To be Home

I like the subject line. I enjoy on these late nights in the northwest the debate of what to call my current activity. Maren left today though, and now my time here will be much less enjoyable.

For having my best friend within driving distance makes a lot of things a lot better.

Now im sitting here about to sleep listening to a new discovery Dosh. A one man musical explosion, it is incredible, sample after sample building on one another into the sonic landscape, once the biggest hit with hipsters. It went over their head after a while i think, it is too much to analyze new forms of old talent. Thus i wont try. It is incredible and the video linked shows it very well.

Brautigan's World

A very dear friend of mine left today for her journey to the Netherlands. In looking through my possessions i came across my tattered paperback of trout fishing in America. I had just re-read it during the idle time between pretending to catch fish. Thinking of Brautigan beside a remote trout pond in the northwest, a similar misty day. His Type writer (true story) and his family set up in a nice camp. His old station wagon parked up on a bluff. As a big trout hits his floating line to the right of his furverous typeing.

Trout fishing in America went on to sell two million copies, i wonder how many of the buyers knew what they were getting into, or gave it the time, soon realising that the very book has well nothing to do in the way of Trout fishing on first glance. In the end the book does, look very deeply at the mindset to catch a fish, a same mindset of meditation.

Chill out, Admire the beauty that is this Northwest frontier.

I think of Richard Brautigan when i drive through the streets of Tachoma Washington. The lazy city, that if you watch close enough eats its young. or so my father says. Yet this is the northwest still as beautiful except the streams caped, and the ramblers built ontop, soon followed by the concrete and so on. Yet in any one direction on a clear day there is always the everygreen in sight, and possibly not to far away a trout or some sort of fish to catch.

Your Catfish Friend

by Richard Brautigan

If I were to live my life
in catfish forms
in scaffolds of skin and whiskers
at the bottom of a pond
and you were to come by
one evening
when the moon was shining
down into my dark home
and stand there at the edge
of my affection
and think, "It's beautiful
here by this pond. I wish
somebody loved me,"
I'd love you and be your catfish
friend and drive such lonely
thoughts from your mind
and suddenly you would be
at peace,
and ask yourself, "I wonder
if there are any catfish
in this pond? It seems like
a perfect place for them."

(post note: I'm in Alaska have been for some time, just re discovered the internet. What a scary place)

Mahmoud Darwish, A creative mind for creative solution, to palestine. 

In Jerusalem
by Mahmoud Darwish
Translated by Fady Joudah

In Jerusalem, and I mean within the ancient walls,
I walk from one epoch to another without a memory
to guide me. The prophets over there are sharing
the history of the holy . . . ascending to heaven
and returning less discouraged and melancholy, because love
and peace are holy and are coming to town.
I was walking down a slope and thinking to myself: How
do the narrators disagree over what light said about a stone?
Is it from a dimly lit stone that wars flare up?
I walk in my sleep. I stare in my sleep. I see
no one behind me. I see no one ahead of me.
All this light is for me. I walk. I become lighter. I fly
then I become another. Transfigured. Words
sprout like grass from Isaiah’s messenger
mouth: “If you don’t believe you won’t believe.”
I walk as if I were another. And my wound a white
biblical rose. And my hands like two doves
on the cross hovering and carrying the earth.
I don’t walk, I fly, I become another,
transfigured. No place and no time. So who am I?
I am no I in ascension’s presence. But I
think to myself: Alone, the prophet Mohammad
spoke classical Arabic. “And then what?”
Then what? A woman soldier shouted:
Is that you again? Didn’t I kill you?
I said: You killed me . . . and I forgot, like you, to die.