Words Of Guidance

Namaste and welcome. I've been working hard on getting caught up with the blog, and I'm excited for people to check out some of my new work. As the years go by, my blog mentality is changing. I'm using this blog more and more as a home for writings that might not have a place in my books.

There's lots of new work here, and I'm still adding more. But blogs are weird. I mean the way they are organized. As you read, you go down, of course. But as you go from one piece to the next, you have to move up--the top being the newest. And the more I think about it, the more I realize the different needs of different readers.

So, perhaps you want to know what's new. If you're after the brand new stuff, you can scroll down or click on these: a poem about fall, a story about buzzards, some writing notes, some car writing, more thoughts on writing, words on my first march, a D.C. mission, and some words about the good old sweat garage.

Or, perhaps you haven't been here in a long while. In which case you might want to check out: the sparkling forest, thoughts on soccer and sound, a link to free music, a NYC mission, the spider walk, a big travel piece with writing and photos, or some wild static.

And if you've never been here. There's all kinds of stuff, such as: one from the old bike tour days, a piece about President Obama's Inauguration, some barefoot weirdness, thoughts on things, and of course, the always popular, travels with Marley.

Thanks again, and have fun and safe travels,

Jeff

green and gold and the magic of fall

I started walking today

without any words in my head,

just walking,

out the door,

up the sidewalk,

make a right

and down the street.

but when I made

that right turn

I saw something beautiful.

it was October,

leaves were starting

to change,

still lots of green

but the gold was growing.

down low,

the locust trees

were almost all gold.

up high—

and here comes the beautiful thing—

the tulip poplars were still very green.

high above

the neighborhood rooftops,

my eyes found

one big and very unique

poplar tree.

its great bulbous canopy

was nearly all green

except for a pocket

of golden leaves,

near the center of the tree.

the golden patch

stood out exquisitely

in the true and even light

of a rainy afternoon.

I saw this poplar

tree and now the words

were springing up

in my mind.

but Marley didn’t

want to just stand there.

his dog-eyed

view of the world

was taking him forward.

he had lots of smelling to do,

lots of p-mail to check.

“okay Marley,” I said.

as we walked on.

then,

maybe fifteen minutes later,

we came to the turn-around moment,

one of the happiest

parts of the walk.

once we turn around,

I am no longer walking away.

now, I am walking back,

back to the pages that

are waiting to be filled

in my writing room.

I walked a little faster

on the way back.

now, not only did I have the

writing to look forward to,

but I had this poplar tree

with the golden patch in the center.

and I was singing the song

in my head as I walked along:

“I’ve been to Hollywood.

I’ve been to Redwood.”

then we came to the place

where I saw the poplar

tree for the first time.

I looked above the rooftops.

there it was,

with leaves undulating gently

to the subtle action of the air,

a quivering image

made from trillions

and trillions

and trillions of cells.

the tree had a confident stance,

tall, straight, with leafy chest

puffed out proudly,

and in the center

a huge

ten-foot

heart of gold.

Bike Lights Are Pretty Bright These Days

I decided I'm not going to document this summer's trip on the blog. I'm not feeling it. It just doesn't feel right to divide up a big beautiful summer adventure into little posts on a blog. I still believe that books are the best way to tell these stories. I'm not saying I'll never blog about another summer adventure. I probably will. I'm just saying that right now I'm not. But I am going to write about the road.

There's something I have been meaning to write about. It happened a little while back, just another evening in the universe. I needed to go to the store, and I decided to ride my bike. It wasn't dark yet, but the sun had set. It was twilight, that great time of the night that I love. I rode to the store, locked up, and did some quick shopping.

When I came out of the store, I saw buzzards flying and bedded down for the night in the tall pine trees behind the grocery store. Also, there were buzzards on top of the store (I couldn't see them, but I knew they were there from my other observations). As I was unlocking my bike, I heard a big horn go off--one of those can-sized air horns. A store employee was trying to scare off the buzzards. It made me kind of sad. Some flew away. But I had a feeling they would be back, later. The store wasn't open that late. Or maybe they would go somewhere else. There were lots of great trees around.

I was thinking about the buzzards as I got on my bike and turned on my lights. I have a set of bright lights: a strong two-watt light in the front, and a super blinking red light in the back. They really do have some great bike lights out there these days. The LED technology makes things possible. I was also wearing my bright green safety vest. I didn't really need the lights to see the road. I had them on just for safety.

I started riding up the hill. I was still thinking about the buzzards, because as I rode up the hill I could look over and see them in the pine trees to my left. Then I felt my right pocket vibrate. I pulled over to the right side of the road and took the call. It was my mother. I forget what we talked about. Because soon after I picked up my phone, a car pulled over next to me. It was a Camero or something, some blue sporty thing. A young guy was driving with a young girl sitting next to him. They weren't teenagers, but they were younger than me. I was still on the phone, but I looked at them. They had the windows down. I sensed their fear. The driver said, "Are we being pulled over?"

Wow. I just looked at this guy. Were my lights really that bright? I guess some combination of the lights and my official looking vest and my helmet, and maybe even the phone. Or maybe his guiltiness was part of it. Jeez. I just looked at this guy and couldn't believe it. And I was still on the phone.

"No, man. I am not a cop." I could see him and the girl relax a little. They had gotten away from a beast that wasn't really there. Now they were free. But for a few moments, they were trapped and busted.

The car drove off and I finished the phone call. A very weird and wonderful moment on the side of the road. I thought about it, did a little Sherlocking, but it was hard to get any firm conclusions. People do things and people think things. Go out into the world, and things will happen.

Well, it'll make a good story, I concluded. I got back to riding. Same old road, but different thoughts. I kept thinking. It had to have been because of the lights. My lights were on the flashing mode--which kind of makes a hectic strobing that does resemble those car-top police lights. And there's the brightness. The light really carries. Like I said, bike lights are pretty bright these days.

Desperation Days -- Phish 2011

The desperation days were upon me. It was June. Soon it would be time to leave. I still had lots of pages to write so I could get to the last sentence of the book. The goal was to keep the wordflow going--write a good book and get to the end and then celebrate with a road trip. I had to finish the draft before I left.

I was used to writing all day and all night. The writing days had been good. I just kept on moving forward. One of the biggest challenges to the modern writer is little thing called writer's distraction. There's a lot going on. You have to focus.

And what do you do when Phish comes to town? I knew I had to see them play, but I also knew I had to write. Phish was playing two shows. On Saturday, I wrote during the day and went to the show at night. On Sunday, my day was occupied. My plan was to skip the show and write at night. Then I got the idea: why not do both. I would go to the show, bring my notes, and sit there and write with pen and paper. Phish would play and I would write.

This writing mission actually worked better than I ever thought. The show was about three hours and I wrote about ten pages. I sat near the back, near the trunk of a great tree. I wore ear plugs and I sat on the ground. A lady named Carol came over to talk with me a little bit, but for most of the show no one said anything to me. I just sat there and wrote. Phish was working. I was working. It really felt good.

Later on, these two guys stopped by and I got one of them to take a photo of me. I needed to document the desperation writing (see photo below).

The title, desperation days, is just what happens when you get deep into a book. Every moment becomes this precious thing, and you work all day and night, as much as you can, just moving toward the goal. The desire to write is so great that it's incredible. But you still want to live your life and have fun--maybe go to a concert or two. The mind makes things possible. I'm glad I got the idea to do both. Desperation days call for creative thinking.

The thing with desperation days is that you know they are happening. I even told Carol that I was in my desperation days. I said, "I absolutely have to finish this book before I go on the road." She seemed to understand. She was sitting maybe thirty feet in front of me. She liked to look back every so often. I just kept writing. It's the only way.

The Museums Are Like Libraries

It was Ilyse and Travis and I on this D.C. mission. Travis thought of this photo. I took it. We were outside the National Gallery of Art. I believe the Allen Ginsberg photography exhibit was gone at this point. It was almost closing time, but we still went inside and enjoyed the permanent collection for about thirty minutes.

Museums are like libraries for the fleeting fine art moments of time.

One Night in Princeton -- I Could Write Ten Pages About This

Travis and I went to the Shawangunk Mountains of New York for another training trip. The climbing was great. And driving by New York City was an exciting thing. We almost stopped on the way back. But Manhattan was a little out of the way, and we were fatigued from an all-day climbing session.

We went to Princeton instead. Princeton, New Jersey. It was right on the way. We got there around eleven o'clock on a Saturday night. We unpacked the folding bikes (Travis always keeps bikes in the car) and we set out to explore the campus.

It was a great night to see Princeton. College kids were walking around. I was going out of my mind overhearing conversations. We biked around, stopped to listen, rode up and down some cool ledges and ramps and hills, and at one point I said, "I could write ten pages about this night."

It's true. I really could. But not right now. We saw hemlock trees and heard the silly talk of young passersby. We finished the coffee we had and then got more coffee. We kept biking. The buildings were all lit up. All the old stone buildings and the lights reminded us of Loyola in Baltimore, another campus that was good for cruising.

One highlight for me was this moment that happened by this fountain. I had been mostly observing everything that was going on. My camera hand wasn't quite as active as it often is. Anyway, we were by this fountain when I got the idea for a photo. I told Travis to ride by slowly. I knew how to set my camera, and I got the shot on the first take. Here it is, a combination of the fountain lights and Travis on his bike and the Princeton night:

Training For Summer (And the Drums of Old Rag)

The days are really filling up. It's fantastic. I love it. So much to do. I won't use the four-letter B-word like so many people do (you know, B-U-S . . . ). That word gets overused and it often has a negative connotation. Everything is okay. Every week I'm awake for about 112 hours. That's so much time. It really is.

I only have a few months till I'll be on the road with Travis and Graham. I need to get ready. I have books to write before I leave. I have books to read too. There are climbing techniques to learn. We're going to Yosemite. And there will be many days of rock climbing. It's time to train and get in shape.

My mind is pretty tough--writing days and book days will do this to you. But sitting all day is not the best for the body. I've been riding my bike more. And I've been climbing more. It's the only way. The best way to train for something is to do that something that you're going to be doing.

Recently, I've been climbing a lot with Travis. We've been talking about big walls. Yosemite has many great big walls. We've been climbing locally and also going on weekend trips.

One weekend trip took us to Old Rag. Travis and I went with Hilary and Graham. We drove down on a Friday, camped, woke up, then climbed to the top of Old Rag. We went up and over and found the rock climbing area. Old Rag is great for hiking, but you can also climb there. Anyway, Travis and I got up on the rock. Hilary was reading. Graham went off to explore. Then I heard a banging. Graham had found a dead branch and was banging on a dead tree with it. I heard this and I saw this from up on the rock. I really enjoyed his drumming. It was really beautiful. "Graham, that's beautiful," I said.

"I'm just banging on a dead tree," said Graham. "I might be getting bored." I told him to keep drumming, but he could only do it for so long. Travis knew a cool place, a nearby ridge. And Graham went off to explore the ridge.

Travis and I kept climbing. It was nice being up on the rock. We could look down and see Hilary with her book. And we could look off and see Graham on the rocky ridge. The sun was out. The buzzards were flying nearby. Everything felt right. And I could still hear that great hollow wooden tune that Graham had been drumming with a big broken branch and a dread tree trunk that was lying on the mountainside.

Crazy Times At The Symphony

The plan was to write all day and then go to the symphony at night. The writing went well, and then it was evening, time to pause the writing and eat some food and then go outside for a walk. Then I got dressed. My writing clothes were too casual. I put on some nicer pants and a button-up shirt. As for shoes: my main dress shoes were my leather boat shoes, and they had become my indoor house shoes (for the winter). So I wasn't in the mood to take them outside.

I saw my old brown dress shoes and they spoke to me. They were dusty. They had been hanging out in the shoe holder on the back of my door. They were more than ten years old, but they were good shoes. They were the oldest shoes I had. But they still fit. I laced up my old brown shoes. It was time to go.

My mother and I drove to the symphony building, an old high school building in Annapolis, Maryland. We parked the car in the big parking lot and walked toward the building. My shoes felt more comfortable than I remembered, as if there was more cushioning or something.

When I got to the sidewalk by the old brick building, I noticed that a few little rocks had stuck to the bottoms of my shoes. When you're walking on a smooth hard surface, little things that are stuck to your soles tend to stand out. I heard the scraping, stopped, looked shoeward, and pulled off some of the little rocks. My mother saw me. I said, "I guess there's something sticky on here from a long time ago." You see, I hadn't worn the shoes in years.

We went inside, got some coffee, drank it, then got ready to go into the big room where the symphony was warming up. Like a good concertgoer, I made use of the bathroom before taking my seat. It was then I noticed the problem. The soles of my old shoes were falling apart. Little chunks of old rubber had broken off. I saw them on the bathroom floor. I locked myself in a stall and looked at my soles. They looked like shit, full of parking lot pebbles and dust and dirt, and also around they edges they were breaking. Little chunks of rubber broke off like little brown icebergs. Okay, I thought, I'll just have to walk carefully.

I walked as easy as I could. I tried not to bend my soles. This was hard. You bend your soles a lot when you walk. I walked slow and easy--a floating shuffle step. The area by the auditorium doors was all crowded. Good cover. I casually looked down. Little brown rubber chunks on the old granite floor. I smiled. It was funny. But I also felt a little self conscious. My big fear was that someone would see my shoes and the rubber chunks and call me out. I was not in a crowd of drunken rock and rollers. Classical music fans are usually pretty sharp. Did they see me? Did they notice? Was anyone following the bread crumbs my shoes were leaving?

Instead of the main isle, I took the side isle. I walked to my seat with cool confidence. It's the best way anyway. Once I was seated, I was safe. Of course I had to explain my old shoe breakdown blues to my mother. Luckily no one was sitting right next to us. I took off a shoe and showed her. They sole looked even worse, with big cracks and crevasses and jagged rubber edges.

The Annapolis Symphony Orchestra started playing. I tried to enjoy the music, but my mind was going wild about my old shoes. The shoes themselves provided some craziness, but there was also the walking. Challenges walking, walking blues. I felt trapped. I felt trapped in a crazy kind of way. When your shoes fall apart at the symphony, you can't really walk around in stocking feet. I looked down. I enjoyed the music, but it was impossible to turn off the flow of thoughts in my mind. The craziness had found me. I was in my own story. But what would happen?

The big work that night was the Mendelssohn Violin Concerto in E Minor. I dug this piece, and the soloist was good, of course (you don't become a touring soloist unless you got it), but my mind kept going back to my shoes. I had taken my feet out of the shoes. My theory was that they heat from my feet was warming up the rubber and facilitating the breakdown.

I heard the music. I watched the musicians. All their shoes looked so good. All black and shinny under the bright lights above the stage. When the music got wild and crazy, it seemed to be soundtracking right along with my mind. A tightness was building in my bladder. I was contemplating one word at this point: intermission. I had to walk to the bathroom. And I had to wear my shoes. But my shoes were getting worse. My big fear was that the whole sole would just cleave off, and someone would notice and call me out. Because how do you hide from your shoes?

Intermission time came, and I took the less-traveled side isle (right by the auditorium wall), and only a few chunks fell. The floor of the auditorium was carpeted. I left a few chunks. Then I left a few more chunks in the hallways and the bathroom, where I checked my soles again. The crevasses were getting bigger. The broken off chunks were getting bigger too.

I slow-walked back to my seat. "It's getting pretty bad," I said to my mother. "Big pieces are falling off now." I decided to pick off the ones that were hanging on. They came off very easy. Some were as big as Matchbox cars. I put these chunks in my program and wrapped them up. Like I said, I was glad no one was sitting next to me. I was sitting near the end of a row, near the wall.

And when the gig was over, I walked out of there and I felt about one inch shorter. I dumped my sole debris in the garbage and walked out of the building without looking back. It was a big relief to be outside. More rocks than ever stuck to my soles in the old parking lot, but everything was fine. I had embraced the craziness of the night. And I was excited to write about it. And my mother and I were laughing about the incident. We talked about the music. Yes, yes, the music was great. The soloist really knew her Mendelssohn. But we kept going back to the shoes. And I was thinking about my footwear in a whole different way.

When I got home, I carefully put the old shoes back in the holder on the back of my door. I might not ever wear them again, but there was a crazy beauty to those shoes, and that was something that was worth saving.

The Adventure of the Snowy Night and the Buzzards

I knew the snow was coming, but for a while I wasn't paying attention. I was upstairs writing on my old Smith-Corona, working hard and writing in the groove. Then the power started to flicker. I knew the snowfall was for real. We lost it for a bit, but it came back. I turned out the lights and worked at the typewriter with just my headlamp. I wrote three wonderful pages. Then I played some guitar. It was around 11:00 at night. I came downstairs and everyone was going to bed. Some more guitar, jamming in the key of D. Then I looked at Marley--and I could see the big snowfall outside the front windows--so I knew it was time to go out. Normally, I would cringe at taking a long break from writing, but on this night I felt good; my cells were churning away with total splendor. And when things feel good, I've learned to keep moving forward. Thirty years on a planet will do something to you. Thirty-one will do more--so my point is not the exactness of the age, but rather the experience. If the wisdom is flowing, I blame my thoughts and the phone calls (to VA & CA & CO) & of course the lesson I learned from the Great Buzzard--but that is skipping ahead, and so I will pause, sip, think, and then write logically. I must also scrounge up a new page because this one is almost full. Yes, I wrote this thing with pen and paper, but we'll get to all that later.

So I geared up & Marley & I went out the front door. It was a dark night, but the world was white. About eight inches had fallen. My neighbor was shoveling and I saw him and talked with him for a few seconds. "Well, I'm going to go exploring," I said, & my words could not have been any truer. First, we ran up the sidewalk. The fresh snow felt great. Marley ran with big bouncing strides--into the night! Nowhere to go but forward. A playful mind comes easy in the snow. Feet can find the old forgotten joys. Up the street, snow on cars, streetlight glows, the Great Quiet of snow, a quiet I love--the stuff must really dampen sound. But the sky was clear--very nice out, 35ish for sure. 32 and up is heavenly.

Then we left our neighborhood & went running down the street. I decided to let Marley lead the way. Of course we followed our usual walk route, but Marley tended to go to the great powder path of the road. But I led him back to the sidewalk, and we ran on. I had to stop and ventilate, take off my gloves and unzip my jacket. Running in the snow felt great & for a few moments I had a great life vision--I've always been moving forward and going where my good steps take me. "This is most certainly a real life experience," I thought.

And down the road I saw my first plow truck. It looked like a monster. Then we walked down the hill. I saw two people. Marley saw them too but he didn't care. He had his p-mail to check and with all the snow his job was harder (the inbox will fill up). I followed the two guys down the hill. They went to meet three other guys who were shoveling in the road. All five guys were standing by this giant snow mound, like the kind of mound you see near parking lot peripheries in the winter. But this big 7-foot high mound was in the road. One guy had a snow-skate, a skateboard deck mounted on top of a snowboard-like bottom. In the pre-communication moments, my mind ran wild--I thought this kid was going to ramp off the mound and do something terrifyingly cool. But he just piddled down the hill toward the mound.

"That's some pile you got there," I said to the kid with the yellow jacket and the cigarette.

"Oh yeah," he said. "Hey is that a husky?" but he didn't even give me a chance to answer before he was off talking with his buddy.

"Oh, I see," I said. "It's a car."

A car had been stuck on the hill and in the road and these guys had covered the car with snow, which was probably a terrible idea--but they were young and perhaps they knew the owner.

Now that other people were involved, my night was getting weird. A car roared down the hill, threading the needle between the kids & the car/snow mountain. "Asshole," said one kid. The driver was going way too fast for the conditions. It was time to get off the road. I went a little farther down the hill, then off the road to the right.

I knew instantly what I had to do. Forget those silly boys, the buzzards are the thing to see. So I went down, just a little farther, until I was standing in the right place so I could see the place where all the buzzards had gathered. (I say buzzards, but you could also say vultures. They were turkey vultures.)

"This is where they live," I said to Marley. Bang! A snowplow clipped a curb. The birds didn't care. Marley sat down in the snow. I looked at him as he looked at the birds. He saw them. Words formed in my head & I wished I had a tape recorder: I saw the buzzards, thirty or forty buzzards resting in the treetops, creatures about the size of turkeys, dark birds silhouetted against snowy branches & a light-colored sky.

The birds were sleeping on treetops, branches, and on top of a nearby supermarket where the heat was surely welcome. Marley and I watched them for minutes. They were mostly still. But sometimes: a fluttering of wings, which sounded wonderful. If I had wings, I would flutter them all the time.

Then Marley began to growl. He was pointing to a dark spot in a bush top. I thought it was actually just a dirty old plastic bag. But no. It was the lone vulture, sleeping down low away from all the others. It was about 20 feet away, a big black bird with shaggy feathers. No need to look at the far away birds. Here was my subject, my teacher. This bird was the one. "Marley, be nice, no growl." Marley looked at me. "We must treat this animal with respect."

It was a big bird at the top of a not so big bush, bending the branch that it sat on. But it was a stable position. The bird seemed tired. He or she had just weathered an all-day rainstorm that had morphed into 8 inches of snow. It was deep in bird REM, so much so that I worried about it. "But if the bird was dead, it would surely fall," I thought. Birds live outside on much colder nights.

Soon the guys that were by the car/snow mound walked away. Marley & I continued down the street to the shopping center where more plow trucks were working hard, cashing in on the crop of snow. These plow drivers must know about coffee. They probably go all night and go all over trying to get as many plowing gigs as they can. The one guy was ramming forward, then speeding in reverse back across the parking lot to where he started so he could bite off another chunk. I guess it was easier than turning around. It's not often that you get to see a car doing 20 in reverse in a parking lot. It looked dangerous. But the driver was in control. The best part for them (besides the cash) was surely the ramming of the plow into the big pile at the end of the lot. People rarely get to ram their cars into stuff. Marley seemed like he was ready to walk back. And I was too.

So back we went. I of course had to stop again for silent council with the wise old buzzard. Marley did not growl. The bird was still there. I crouched down low so I could see this animal's beak silhouetted against a white backdrop. The bird rested smoothly like an ancient champion. I was thinking about evolution & and quote of my own that I should ask my friend about, when a plow truck came to the street corner where I was standing. The car/snow mountain was nearby, and so I acted. I flagged down the plow truck. They rolled down a window. "Hey, how's it going?" I asked.

"Good, how's it going?"

"I just wanted to tell you guys that there's a car in there." I pointed.

"What? Stop playin'," said the driver.

"No, he's right--I see the mirror," said the other man in the car.

"I wanted ya'll to know & I don't know what the right thing to do is. Maybe you could radio."

They weren't really sure either, and they drove off to make more money on the next gig. I checked for traffic & went to the snow-covered car. I put my right glove (which was the first one I grabbed) on my left hand & started uncovering the car. The moment I touched the car, a big blue flash filled the sky! Lightning, or perhaps a power outage. Then darkness, a flicker, and then the street lights were soon back. I went back to uncovering the car. It was a Chrysler. I made it so you could see the lights--reflective I hoped--in the front and back. It was no longer a beautiful snow pile waiting to get rammed--it was a dangerous obstacle & I knew that I had done the right thing. Shit, I might have even saved a life.

We walked home, walking around fallen limbs & being careful not to walk under sagging branches. Marley was still checking the smells & marking his territory with urine. A few cars drove by & I was reminded of the lonely beauty of the road late at night.

Then in our neighborhood, I saw a big truck stuck in the snow at the top of the street. The guy got out. I went over. He had a plan & a shovel, but I noticed him looking at me in a bit of a weird way. Yes, it was almost one a.m., but lots of people were out on this starry night.

And as I walked off, I realized it was the glove, the black glove on my left hand. Being a righty glove, the glove's thumb faced out, not in, and it looked as though I had a horribly misshapen hand. Oh well. I had work to do.

I went inside. Got a seat, paper, pen, blanket, cup, & my emergency Chivas. I knocked the snow off the crape myrtle branches (always good to ease the burden), leashed Marley to the tree, made a fine snow/scotch drink. And then I sat there on the front steps for an hour or so & wrote this story with warm hands, cold feet, and the sound of dripping snow water with also the sporadic clashing blasts of distant snow plows bashing into curbs and concrete.

And now I will take these cold handwritten pages & finish my drink . . . . ah . . . . cold drinks stay cold a long time outside on winter nights, & I will take Marley, who's all balled up in his Husky Glory, and we will go inside and enjoy the easy warmth of home.

[Note to the reader: As you know, I wrote this whole thing by hand that night, with my headlamp of course. It's nice to look back on these pages because you can see how I was writing faster and messier as the night went on. I was getting tired and I didn't want to stay outside all night. But I had to write the whole thing and get to the end. And I knew right away that this would be a nice thing to put up on the blog, but I wanted to keep it as I wrote it. So now, as I re-typed these pages, I only changed typos and major errors. I resisted the urge to add or edit. This piece is how I wrote it that night, with all those &s (something I often do to save time when I'm journaling or writing by hand). Thanks to the lone buzzard, and thanks for reading, Jeff]

Writing Notes for the New Posts

Today is a day for working on the blog. I will finish some of the half-written posts that have been accumulating here in the secret regions of this blog in much the same way that the little handwritten notes accumulate around my desk.

The goal with this blog is to write some words for people to read, and to write at least one post a month. And even though I am behind on my one-a-month goal, I will get caught up. So thanks to everyone who keeps checking in, day after day.

Now I'll set the scene. I'm in the writing room. I got my guitars and other instruments in their cases and out of sight. The risk of distraction is too high. Sometimes I can see a guitar and walk away, but I don't want to test myself right now. But I will put on some music, as a way to satisfy the musical part of my mind. I've selected the The Pizza Tapes, which feature a power trio of the acoustic world if there ever was one: Jerry Garcia, David Grisman, and Tony Rice. As I sit here writing, I can see Marley in the hall to my left. The December sun is shining in from the window to my right. The music is turned up pretty loud, but it's coming in clear.

Sometimes it takes some searching to find the right music for writing. Most of the time I like to work in silence. But there's a joyful feeling in my bones today. I've reached a good point with my books where I'm happy to take a break, and I know I won't feel too guilty setting my words down in some pages that are not book pages.

I have already started going through notebooks and photographs and calendars to see what I've done and the order in which it all happened. When I started this process of looking back, I felt shocked: all the photographs and all the missions that have happened just in the last few months. There's many details in my mind and in my archives. But I'm going to try and go through and pick out some from here and there, and then set them down. I'll try to include some photos too, because I've gotten some requests.

Well, time has passed. The posts are coming together. I'm into my third listen of The Pizza Tapes. And now I'll pour some coffee from my vacuum flask and go back in my mind to the happy month of June, when the East Coast lands that I call home were very green, and the sweat of summer was thick upon my brow, and I was doing what many people in the world were doing: watching soccer and thinking about life.

Flowing Through November (And Writing In The Car)

Now the flow has taken me forward again. And I can stop and look back at November. November came and I had to start planning for the holidays and the traveling and the time with family and friends. It's like this every year for me. Between Thanksgiving and Christmas there's about a month. There's a lot that happens in those holiday days. And I get excited, but I have to remember the flow and stay focused so that I can get my writing done and also get some other things done as well.

It's not good to waste too much time. A lot of good can come from only one or two hours. Not everyday can be an all-day writing day, but I've learned to write everyday, even if it's just a little, so that I can maintain the flow and the momentum.

But this November I came up with a new invention: car writing. Now this would not have been possible without my brother's help. Thank you Chris. Around the holidays there's lots of traveling to be done. Drive one place that is a couple of hours away, and that's a couple hours of writing that gets done. Driving somewhere else, and that's another couple hours. This adds up. The pages add up. I am happy.

Now my typewriter was not the right tool for the job. So I used my laptop, which is still quite new and has a good battery life. My writing seat in the car is usually the same: the back right seat. Sitting there I am away from Chris and less of a distraction. When I'm writing, there's the sound of my fingers working the keys, and the expressions on my face, and even sometimes little blasts of vocal delight that come out as I'm writing.

The first time I tried some car writing, it went very well. Of course I took some necessary steps that I knew would help me maintain the flow. I wore headphones or earplugs. I wore a hat with a brim that I wore down low to minimize my view of the world. The trick was not to get too excited about the sunlight and the road, but rather to stay inside that page.

And then there's the beer. The beer is there because I don't want to get motion sick. The hot acidic flow of vomit is not the flow my laptop needs. I do get car sick if I'm not looking around. And I've thrown up on boats before. But then I learned of a simple cure. All you have to do is have a few beers. Two or three is all you really need, unless you're out longer. I always thought the beer would make it worse on the boat, but then I tried it. It worked so well. And I haven't gotten motion sick on a boat since. So before I hop in the car with Chris, I drink a beer or two. Then I hunker down and work.

As for the actual act of car writing, many of my books are about my travels on the roads of America. And so there's a natural and good feeling to be felt when I'm on the road and writing about the road.

And so it goes--flowing through November, writing on the road, writing at home, getting into that warm and cozy state of mind which is the holiday-state-of-mind. You know what they say. It's a good life if you don't weaken.

Safe travels and happy days,

Jeff

Flowing Through October (And Some Words about Writing)

I'm looking back on October. "On October," I say to myself. "On October," the sound of the words. It's easy to get stuck in one thing, one moment, one day. But thoughts can flow, if you let them. And I'm going to work with that, and get into the flow, and write about this past October and some of the things that happened and whatever else I might get into.

October is just the name of the month. What I really want to talk about is what happened in this little chunk of time: 31 days of living. You can do a lot with a whole month. I learned this long ago. You can travel thousands of miles. Or you can write hundreds of pages. But it's hard to do both at the same time. I write as much as I can when I'm out there on the road--and some good stuff often pops up when you're out there in the heat of the moment--but as far as productivity: it's hard to beat a long line of all-day writing days. That's when the really good stuff seems to come.

October was a month for writing and it was also a celebration month. It was one month after I finished my big 100 Days of Writing project. Day 100 happened on September 16. I worked as hard as I could that day and I reached the last sentence of the book that I was writing. That moment was a happy moment to receive in the brilliant solitary quiet of a late night at the end of a marathon writing adventure.

My 100 Days of Writing had been very productive. Now I had all this great writing momentum behind me. I kept writing. I was writing my way into the later half of my third book. Then Jake flew to the East Coast. He arrived on October 1. I picked him up from the airport. He asked me about my 100 Days of Writing while we were driving in the car. And before I knew it, he was recording what I was saying with a video camera. One take. I felt like I got it. But I wondered about my hair. Was it perfect? Probably so, but how would I know without a mirror. No, don't worry about that, just trust Jake, I thought.

Jake had arrived at a great time. We planned a big New York City adventure. It was exactly what we both needed and wanted. There were things to see and write about, and Jake was excited to take photographs. No bikes for us. We walked around Manhattan. We drank beers in McSorley's. There were friends to meet! Slices of pizza to savor! And part of me wished that I was still back in my 100 Days of Writing--so I would be able to write about what Jake and I were up to in the city. And maybe I still will. New York City is a great place to write about in a book. And being the writer, I can do whatever I want. Add some extra innings even after the 100 Days is over. Why not? Or maybe when I look back, it won't really fit. There's different ways to write about moments from the past. It's up to the writer.

What am I talking about here? It's really about the flow. The flow in life, and the flow in writing. It feels good to be so excited about life that you feel like writing about it. I've been alive for many years. And I've been a writer for over five years. Writing, by now, is very natural, just like living. I wake up in the morning and I do it. And maybe I take a break from writing and go to New York City. That's okay. Going to New York City is living, and living is research for writing. That's the thing with writing: it's tied up so closely with living. And why not? The full-time job that you end up working is a big part of your life. It's not your whole life, of course, but it's a good chunk.

And so, today, I'll do what I've been doing, and what I plan on doing for the rest of my life. I will get myself to my writing machine (I'm working on my book on the typewriter right now) and I will write. I will look at where I left off, and then I will continue writing. And I have my mantras. I've written mantras on little yellow pieces of paper that are taped where I can see them on my desk. These words bring me great comfort when I see them and say them: "Tell the story. Go in order." It's very simple and yet it is enough. Tell the story. Okay, I will. What's happening right here? Well, I'm pressing keys that make digital letters appear in a window that Google's engineers have made so that people can write their blogs. And right now, I'm not worried about what I'm going to write next. Because the flow is strong right now. I know where I'm at, right here and right now, and I know where I started. I started--we started--with October and the idea of looking back. And in the looking back, I saw all the writing that was there. And now that I'm writing about writing, there's been a shift (and I'm going to have to go back up and maybe add a subtitle to the title of this particular post).

And now I've jumped down to a new paragraph. Maybe the last one. I'm still not worried at all. If you write with fear in your heart--what good will that do? Readers are smart. Readers can see what's going on. People sense things. Confidence is king when you're laying it down on the page. Move forward with confidence. The typewriter has taught me many things about moving forward and keeping the flow going. The typewriter teaches. The writing days teach. A writer always has something to learn. You never get to the top. You just keep climbing. Steady progression. Look around. Might as well. Let the beauty fill your lungs so that you will balloon up, good and full and inspired, and then you'll be able to see what's going on right now and you'll also be able to see the options that are there when it comes time for forward movement. Tell the story. Go in order. I know this story, the one right now. I know it and I love it, and I will not be afraid to set it free when the time comes. Like I said, writing feels very natural to me, just keep the flow going, tell the story and go in order, tell the story and let it happen. One sentence ends, the next begins. One book ends, start another. Your life becomes your life because you live it. I'm lucky to have a job that brings me so much joy, hour after hour and day after day. Tell the story. Go in order. Okay, there's writing, and then there's joy, and then there is more writing. And then there's love--I've hardly written a word that hasn't come from my great lifelong love of writing. And of course there's the flow. And if you rise up and meet the flow, then the flow will take you where you want to go. The end.

On the Bus, On the Road

Well it's about time for a post. I've been a little behind with the posts, as you may have noticed. But my excuse is a good one: I've been working hard and writing a lot. Except I haven't been writing here on the blog--which is pretty much the only place you can read my words right now, as I'm still searching for a publisher for book 1 (if you have publishing contacts in the narrative nonfiction world, please email me).

Anyway, jeez, where are my manners. I shouldn't start advertising before I set the scene. At this particular moment in time, I am on the bus, on the road, literally writing as this bus is headed south from 33rd Street, New York City, to Penn Station, Baltimore, and with the free wifi, and all my writing/traveling energy, I've decided to end another blog hiatus, and write some words for the world to read.

Of course, you must realize that I will soon go back and complete the past posts for July and August. I started a few, but never got around to posting them. So, in the future, there will be new posts that are below this one, which might be a little confusing from a reading standpoint, but I'm not worried. You all are smart and I know you can handle it.

Yes, I'm feeling very relaxed now. Party because of the last three big days of writing in New York City, but also because of the fact that I happened to get very lucky and was able to finish a crazy sprint (with backpack and beard bouncing and all pockets jangling), a sprint across the city, which put me on this bus (the Bolt), just one minute before the driver headed out. I knew it was going to be close, but that was awesome.

The reason for my crazy sprint mission across the city: I had been down at Ground Zero, observing and remembering and talking with some people. Today was the ninth anniversary of September 11, 2001--yet another day that has sadly gone down in infamy.

So, being in the City, I felt I should go down to where the Twin Towers fell and pay my respects. Near Ground Zero, there was a building set up as a World Trade Center tribute/visitor center. It was a tremendously powerful and sad exhibit to walk through--as was seeing all the people, out on the street, and all the uniformed Fire and Rescue people, and the Police people, and all the cranes with the flags flying half-mast on their down-hanging crane cables. It was a special place. I had to linger. I had to buy a beer, and stand in the doorway looking out at the cranes, and sip slowly as I thought about death and life, and life and death, and the island of Manhattan (which means a lot to me and millions of others) . . . and then, I looked down at my watch--oh no! My bus was leaving in twenty minutes and I was so far from my bus! Time to run! Sprint to the Subway, grab the first uptown train, and hope for the best.

And I made it. And I think when I write the whole thing out (which'll be in the book version, of course), and explain exactly how I made it, it'll make you smile. For now, you'll have to trust me.
The city certainly made me smile. I decided on Tuesday night to take the bus from Baltimore to New York City so that I could stay in the City and work. I left on Thursday morning and spent Thursday, Friday, and Saturday (today) in New York City, mainly Manhattan. I got a lot of work done, and now I feel good, especially because this bus has an electrical socket by which I can power my laptop/writing machine. I will be able to write the whole way back to Baltimore. I hoped I could do this. And now I am happy. I picked a seat with a working socket. You never know with buses.

Now is the perfect time to head home. My camera batteries are just about done (I hardly ever let this happen, but it felt right today). My food is gone, no more sandwiches. My cash is gone. I have a little coffee and that's about it. I will hydrate later. I will eat later, and bathe later too. But now, I must write!

(Written and dedicated to all New Yorkers, past and present, and especially all Emergency Service Workers, on this, the 11th day of September, 2010.)

Reclaiming The Dream (My First March)

The day was August 28, 2010. If you know your history, you know that August 28 is a special day. This year was the forty-seventh anniversary. Forty-seven years since August 28, 1963, which was the day of the March on Washington for Jobs and Freedom. Forty-seven years since Martin Luther King, Jr. gave his "I have a dream," speech.

It was a Saturday and I woke up early, very early. They were calling for big lines at the metro stations. The '63 march was being talked about for weeks and weeks. A new march was scheduled. I was going to go and march with my friend Debbie and all the thousands of others. This 2010 march was called the Reclaim The Dream March. It would be my first march.

Another event was planned for the same day. It was a rally of conservatives, happening not on the mall, but actually on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial, a bold very move by the conservatives. Of course no one group of people owns the history of America. It's there for all of us. And although I did not agree with the talk and viewpoints of these conservatives, they were entitled to gather and say what they wanted. The conservative speakers who were going to broadcast their voices on this day were not in the White House. I was comforted by this. Times have changed.

But I was worried. The word conservative, taken in a political context, often rings very strangely in my ears. I'm willing to bet that in the 1963 march--as well as in the civil rights movement--that conservative participants were in the minority. Now, on this day, two very different groupings of people were heading down in huge numbers to Washington, D.C. I was worried about trouble. And they even prepped us about this before the march.

Like so many others, I was simply there to honor the memory of Dr. King as well as to honor and consider the great journey toward equality and freedom, which is one of the most important journeys of the human species. Good work has been done, but there is still much more to accomplish.

It turned out to be a good day and a great march. Pretty much all of the conservative rally goers that I saw simply stood there and watched us walk by. I'm not ready to take you through all the details of this day. Perhaps in my 100 Days book I'll delve a little deeper. Right now, I want to thank Debbie and Luna for accompanying me on this hopeful day. It was a day of tearful eyes, crying for pains of the past, and crying for the great beauty of something better. Equality and civil rights are very important. Just like the idea of good health. Equality is connected to freedom, and without freedom and some kind of descent health, what does a person have? Health care is a big business, and people suffer because of this. Discrimination still happens everyday.

And so we must remember love and Dr. King and the freedom that he worked for. We must remember that we have legs to stand up with. And remember this too: we have fantastic minds that allow for solving problems in peaceful ways. I hear Dr. King speak and I am moved to work harder and act kinder. He was a writer and a speaker and a friend to freedom.

But there are a few specifics that need to be mentioned. Debbie and Luna and I marched, but where did we start? We started at Dunbar High School. Dunbar High School, on Jersey Ave., Northwest, was America's first public high school for black students. We marched from there, down through the streets of Washington, under the hot sun, past the museums, past the National Mall, and over to the future site of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. Memorial. (That's right. A new memorial is coming to D.C. One year from now and it should be open.) And there were more speakers at this site, including Martin Luther King III, the son of Dr. King.

And from there, we walked back to the mall. They had a really good exhibit set up on the grass near the center of the mall. I'll post a photo below. And on the speakers they were playing a continuous collection of Dr. King's speeches. Hearing those words in the air in D.C., it was a beautiful tribute to a bygone beauty, Dr. King.

The exhibit where we heard his recorded speeches:

I took these photos too. Scrolling down, they are in order, from Dunbar High School to the future site of the Dr. King Memorial:

A Good Summer Day in The Nation's Capitol

I've been caught up in this big 100 Days of Writing Project, and because of that I've been working extra hard for a while now. The act of writing is usually done, for me, in a place that's inside. Sometimes I can get some writing done outside, but usually I am inside. I've been inside a lot this summer.

So when the call came on my cell phone, late one night, I knew what I had to do. I talked with my friend on the phone and we planned a D.C. bike mission. He had a sleek black vintage road bike that we had revived not long ago. And I had plenty of bikes in the basement. For a city mission, I went with the old maroon Mongoose. It's a mountain bike that I bought from my brother. It's an old bike but it's descent. He got it at college. It works. And I'm not too worried when I lock it up. The thing about a mountain bike is that it has wider tires, and this is actually a nice thing when city streets get unruly with potholes or debris.

It had been a good while since sweat garage. I'd been so deep into my writing that I just hadn't taken the time to go hard and sweat it out. Now it was time.

The night before the mission, I had been up late, writing of course. I let myself sleep in till around eight o'clock. Then I threw some panniers on the bike, packed them with food and water and rain gear, and headed out the front door. I had a couple hours of good sweaty biking before I was even at the metro station. Actually, I met my friend on the street. He was driving in his car. I kept looking for him. He drove down Route 1 and saw me standing at the corner as I flagged him down. I still knew of a good secret free parking spot. I led the way there. Then we both took off on our bikes. "Want some whiskey?" he asked. I took a swig. "Needs ice," i said. We went to McDonald's for ice and water too.

The metro ride to the city was a delight with cold drinks to sip on and this crazy AC unit that was just pouring condensation onto a nearby seat. It was another good sweat garage day and this poor AC machine needed help. No one sat in that seat. Water puddled on the vinyl seat cover and even dripped on the carpeted floor.

It was a weekday, not too many people at the National Zoo. It rained hard and we got soaked, but it was so hot it didn't matter. It felt good. Summer rain coming down, with me looking up and smiling as water hit my face and fell in my mouth. The hardest thing was keeping the camera dry. I had a system of plastic bags, with a folded up paper towel in the innermost one, which acted as a desiccant.

The zoo was cool. A girl was going to meet us there, but she never did, and we were both okay with that. From the zoo, it's a long fine downhill road toward the National Mall. We rode this downhill, no rain, and stopped near 7th street NE. This was a popular street I knew and liked. And we could get food or drinks or coffee if we wanted. Then over to the National Galley of Art for another visit to this art exhibit that was one of my most favorite exhibits ever, an exhibit titled "Beat Memories," the photographs of Allen Ginsberg. (I would end up going to this exhibit about four times.) I looked and smiled. There they were, looking so beautiful in black and white: Allen, Jack, Neal, Gregory. There was even a photograph of Bob Dylan. And Allen had great handwritten captions for every one.

After good exercise and whiskey and art, everything else was just cake: outside the art gallery we hid under a tree for another big downpour, then over to the mall, bike west, keep flowing straight to the Lincoln Memorial, one of my favorite places in D.C. I always feel good on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial. And I keep coming back. Part of it is because of the great freedom moment that happened there on August 28, 1963, when Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. spoke the words "I have a dream" in his mighty speech. This great event is marked right there: a few words carved into the marble on the landing near the upper set of monument stairs. It's a special place.

The Lincoln Memorial was the last main stop on our D.C. mission. We stayed there for about an hour, sitting on the steps, talking, looking East, watching the sky change with sunset light and of course having to take some photos. We experienced a beautiful sunset that night.

Greetings From The Sweat Garage

Sweat garage must be documented. Sweat garage is a state of mind and it's also a condition. Sweat garage is what happens when you work on your car outside in Maryland in the heat of summer. This happened last month when I was working on my sister's car.

Go outside at the hottest hour of the hottest day and the sweat will flow--just by standing there. If you're working, the flow thickens. Now this wasn't my first sweat garage. There have been others. Travis was there for the very first one. We wore two of my old baseball hats and filled the hat fabric with sweat.

If you spend time with me, you may have heard me talking about the sweat garage. Sometimes when things get good and sweaty, I will reference the sweat garage. Tribute. Respect. For everyone else, please enjoy this sweaty concept, one that was born on the hot summer streets of America and has since found a special place in my heart.

Before I write more, let's get some photos going here:

Sure it might be nice to get up early and try to get the work done before the sun is up there in the power position. But some jobs take a while. A couple rusted bolts can take hours to break free. Then you get into the heat of the day. I've gotten pretty good at dealing with the heat. If it's 105 or below, I've trained myself to think it's warm. Hot, for me, starts above 105.

Now on this day it was 103 in the shade, much hotter in the sun. This was the first time I used a sun shade umbrella in the sweat garage. I figured it was hot enough. (I held the umbrella upright by clamping it in a bicycle repair stand, worked great.)

And when I was crawling around on the ground and walking to and from the house for tools, I could feel my heart beating good and hard. I actually worried a little about my brain. I kept drinking so much water and juice. And the sweat! Oh boy! I hadn't had a good sweat like this in years. It woke me up. By the end of this day I had soaked through several T-shirts. And when I would get down on the ground--and especially when I was on my back--my body weight would squeeze the sweat from my clothes and make a wet spot on the hard pavement. A sweaty kiss between my body and the earth.

But with the right attitude and the right pacing, a sweat garage can be a happy place. Call it sweat garage and it seems more fun. It's a concept of embracing. You get into the weirdness of the heat. The sweat flows. The work gets done. And a cool place to rest at the end of the day never felt so good.

Thanks for visiting the sweat garage.
Have fun and safe travels,

Jeff

Party Time

Last weekend was a great party weekend. It all started on a Friday evening. My brother Chris and I got in the car and drove over to the party. We got there as the sun was going down, and the first lightning bugs were just getting started in and around the sparkling forest.

The party started that night, which was when the great cooking mission began. There was keg beer, colas, sodas, and water to drink. People set up tents in the backyard. I started with beer, but then switched to coffee. I had to stay up all night and help watch the pig, which cooked all night. Around four o'clock or so, with everyone else sleeping, I did some writing with the paper and pen in my pocket. I had to. You see, I'm engaged in this big writing project and I had to keep the wordflow going. Even if I just touch pen to paper for a few minutes, that counts.

And on Saturday, the pig came off and the guests arrived. A bluegrass band came and played music for everyone. This was a beautiful thing: to be in the backyard, with the summer green of Maryland woods all around, and friends nearby, eating and drinking and talking. Chris and I created a vegetarian bean dish, and I ate those garlic/cheese beans out of an empty bean can. And it was about this time that Chris reached for my camera so that he could take this photo:



And I was feeling happy in my green shirt in the summer sun with the music playing. The U.S. soccer team was playing Ghana. People were hopeful, happy, the party was going strong and the music sounded great.


One of our friends couldn't be there. But we had a piece of paper with a likeness of his face, and people went around with the paper photograph, keeping his great party spirit alive. In addition to the paper likeness, there were crayfish and green trees. This photograph shows these things:

The Oil Is Still Spilling

President Obama spoke tonight. I watched him on TV, on one of the basic stations, totally free, with our special digital antenna picking up the signal. He talked about the problems in the gulf, the problems with offshore drilling, and the oil spill that has become known as The Deepwater Horizon Oil Spill.

This Deepwater spill is a sad and ugly thing, as all the oil spills are. Nothing good comes from polluting the world we live in, this planet we call home. But this kind of dirty business goes on. Oil companies have their greedy drill bits buried deep into the modern world and the American way of life. The U.S. is the country which consumes--by far--the most oil. Using 2008 numbers from U.S. Energy Information Administration, the U.S. drinks down about 19 million barrels of oil per day. (China is the second place consumer, guzzling about 7 million barrels per day.) We use a lot of oil, which means we have to manage a lot of oil: physically get it, refine it, move it, ship it, import it, pump it, pour it, and so on.

Looking at the Wikipedia page for "oil spills," and then the page for "list of oil spills", I see that this most recent Deepwater Horizon spill is only one on a long list of oil spills. Billions of barrels of oil have been spilled and burned and wasted over the years--hundreds of spills--and Deepwater looks like it'll go down as one of the big ones.

Oil spills keep happening. Why is this? Well I am not an oil spill expert, but my ponderings have me pointing my finger at: gravity, entropy, carelessness, flaws in containment, and accidental occurrences. And there doesn't appear to be any end in sight with respect to oil spills. Perhaps we'll have to wait until we burn it all up and there is no more oil left to spill.

As I write these words, the toxic black gold keeps leaking out into the gulf waters. We've all seen the photos. Animals covered in black goo. People in clean-up suits doing the slow work of cleaning. Nature takes a lot of abuse. And it seems that a good bit of such abuse stems form the species with the name tag: Homo sapiens (or Homo sapiens sapiens if you want to get more technical). Our numbers keep growing and our problems never seem to end. But the good people are trying.

I think about New York City, the biggest city in our fair country, and yet it's a place where approximately 54% of people don't own cars and public transportation is widely used. I think about a friend I know, buying big bags of organic grains and riding his bike around all the time. I think about other friends I know, keeping their homes cool in the winter and warm in the summer because it's better for the environment and their wallets. A bunch of little things can add up and help. Of course a bunch of other little things can add up to do some harm. But the good people of the world know deep down what they have to do.

And all this Deepwater ugliness will be fixed, although it looks as if the spill has the potential to drag on for some time. And I hope that in this country, and in this world, people will move toward fuels and energies and machines and that are safer, more efficient, and less harmful to the environment. As for right now, I think I'll raise the thermostat a little higher, sweat a little more, and then go out for a bike ride, a little nighttime road meditation to cleanse my mind of oily thoughts and to ease the weight of the world.

Into the Sparkling Forest

I just got back from the sparkling forest. It's a special place. I know this and I feel it too. Man, it's the kind of place that sticks with you until the end of time. Let me tell you a little about this place.

The forest is a real place, and I know exactly where it is. It's actually here in Maryland. But the Sparkling Forest is also a state of mind, a combination of the right things at the right time--everything is perfect on a perfect night. And I've been there before, when it wasn't sparkling. You'll see what I mean.

It all started when I drove over to my friend's home. There was work to be done that night, and fun to be had. We had to bury a jug of wine for a party that was coming up. It was this tradition that was started a while ago, and we had to keep the tradition going. So anyway, I got in the car and headed over to my friend's home. And when I got there, everyone was drinking beer on the back porch and getting ready for the mission. The big jug of Carlo Rossi was sitting there on the deck.

Then, after talking and more beers and some snacks, it was time to go: out through the screen door, down the wooden stairs of the deck, then down the green grass hill in the backyard, (but I didn't feel the grass because I was wearing pants for this mission--worried about ticks and ivy). And on the edge of the yard is where the forest began.

We went into the woods, my two friends ahead of me, with headlamps and flashlights to see the way. The journey into the woods was part of the fun. Moving into the night. Tall tulip poplars all around, these huge trees. And the fireflies were blinking. "Watch out for all the shit," said someone. We had crossed over the fence at this point and were now in a forested part of a pasture. But the cow pies were easy to spot, and the poison ivy was not very prevalent, and so the walking was good.

This was a forest wonderland that I knew and loved. But that night was fresh and new. And the risks were real. There were rumors of a bull, a big beast we did not want to meet, especially because we had crossed under the electric fence and so a quick get-a-way might be hard. So we keep listening and looking around. A crazy screech came down from the forest darkness up on the hill. A fox? A cat? A new breed of East Coast jackleope? We didn't know. But we aimed our lights and saw two glowing eyes. It was far away, but I still felt the fine twinge of fear. The stick I was holding in my hands felt good.

But the screeching beast went away. And I knew we'd soon be gone too, after the work was done. But we were in no hurry. Some things can not be hurried. We walked on, until we found the right spot for the wine jug. Then we dug. We had brought shovels. We dug it deep and tied a rope to the glass loop on the jug so that would help with the unearthing.

Then we keep walking, back under the fence, across a small stream--still moving away from our home base. We left the forest and walked out into a huge grassy hillside. And up on the peaceful flanks of this hillside, we all paused to rest and listen and enjoy the night. The reserve beers were opened and we toasted the wine jug mission and the night. And it was on this hillside, looking back at the forest, that I came to see and know the sparkling forest. The long curving wall of trees down in front of us was sparking with the light of thousands of fireflies. The luminous creatures seemed fond of gathering near the outside of the forest, so their light was easy to see, especially against the black backdrop of the forest. And even though the night sky of Maryland was full of city light pollution, which obscured many of the stars, I didn't really mind. We had the sparkling forest.

United We Watch

I watched some World Cup soccer today. I watched my home country play against England. I heard some nasty things being said about the English team (I was in a bar). It made me sad. It's just a game. The beautiful game, after all, which is something to remember. The players play because they love to play (and it's how they make their money). And people watch, all over the world. And people say things. And suddenly, millions of people are experts when it comes to soccer, or football as it's often called.

And so I drank my two-dollar beers and tuned out some of the more stupid comments. And I enjoyed the powerful quiet--perhaps even some milliseconds of silence--because there were actually quiet moments in the bar, moments which tended to happen in between the Big Plays, which were the ones that often required cheering.

There's really something interesting that happens when fans watch a game. It's a home team love and focused sporting excitement that drives many a fan (and some people even have money riding on the games, which adds another level). But for me, most of the time, I don't really get into the game like those around me. And so this makes it easier for me to observe everyone else. I like to watch the people watching the games. They get so into it. It's amazing. If they could only see themselves, and hear the things they are saying. Some people take the games very seriously--with their crazy eye TV screen watching, and their trash talking, and wild cheering, and cell phone score checking (because there's so many games to keep track of). The Serious Fans have really demonstrated just how deep the obsession goes. I'm not saying it's good or bad. I'm just saying that after watching some World Cup soccer in a Maryland bar, it's safe to say that fans can really get into the games.

Now people in the stadiums love to cheer. I knew this. You can hear it in the background of certain televised games: an almost constant cheering drone that lasts for most of the game. And cheering at a game kind of makes sense. You cheer for the team you want to win, and hope the cheering drives them into athletic brilliance and then victory. But what about the fans who scream at the TV screens? It's hard to say what their goals are. Probably just a energy release or outlet, a demonstration of what's on their minds. And as I was watching the people around me yell, I found myself thinking: the TV is not a microphone, no matter how loud you try to yell.

But who am I to say that their yelling has no power? Has such a thing ever been studied? Energy is a powerful thing with mysterious connotations. And maybe someday every bar room and living room will have a microphone and a direct line into the stadium or arena of the fan's own choosing. And in the ceilings of stadiums, there will be thousands of little speakers, high quality/high power speakers, so that when the dedicated fans yell, the players will actually hear and receive the energy. Players will of course have to wear special high-tech thousand-dollar ear plugs so they can block some of the tremendous noise that will be hitting them at every angle, vibrating their athletic bodies like some sort of strange exercise machine from the future. Stadiums will also have to be built with very high standards to handle the sonic bombardment. And fans will have to sign wavers so they can't sue over hearing loss. And every stadium will have to install a giant soundproof shield over the stadium, otherwise the noise of a game would disturb every home within ten miles. And for those roofless stadiums, the Sound Shield would be the roof, as well as being a fixture where all the speakers could be mounted.

And when such systems are implemented, and I get my financial cut for inventing the True Voice Fan Intercom, you might find me in some famous bar in America, buying a round for the house. And then I'll get up on the bar and give speech, instructing the screaming fans to maybe just take a break. And for a minute or so, we'll pump a round of pure quiet into whatever stadium speaker that bar is broadcasting to, and that little pocket of silence will rain down onto the field, and maybe, just maybe, for one glorious moment, some sweaty player who's chock full of exhaustion will be able to zero in on that one speaker and hear the quiet hum of a silent bar which is the stuff that angels sing of.

Local Libraries and Free Music

If you love an artist's work, by all means, give him or her your money and/or support. If you're not sure about your love, then it might be a good idea to go to your local library and see what you can see. And even if you are sure of your love, it's still a good idea to head on over to your local library.

I love my local library. I go there all the time. I know the librarians and they know me. I've memorized my fourteen-digit library card number--I did that years ago. Sometimes I even let my items go overdue, just so I can give the library a few dollars. They need my money. They need my support. You've gotta pay for these privileges, and tax dollars alone might not enough these days. Budgets are tight and places are closing.

Libraries are a great thing, a tremendous tool that our country has brought into being for the betterment of all. Don't forget them. And don't forget what they stand for: knowledge and freedom and learning for all.

On our library's website, they say: "opening the door to discovery and diversion." This line really makes me smile. I also like how they used the singular version of door. They could have said "doors," which would have meant something a little different. But they wrote "door" which means that diversion and discovery are accessed through the same portal, which makes for an interesting thought. The beauty is in the truth. Sometimes it's about learning, and sometimes it's about relaxing and having fun. But both learning and fun are connected.

As for the free music, I'd like to mention the awesome website known as: archive.org

You can go there and access many different things, freely and legally. I usually go there to get Grateful Dead shows, but I also discovered that there are many Warren Zevon shows as well. And for this we must thank Warren's son Jordan.

A direct quote from archive.org:

"On April 7, 2005, we received permission for Warren Zevon shows to be hosted at the Archive:

Subject: Warren Zevon

Please allow the exchange of unreleased live material from Warren Zevon on your website.

Sincerely,

Jordan Zevon"

I've downloaded about fifteen Zevon shows, and there are many more out there, and this brings me joy.

Let the music play! And long live the libraries!

Fondly,
Jeff

Doing Good

Zevon lyrics blaze on with poetic power in my mind: "Everybody's your best friend when you're doing well, I mean good."

Yes, thank you Warren Zevon, wherever you are.

It's no secret that I enjoy listening to the music and words of Warren Zevon, the late great American songwriter. I listen and I enjoy. And even when I'm not listening, I'm enjoying. His words come back to me, in my mind, when I'm "doing simple things around the house," as Warren said it so perfectly.

Tonight I was in the kitchen, making another sandwich--enjoying another sandwich--when the words I mentioned above hit me. I had just left a phone message for my friend Whitney. And I was making some food: one of my crazy sandwiches, with humus, peanut butter, raw garlic, and sriracha, spread on bread and corn tortillas. I'm always mixing up flavors. Pizza sushi is one creation I'm very proud of. But that's enough weird bragging for one day. I must stay on topic: I was in the kitchen, mixing, eating, and thinking about Warren, and really just feeling good.

The lyric above is from the song "Genius." And, as a fellow writer, I love the way Warren works with his words. Now, there are some people that love to rub in the grammatical correctness of "doing well" and the incorrectness of "doing good." But writing (just like speaking and living) is way more than just following the rules. Writing is about freedom, and saying what you want to say, and doing it your way, day after day. Sure, the background rules of writing are necessary. They help us writers tell our stories, and make it easier for readers to follow along. But the writer gets final judgment. And hearing Warren sing, "doing well, I mean good," just makes me smile like crazy, because I know he knew the rules, and that line is such a nice calm slap in the face to all the grammar-crazed people who are missing the point and getting way too bogged down by the rules.

Now I don't want you to worry here. If you go around saying "doing well," that doesn't mean I'm going to feel opposed to you. I say "doing well" sometimes. But if you're a Zevon fan, and if you say, "doing good," well then it's very easy for us to be on the same page. In the world of art, there is no right and wrong. Only different preferences and different perspectives.

Tonight, the work is going well. And, as all you fellow workers out there know: that's not always the case. But when it's good, that's something to enjoy, just like the hardness. I dig the blues. Maybe I'm happy because I'm getting to the end of another draft, and that's always a nice moment. I don't want to speculate too much here. I'm just setting down some words in the midst of some other words. The writing will go on, on into the night, on into the years of my life. . . . And along the way I keep living, and I keep thinking of my family and friends, far and near.

And summer is coming soon, time for more sweating. Sweaty shirts at backyard parties. A little more body odor in the air. Are you ready to sweat? Yes, I've made my peace with the heat and humidity. It's getting warmer. The earth, still circling, still tilted. It's all about the angles.

Well Marley just came upstairs to get me, which means he wants water and he wants to go out. So I might as well sign off here. Have fun, safe travels, and I hope you're doing good.