Two Hearts part two

The day came when there would be no work. We predicted rain and hail the next day. Regardless of how it looked when we woke up there would be no work. Kip and I planned a trip to the coast to free up our minds. We wanted to see the expansive pacific and maybe remind ourselves how small our problems were. I brought a frozen bottle of mushroom tea for myself and Kip if he wanted- to reinforce it all. We nestled into our trailer the night before. I had finally found a heater and we drank red wine in the warmth of our new comfort. We laughed and mused about our near future. Maybe we would work together the whole summer and keep bees and brew meade and tend a garden together. It would be idyllic times, there was no doubt about that. We were becoming settled in a small established off-the-radar community called Yaklima in southern Oregon. Everyone here seemed to have a niche that they carved out for themselves. There were numerous practical and homey communes hidden in the forested hills of the siskyious. There were people here interested in what we were wanting to learn and they were willing to teach. Their kids had all grown up on the communes and now lived in paris or washington and were republicans and businessmen. Who would inherit their land? Maybe their kids would and turn it into developments, maybe we would.

In the middle of the night Kip awoke, unable to sleep. He tossed and got out of bed. "I'm going for a walk" he said knowing he had woken me. I grumbled into my pillow and said "bring your phone". I woke up at dawn as my phone vibrated and realized he was still out. I answered it and on the other line he said "I'm somewhere on Rock Dole Road." "You're still walking?" I replied. "Yeah" and he hung up. I thought maybe he needed some help but quickly went back to sleep. At ten AM I woke up officially and checked my phone. No missed calls. I gave Kip a ring wondering what he was doing. No one answered but he returned my call shortly after. Had he passed out in the woods somewhere? He said he was in the laundromat in town. He had walked at least ten miles during the night. I remembered the rain now that was pattering against the roof as he called me at dawn. How nice it feels to feel sad sometimes. At a leisurely pace I packed a small bag for us both and headed off towards town. This was our day to go to the coast. I pulled into the laundromat and waited. I sent him a text saying I was outside but he didn't come. I could have just went inside I'm sure but without any laundry to do I would have felt foolish. What was he doing in there? There was a shower.

He called me and said he was on their computer and he was chatting with his girlfriend trying to work out some kinks. We ate breakfast at the closest thing they have to a shitty diner here- a very shitty country style restaurant. I think he ate half of one of his two plate-sized pancakes and I ate my hash-browns and poached eggs with hot sauce and jam.

The road to the coast is windy like a snake and it runs along the smith river. The smith is the color green like an emerald. The serpentine minerals that fill the earth in that area provide the color and they also create a toxic habitat in the rocks where most plants can't or won't live. Only certain plants are suitable to live in that habitat and those that can, like the carnivorous california pitcher plant, won't survive anywhere else.

We passed through the redwoods and descended down to sea level. We listened to an impromptu playlist I put together about heartbreak and travel. Townes Van Zandt, Robert Johnson, Graham Parsons, Loudon Wainwright.

Days full of rain
skys comin' down again
I get so tired
of the same old blues
same old song
Baby, it won't be long
till I be tyin' on
my flyin' shoes
flyin' shoes
till I be tyin' on
my flyin' shoes

The road quickly spat us out on a bluff overlooking the ocean and we smiled and hugged and put our raincoats and gloves on and I drank what of the tea had melted on our way. We ran down a steep two hundred yard long sandy bank and stumbled onto the rocky beach panting. Huge boulders jut out of the break and there were more further off like breaching whales caught petrified for all time; their huge backs the size of small islands. I felt the small confusion in the back of mind beginning to be magnified and felt slightly queasy and unsure of my feet. Kip wandered off to be by himself and I climbed out onto the rocks. There was a mossy peak I wanted to sit on. I crossed a rushing tidal stream that grew foamy and unpassable with each coming wave. The rock was slimy and cold on my hands. At the top of the peak there were succulent flowers and the shell of a crab eaten by sea birds. I sat up there and watched the many layers of waves wash into the shore. I thought hurriedly about what conclusions I should draw. I briefly gave credit to my concerns about the tide coming in and being trapped by the desire not be wet and cold from crossing the too high stream. I tried to find some calm somewhere within me but the more I pursued the idea the more it eluded me. I decided to keep moving and crossed back to more solid ground. Kip had returned and we both climbed a large boulder and drank some water. It was cold and refreshing and sent a shiver through my body. I felt like a wilted plant perking up. We sat and looked at each other and talked about his girlfriend. "Maybe you're right," he said "maybe I just have to let our relationship change. Maybe it would be better to let it be more open. More free."

"Maybe, Kip. Maybe."

"I can forgive her."

"I know you can." I said "but how many more times is this going to happen? Its not the first."

"I know."

We stood and hugged again. No matter how much I really care I can't help but take a little pleasure in the failures of my friends.

"Let's build something." he said

"Alright."

We walked over to a stump that had some driftwood leaning up against it. We began moving things and stacking and leaning this and that. Kip continued with some distant goal in mind while my mind drifted off to other things and my body soon followed. Slowly I wandered off from the project and laid on the warm rocks. I did not know what to do with myself but I had stopped trying to figure it out. I found my hands grabbing rocks and laying them on top of me. One on my forehead, one on each palm and some down my midsection. I felt grounded and without so much indecision. I laid there for several minutes feeling the weight off gravity upon me. I sat up rolling all the stones off of me and grabbed some more. I beat them on the driftwood and made rhythmic patterns. I drew a cryptic cave drawing on a large flat stone with a white chalky rock and grabbed a wet red rock. I held it in my hand and it was soft. It looked just like a human heart-how one really looks. It was part pink and part tan and pale. It meant something to me. The heart symbol had been coming up again and again lately but besides its relation to love and health I struggled to come to any epiphanies. I flipped it to Kip who confirmed it did indeed look like a heart. He tossed it back and I noticed a black stone hidden under a nearby piece of driftwood. The black stone stood out so much that I was shocked how I had not noticed it before. This stone was practically throbbing just a few inches from my foot and it had gone unnoticed. I held a stone in each hand. They both looked like hearts- one black and evil one red and warm. I stared deeply into the black heart and could not look away. It was large and powerful. There was a cobra’s head was swaying about; as if it was trying to put a charm on me. The red heart was confident and quiet. It warmed my hand and reassured me that goodness is real, but that evil must be also. It occurred to me then that these were good rocks and that they held power. They were sacred objects relict from a time when good and bad shone more defined. If they did not contain the powers I felt then they at least would remind me of them. I should keep them. They would travel with me. But what would I need the black heart for? The question occurred to me in direct opposition to my desires. I needed this black stone but I could not reason why. It was a sign of maliciousness. It made me feel powerful, but at some great expense yet unknown. There was a tyranny in it that was uncaring and demure. But maybe I should keep it just to remind myself of the dichotomy. It would remind me that evil is real. That there is a dark and a light. I was strong enough to keep it without it depleting me. I would keep it under my bed and never bring it out unless I needed it. I could handle it I mused.

The red heart sat there unmoving and self-assured. It spoke not in silence but like the evergreens not with words either. I realized then that I would have to make a decision. The red heart was coming with me. It would be a token of the adventure, of one of the far too few times I spent with Kip. It would be a power source when I was weak and hollow. The red heart brought some steadfastness to my self-exploration. I was a child of heart. But the cobra . . . it’s allure was so daunting. It’s power was so convincing and demanding. How could I just throw something like that into the ocean? How many chances does one get like this? How many power objects does one find that embody the mysticism and magic of the mischievous, the dark underbelly of the world- and this was a key. The bloody heart in it’s stolidness and benevolence said “throw it, throw it”. I could hear it talking to my chest completely bypassing my logical brain which sought only to find a reason for keeping the evil stone. I heard “get rid of it”. I struggled. It is possible to overcome the evil and harness both the good and the bad. Could I choose the path of good and still hold onto the relic of evil? I had the ring of power in my hand and the universe was waiting for me to make a decision. I held the petrified black heart in my hand for a moment longer and bit my lip and tossed it as far as I could out to the water. It splashed along the edge of the break and it was gone- sunken beneath the hoary water.

I immediately felt a weight lifted and an easy joy come to me. I smiled. I looked at Kip struggling to lift some last piece of driftwood into place among his intricate rock stacks and colorful fan of arranged debris. I ran over to help him and as we got the last few pieces in place Kip smiled and said “Happy Thanksgivin old boy!”. I stepped back and it was a turkey! He had made a driftwood turkey the size of a mini cooper on the beach. What a guy. We took a few minutes to admire the bird and with the clouds rolling in again and light rain beginning we decided to get going.

I went and shook the hands of a couple important plants and said goodbye to the stream trickling down the hillside. They each replied in their own dignified way and smiled.

We drove back home to our cozy trailer a bit more confident in whatever decisions we would make. The rain grew heavy and we turned the music loud singing Bob Dylan numbers the whole way home.

Don't the moon look good, mama,
Shinin' through the trees?
Don't the brakeman look good, mama,
Flagging down the Double Es?
Don't the sun look good
Goin' down over the sea?
Don't my gal look fine
When she's comin' after me?

Two Hearts

We had been building an outdoor kitchen in February and March. The mornings were cold and there were many days we called it early because of hail and rain coming down from the coast over Hope mountain: the snow peaked monolith whose shadow we always stood in. When it was too cold to work and too cold to hike or fish Kip and I would just hole up in our little Dolphin mobile home and read or drink. The rain beat on the tarp covering the holes in the roof and the wind shook our little house back and forth. Sometimes after being in the rocking mobile I would step out onto the ground and still feel it swaying beneath me as if I was trying to sleep after being on a boat all day. There were two beds and small sink. We had no running water except from a tap outside we used to fill up our empty wine jugs. There was a small working propane stove and an electric refrigerator, a few drawers and small closet with a tv stacked on top of a toilet underneath the shower spout. We never opened that door.

The quarters grew tighter as the days got worse. Kip was working on preserving a four-year relationship. He was trying to mend it or at least be sure that he wanted to break it off after a hiatus they went on turned sour. She was still sending love e-mails to an old professor- more beautiful and poetic than she had ever sent him and she had given a blowjob to one of his friends too. But of course- they were on break. Kip was spending more and more time sitting on my computer, sitting on my bed. The typing, the staring and intensity of their predicament further compounded my claustraphobia.

"but I don't know if we want the same things anymore" he would murmur into the telephone.

"I know it was a break, I can't be angry at you for that- but" she would say something back. "It just shows that we aren't in the same place that I thought we were". Then he concluded: "Well, if you love me so much, the burden is on you. Come out here and prove it to me. Come to Oregon".

I would lay on the bed next to him and read or drink and listen to music faintly so as not to disturb them. I would toss and turn waiting for him to be done so that we could talk or drink together. He came to Oregon, we both came to Oregon to see each other. Neither of us really wanted this job. I was on my way to West Oakland to do carpentry and live in a group house of people who consider themselves in-this-world-but-not-of-it and he was going to New Mexico to read Cormac McCarthy and maintain trails. Now the walls were getting closer and closer.

We both were happy people- jovial even. Kip brought it out in me. But I knew that it was just calm waters on top and the dark sea floor was- well, dark. I could feel things moving about, churning and settling. But I was blind to the motions of my subconscious. It was the strange settling feeling that upset me the most. I could feel this time approaching for months now maybe. I knew I was going to have to take action and I had finally reached the tipping point.

To Be Continued . . . .

Love Drugs and Poetry

This blog- dormant now for over a year and past its prime for close to four years was never as big on Love as the title suggests. And it was not so much about Drugs as it was experimentation. Poetry it had. Poetry it was and synergy and youthful exuberance. This blog was not started by me, but I was one of the first to contribute to the over 700 posts. We started as friends who lived very near each other- who maybe saw each other too much. Indeed some outsiders dubbed us The Cult. Ha, well we loved each other even if there were not so many tales of romance. Personally, I always find that talk to be personal. Over the months and years we gathered more people to contribute, some friends of friends, some faceless internet scoundrels and deviants who shared our hearts and thoughts. I even met one of these, Kelly Peach, randomly and through painstaking coincidence while I was hitchhiking through WA and stayed for a few nights on her juggling-farm.

Where have these people gone? What are on our thoughts now?

I'm afraid that these old motifs may not play out so well now as they once did. Our innocence is lost. Even one (at least) of our members is dead now. My drug experimentation has turned into habit, what love i pined for and never chose to speak about still prefers to go unspoken and may be even more sparse. Poetry. Poetry i have.

So, this blog is not what it once was. In fact it is nothing. It is dead. There is no phoenix either. There is only ash.

Is this what happens to a fire when it burns so bright? It exhausts itself? Well, if there is anything I am learning it is persistence. And I may be dead. This blog may be crushed and ruined but it will not fade away. Not from my mind. Not until this rain stops.

So let this grow, let this alter, let this blog be what it may. Let it descend into tales of habit, longing and poetry.

Speaking of the Miraculous Persistence of the Human.

Privacy, Habit and Poetry.

w

.

I welcome the water 

after the whiskey

my well-being is washing

down the waistline of winter

the war is wailing

but not in the west

here, we just wait.

I wake up and walk

and welcome

the white snow.

all these woes,

and all i can say is

whoa. we're

just wasting

away.

isn't it wonderful?

bed

outside my bed
there is a cold dead winter;
gravity kneading its knuckles
crunching down the vertebrae.
there is a world of war and worry
cancer and clear cuts
millions of internet bloggers
and telemarketers,
tellin' you they know what it's
all about (maybe they do)
outside of these covers
there is a deflating world
hissing out the last of the helium,
the streets are whited out
and in all angles
there is an ever expansive
sanctuary of suffering
my bed is
my guardian,
my forgetfullness

hey

in the interest of not sitting around and doing nothing with my time off i think i'm going to start writing again. i wrote really crappily after i stopped doing coke all the time and my mind tried tricking me into thinking that i can only write well if i give in and buy some yayo. it did that with a lot of things. coke sucks. anyways, i've got a blog at electricfeel.wordpress.com where i'll be putting up anecdotes and progress into poems or short stories as i get used to the flow of actually writing again. check it out sometime.

quiet, i'm drinking

My liver claws at my inner intestines when the third glass of port wine
Falls from my bent hand
Get me the fuck out of this rib cage
He says
Drown me in mercury,
He says.
Donate me to that woman in the wheelchair
Who got smothered by the grate of that F-350
I’m not exactly at ease in here,
He says.
But, thank the devil
I have my headphones on
And I can’t hear him complaining.
It’s just a silent mumble
In my chest
Just a sparking flint
In my chest
Let me extinguish that flame
With a fourth and final glass
Of port