, legs, torso, arms, and hands eventually follow. A reel leads into a jig. Thought and emotions balance. Head and heart dialogue. With confidence comes freedom. More and more, the aspirant concentrates on partners or the group or motion itself, rather than his own next step or position. The music becomes more textured, until the hornpipe stands as the liveliest structure. So it’s been in this landscape. This is not just any desert, for there’s nothing generic about any detail encountered closely. With both people and places you come to know dearly, you find nuances and subtle contradictions will blur any sharp image. It’s easier to describe someone or something you meet briefly than what you know intimately. To say desert is dry and sunny misses the point, especially if you arrive in winter. At first, like so many others, we didn’t even consider this valley as desert, for it has no camel caravans or mounds of shifting sands with Great Pyramids on the horizon. One word or phrase can be misleading. Even the Evil Stepmother from folklore and fairy tales must have possessed some redeeming qualities. Could we be more specific than “evil”? Simply selfish? Or was she mean, jealous, domineering, afraid of whatever, from the wrong party? Suppose she was really a victim of some deep abuse? The portrait changes. Has anyone detailed how she dances? In the end, it’s either entertainment or worship, depending on the individual’s orientation.
~*~
For a free copy of my newest novel, click here.
The mythologies of Greece are easily countered by those of India, China, Tibet, and Japan in the Native tales of the Olympic Peninsula and the coastal tribes of the Pacific Northwest.
Sit down by the fire, then, and listen. Some of the voices are millennia old.
~*~
For a free copy of the complete American Olympus, click here.
As I said at the time …
It’s a quirky process, this exercise of seeking homes for personal work – the reactions of editors and readers so idiosyncratic and varied that the same piece can be considered too intense, by one, and not raw and bloody enough, by another. I can never predict who will accept what, no matter how long I’ve known a publisher or journal.
Contributor’s note? Just say I hope soon to be tent camping again.
The Olympic Peninsula of Washington State is a world of its own. About the size of Delaware, it has few settlements apart from its Native American tribes. Its remote coastline is gorgeous. Its forests are thick and varied and receive some of the heaviest annual rainfall in North America. Its central mountains include hot springs and glaciers. There’s a U.S. Navy base on the eastern edge along with an artist colony and ferry connections to Seattle.
Listen closely and the underlying mythologies shape a new understanding.
Here is a place where East meets West in its own nature.
~*~
For a free copy of the complete American Olympus, click here.
The conditions that created the desert where we lived created what was sometimes called a “rain shadow.” It was ironic, actually, considering that we got far more sunlight by living on that side of the Cascade Mountains than if we’d been in, what, the rain glow?
Sometimes, though, it seemed to dry up all of our emotions, too.
A journey into the murky places of endless fog, mist, and rain, in contrast, could do wonders in the soul.
~*~
For a free copy of the complete American Olympus, click here.
