A Clock is a Fine Thing

I found these mysterious poems amidst some old files. The document was merely titled "A Clock is a Fine Thing."

The cool breeze blows a breath of air

refreshing hearts and winding clocks

who show that time passes as pumped by blood

and I love you for your clock

The seasons change with warmth and cold

They sow their oats in wind and rain

Theirs is the dance with time

and I love you for your seasons

May the winds take you where they will

but may you build a sail to navigate the waves

of time and seasons.

---

In the universal world where we love

I want it heard that the tones we play

are songs for two or more,

that they open doors for things to come.

In the inevitable space where we part

I want it said that Galaxy and Universe

will find it in their hearts

to bring you back to me someday.

---

Sound waves change

and so do I

I see it in the screen

I see it in the ups and downs

I have seen you when you’re blue

and see you when you’re green

and all those other colors

makin’ you so mean

But now it's time to find a

mellow shade for the long haul.

We’ll ride down streets

in ancient carts together.

Sound waves change

and so do I

I see it in the screen

I see it in the ups and downs

Skipping Stones (an encounter with a former self)

Do you ever get the feeling that some strange omniscient being or cosmic entity is trying to tell you something? Perhaps, once in a while, the threads of time get tangled up and you wonder if there aren't any coincidences, only the natural flow of things. What's especially strange is when these two phenomena collide. Stranger yet, what happens if that entity happens to be a former self? Recently, I had the chance to find out. Let me explain...

I found an old journal from a couple years back today. In it were observations from student teaching experiences, a few poems, a short essay, and some philosophical and background notes for a novel I am still working on to this day. The novel, as well as my outlook on life, has changed, but maybe now's as good a time as any to dig up this old ghost, this optimistic philosopher I once was, and stare him in the face: we'll definitely have a good argument or two. In any case, some of my ideology has changed so much (for the worse, I believe), that some of these ideas were a real kick in the pants. I had a hard time reading some of the notes because, in some ways, I have so quickly become a person I never wanted to become. I also had to look up some of the vocabulary (pollyanna) my former self seemed to pull off with no sweat. Smarty-pants show-off. I'll also say he was, on occasion, trying a bit to hard to show off his newly-attained "flowery" language skills. I'll do as little editing as possible to be true to my former self.

Below are some excerpts from notes as well as the essay/short story:

We'll start with the essay.

Note: This is a long post, I know. However, I promise that if you read the notes at the end first, it will be worth it.

Skipping Stones

Stone skipping has always been one of the fond memories in my life. Whether it be the ocean, the river, or my grandmother's lake, casting that first rock into the water was always a release for me. Finding that somewhat oblong, smooth stone in the sand, running through the cool water, and then finally sending it out into the world is something that has always been a calming and soothing activity. If catharsis is interpreted as the act of spiritual renewal and the release of tension, skipping stones was this for me.

On the shores of the Pacific Ocean, just outside the Redwood National Forest, there were many stones that would slice through the bountiful crashing waves that slipped inland via a small stream running from the forest of redwoods to the east. In a sense, the comic [yet tragic] nature of this tributary was a symbol of how life hits you: the small stream, fast and narrow, opens suddenly into an ocean of possibility. Somewhere in between, a chaos of salt and fresh water intermingle in confusion, and suddenly an unknown burst of purpose drives that water out into the ocean.

"No strings attached," some would say, becomes the longed-for outcome of the harrowing trip down that rocky stream. Living life side-by-side with freedom and forgoing a life of responsibility seems like the ultimate nirvana to some of us, but, as I stood looking out into that ocean, I knew that finding that possibility meant more than living my life as care-free as I had previously wanted. The tiny stream had now changed in my mind; it became one who dared to confront that ocean head-on. An entity so bold, it chose to face the largest, most impossible of challenges directly against all odds.

When the stream had the choice to continue on through the redwoods, it chose to merge with its supposed destiny: possibility. At that moment, I realized that the ocean was no longer the outcome of the journey, but the beginning of a new journey all together. I reached down for my first stone and cast it out towards the horizon. The stone skipped once or twice between the ocean waves, then collided with one goliath the ocean had sent inland. Needless to say, the ocean did not seem friendly on that day, so the stone found its way to the belly of the ocean floor.

I was always fascinated by how rocks moved within a body of water. The rock that I had cast into the ocean that day would soon become a pebble, then a grain of sand on the beach. I wouldn't see the grain of sand (perhaps no man would), but the rock would return from the sea eventually.

What does this mean in regards to the metaphor, then? Is it possible that possibility is really a means for refinement? That this ocean, this Nirvana, spits you back into the world so that you are better, more efficient, more refined, yet only one of many grains of sand? At that point, it all seemed paradoxical to me.

Many years after this experience, I would learn some of the answers to these questions. However, at that moment I returned to picking up the next rock and sending it out into a new world of possibility. This time, though not a perfect skip, the stone rode the waves out into the ocean: one, two, three. The horizon and the stone met for one instant, and then the stone disappeared into the dark blue water.

The single, seemingly monotonous act of skipping stones would continue on as a highlight for me throughout my young life. There were many times when going to the shores of the Chippewa River became a time of thought, of self-reflection. There were other times when throwing rocks was just that: philosophy dissolved, and there we were, just me and the rock.

NOTES FOR NOVEL:

Show

People are inherently good. The dilemma, for some, is that there is a gray area. I think this is more black and white in a way. First, this is my belief. The goal is not to change people's beliefs. It is to show them that I have experienced people being inherently good. "If you wait long enough, people will surprise and impress you." - Randy Pausch

I believe people are good and that is a choice I make. I would rather be disappointed, giving people the benefit of the doubt, [rather] than expecting the worst.

---

Tell

A case for change. Reform in regards to: If more people take the time to explore, as well as [go] back to nature, things become refreshed and rejuvenated.

Show

Broken dreams made new- Dreams are good to keep alive. Though most people think this means following through with an unmoving dream, like a boulder, my idea is that a dream is something that is flexible. Realistic dreams are as bad as low expectations. Having unrealistic dreams, seemingly unattainable, drive us towards doing the impossible, attaining the unimaginable. However, dreams change in the flux that is life; dreams move from one thing to another. But, dreams have a root or focus. This is where people have trouble achieving their dreams because they don't realize the true longing that comes in that dream: security, love, belonging, hope, fun, freedom, etc.

---

"Blessed is he who expects nothing, for he shall never be disappointed" (Alexander Pope) is a saying for the weak. Those who do not have expectations will not and do not ever fully experience life. Having high expectations in life leads to many disappointments, but it also allows you to find passion, explore, love, and go beyond what you have before. Having high expectations brings you experience. Just as the sun rises, [having high expectations] brings hope for the new day ahead, and the sunset can console and repair a broken heart. People who do not have high expectations will never experience the full gamut of human emotion. Instead, they experience a numbness with the world around them. They do no see sunrises and sunsets with the child-like wonder of three-year-olds, but with the weary eyes of a man or woman who no longer sees the world as a mechanism of constant, changing desire or an optimistic smile across a stranger's face. Rather, they see a fool's paradise, a Pollyanna's pipe dream. Is this not the greatest disappointment of all? To share the heart of the stone you rest upon, to grow so numb that you can't feel the grass beneath your feet?

---

Unrequited love- Not in the sense of a romantic quest, but as a means towards finding something in life that is meaningful. The impetus for inspiring dreams. This ties back to expectations. Expectations are good if we use failures to motivate us. We can't obsess over things that we cannot change- experiences in the past, other people's perceptions of us, our actions in the past. We can, however, change and improve ourselves based on past experiences as well as our failed and achieved expectations.

---

The thing I want to get across is that expectation is good. No matter the outcome, whether it be disappointment or the achievement of these expectations, we are better off being hopeful and optimistic in our lives.

"When we try to pick out anything by itself, we find it hitched to everything else in the universe." - John Muir

A Pair of (Minimalist) Queens

Ever since being turned on to the likes of Feist and Regina Spector of pop fame, possibly even since, long ago, I was turned on to Nico of The Velvet Underground or the big three: Ella, Sarah, and Billie, I've been an admirer of the female vocalist. Even better when they rock out on their respective instruments. There's just something about a girl and a guitar, I guess...

Anyhow, I've got a couple of choice picks for you to consider for your listening pleasure:

Lia Ices: Grown Unknown

I heard a track on this album recently that really caught my attention. There seems to be an uncanny balance between minimalism and complexity here. I'm not talking about quantum physics-type complexity, but merely a thickness not usually produced by just a handful of instruments. In "Love is Won," instrumentation consists mainly of drums and piano, with a smattering of organ for emphasis(nice drawbar settings, by the way). The song follows a simple change and is reinforced by a fairly simple, on the down beat, drum line, but something makes the song remarkable. It could be Lia Ices' voice, a fragile sounding ambience, yet in the driver's seat lead, but I think there is some sort of eclectic sound built in the plain. This album is far from plain in the traditional sense of the word, but it would be a nice, easy listen for one of these upcoming rainy spring days. Justin Vernon, that by-now-ubiquitous Jack of all trades, even lends some support to his fellow label mate's latest effort.

Zoo Animal

Fronted by Holly Newsom, this trio is dynamic in their minimalistic efforts. I recently had the opportunity to witness their music/awkward stage banter live, and I have to admit that even the awkward stage banter impressed me. Like their music, the stage banter was just them doing their own thing. The uniqueness of Newsom's voice again stands out, but she also expertly weaves guitar-picking and melody lines into one natural flow. A few minimalistic guitar solos later, you hardly notice that this is three separate musicians playing in a band as opposed to a single entity itself. The bass grooves of Tim Abramson along with a solid drummer (Thom Burton) really solidify the wholeness of the sound. They just seem to all click. Once again, this group is, what I would define as, minimalism with a knockout punch.

War |pronounced: ləv| According to Bukowski

A drunk, a compulsive gambler, and a lecher. A prophet, a poet, and a wordsmith. The former sounds like the beginning of a "walk into a bar" joke, while the latter resembles some kind of a cultured saint. Heralded as one of the great poets around the bend of the twentieth century, Charles Bukowski was deemed both of these men. Somewhere in his middle-aged life (though there is solid evidence it wasn't any sort of sudden epiphany), Bukowski decided he was done with the workingman's life and turned to writing. That's not exactly how it happened, but, for all practical purposes, it was.

In the true spirit of Bukowski, he wouldn't want me analyzing his life anyhow. I won't pretend to know him from reading his books, but there are a few things I can tell you about him. Most certainly, his writing can tell you about him. In fact, I'd say that Love is a Dog from Hell is a pretty good starting point as to what Charles Bukowski is all about. Cut out the B.S. and let Bukowski bring you down or up to his level of existence. I guess, like the eternal struggle between good and evil, Heaven and Hell, it's up to you to decide which direction you're headed with this read. Is there, contained within these pages, a good answer to the question "Is love really a dog from Hell?" I guess it depends on where you stand yourself. Bukowski isn't really going to tell you one way or the other in any of the poems contained in this book.

Bukowski liked to imagine himself a fighter, going into the ring with his audience, and that's often how he approached his own relationships, it seems. I fear, at this point, Bukowski might be rolling in his grave based on my crossing the line. The truth is, I really don't know him at all. I can, however, tell you what I get from his poetry and novels.

The subject matter ranges anywhere from the pitfalls of women to classical music, from horse tracks to booze fests, from utter contempt to pure love... sometimes all in a single line. He's certainly not for everybody, but there's a reason he is one of the most imitated poets of the modern era. He'll take you from the toilet seat to the proverbial mountaintop. It's like digging for buried treasure in a peat bog or musty swamp: sometimes you just want to quit, go home, and take a shower, but you know, if you just stick it out through all the dirt and grime, something really good'll come of it.

I don't know that there's too much waiting around for the buried treasure in the case of Bukowski, but if you look between the coarse language, the lover's quarrels, the binge drinking, the objectification of women, and all the other crap that somehow makes Bukowski who he is as a dislikable reject of a human being, you begin to realize that those are also the things that make him one of the most irresistible and inspirational as a person and writer. Sometimes diving down into the muck is where you get the greatest clarity, and Bukowski's muse seems to have been one dirty needle shy of a dying junky, one last trifecta bet away from a flat broke gambler, and one messed up relationship away from suicide. The awe-inspiring part is this: if I were a betting man, I'd say that's the way he liked it. I think he also preferred cats.

Sincerely Yours, HST

Are you a Fear and Loathing fan? A Hunter S. Thompson fanatic? Do you want to bask in the fortunate compulsiveness and foresight of an eccentric writer who saved all of his letters in the stubborn and cocky knowledge that he would one day become famous and publish them for all to read? Perhaps you're just interested in all those postcard romance books these days. The Proud Highway: Saga of a Desperate Southern Gentleman (1955-1967) will do you some good on all counts.

The book, more a collection of one-way letters written by a young and irreverent Hunter Thompson, shows his rise over the course of twelve years, from a pondering (and scared) pseudo-journalist to popular author. As an added bonus, the reader gets insight into the Hunter Thompson many of his contemporaries loved to hate. Even in his own writing in these letters, Thompson seems entirely aware of the dichotomy between two battling personalities. One is a sardonic, opinionated, no-holds barred extremist-jokester with a hankering for stirring up mischief and going against the grain. The other, a hopeless and failing romantic type with a doomed urge to roam and ramble, seems often too willing to take the backseat.

His letters to editors, famous authors, bill collectors, lovers, friends, family, and more all seem to form a written personal biography of a man known today only as a legend. The fact that we only see Thompson's side of things doesn't seem to really matter; it's more fun to imagine responses based on footnotes and reactions from Thompson in follow-ups. Though situations are sometimes blown out of proportion by the mind of the man himself, this collection shows a personal side of Hunter S. Thompson that reveals more about the man behind the bite.

Even then, HST still knows how to put on a show for the audience, interspersing social commentary, philosophical waxing, manic depression, and hilariously sarcastic anecdotes from his own life. Ultimately, these letters are more than a birthday card from your grandmother, they tell about a person, a way of life, and a period in history when a broke, unpublished writer could live on no money and still own a black Jaguar convertible. Or maybe that was only in the case of Hunter S. Thompson, a man who clearly believed he could get away with anything he wanted and laugh at his own personal joke, sick or sane, all along the way.

Ray of Light

Rightfully so, Ray Charles has been deemed by many to be one of the original creators of soul music. As with many artists whose longevity is almost mystical, Ray was the ultimate shapeshifter. Going from jazz to country western to psychedelic circles, Ray was able to stand the test of time in his marketing and business savvy, his ambition, and, ultimately, his creativity in the way he approached music.

Though the Ray Charles sound is unmistakable on hits like "Georgia on my Mind" to "Hit the Road Jack!", his true genius lies in the root of it all: the root that stems from having a tough go at it, the root that shows us what it's like to be at the bottom looking up, and the root that reveals just a tiny pinhole of light shedding through if at all. The blues. The notion that we can't always get what we want when we want it, and that, sometimes, it's even harder to get what we need.

The Genius Sings the Blues seems to encapsulate the true meaning of the word. From lonesome heartbreak to hopeful cry in the night, from fiery romance to forging on ahead, Ray Charles shows off the range of the blues itself. From more commonly-known Ray tunes such as "Hard Times" and "The Right Time" to earlier tunes like "The Midnight Hour", Ray shows how the blues doesn't get much more blue than this. This album seems to say, "If you're on the up and up you better cross your lucky stars, or, even better, say a cautious prayer of thanks at the edge of your bed at night because the blues can be hiding around anybody's corner." Do yourself a favor and, whether you find yourself on the high side of the tide or the low, listen to brother Ray tell you how it is. If you find yourself fortunate for what you've got or find solace in the fact that someone else is also missing what they had, you'll be better off whichever way you cut it.