THE LONESOME SHORELINE AND THE AUTUMNAL ISLAND BEYOND (OR BY THE BROKEN PARAPETS WHERE SUMMER HAS DIED)

The line of the lake curves inward and the houses there watch the water and the island beyond. The island is a mystery from there perhaps only because it is far off. Since it is autumn, the trees show red and brown, orange and yellow, and of course there is still some green. The overcast skies come down and wait around there, whist a boat, silver and old, - turn out from a docking area and heads in the direction of the island. The birds, black, come past. One alights on a wooden bench. He is apart from the crowd, and rests, waits. He stays there an incredibly long time, and there does not seem to be much of anything in the way of food that he is eyeing. Maybe he is a totem, a vision of some sort, or at the least a sign. It’s wondered what the world, in fast forwarded film, looks like there. The sky turning all colors, and the earth becoming day, night, and day once more. The birds, the odd coyote that comes during the twilight on his way back from somewhere. Spirits devas, sprites, others. Ghosts/phantoms/spectres. The weather, a bit coldish then, has put people and animals back into their places, the dwellings and abodes. Gone are the high sun and blue sky summer days, - the laughter and easy movements of those. This is something new. The leaves tumble over dirty pebbles and stones. There is a public part of the shore, - un-kept and dishevelled stones and breaks, weeds and feral grasses and vines grow through the broken parts of what was once a smart and curt and long parapet. There is something lurid here, but against reason and logic, it is a good sweet luridness. Let the vision and feeling go into it, - to feel what they call the entire present zeitgeist of the shore, - its atmosphere of sadness and witnessing. The little whitecaps roll up, almost given up. There is not even a frog or snake, and the bees and hornets that announce themselves act a bit vexatious, and bite, - rather sting they call it of course, - and perhaps it is out of fear of death and the loss of home and summer. They sense the death descent. Still, it’s queer, because their jackets and sounds and movements are still beautiful. Peculiar how their late flying and living can still inspire. Go insect, go bee, go waspy wasp. And the lonesome boat bobs a bit in the distance. The recent storms have washed away the spiders’ webs. Where have they gone? You thought you didn’t like the spider, - but you missed him when he was gone. It’s quiet there. Some abrupt and vulgar motorcycles come past and shake the earth. Ego. Greed. No care for the people nevermind the animals or insects. And imagine them thinking of the atmosphere, the waves that want to lap? They soon go. There is an old marina, and an aged store. The world seems abandoned. Not even a proverbial grey haired man, sagacious, slow but delicately walking, appears. No, it’s just a line of the lake that curves inward and the houses, a bit dirty for the dirt and mud thrown up somehow in the storms, watch the water and the strange autumnal island beyond.

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PUMPKINS IN THE SUN, WE CLOSE AT DUSK, AND PRETENDING THE LAKE IS THE SEA

The sun was high and I could hardly believe that it was October. I started far away and drove North to where the part of the lake comes down and meets the world. It’s mostly private property but inside the long and winding ways you can peak out and see the sea that is not a sea but I pretend it to be. Ha! There was an aluminum type boat, like something from the 1970’s, and it was used to ferry people across the way, to the inward island for some reason. There was a man driving the boat and a man who was on the boat. Right away I felt strong pangs of jealousy or something like it that I was not on the boat. I shall have to go back there when I have time, and ask the man (who was looking at me trying to figure out if he should wait a minute more in case I wanted to go), to take me on the boat. How much money, if not free, could it be? I want to go on that boat and be a passenger going across to an island, one full of dense autumnal trees, a plethora of color splashed, all golden and red and yellow hued paint strokes right in the middle of the lake. I must go there. And take pictures and afterwards notes. How shall I find it, with hardly an inner compass? I shall find it. Other than that there was a pumpkin farm type of place with what seemed like twenty different varieties and shapes and sizes, - bold, honestly huge, acutely small and detailed, medium, - and there was what my grandparents used to have somewhere and call Indian Corn, so I have a special place in my heart and memory for such- which they called there ‘decorative corn or stalk’ or something like that. The sun came and let itself out to splash against everything, - tables, and jars of jams, hay and straw, silos in the sun, - the rest, - the people the wagons and denim and I paid cash for what I bought. I shall always remember that part of the sign actually read open from 9: AM until Dusk. It actually said ‘until dusk’. That is great, and that is the way it should be. When is dusk? What did the writer say, - the title, - famous- is it John Fante or the guy after him? - I forget his name, - Go Ask the Dusk. Or is it Go Ask the Dust? This is a quote from a book by Knut Hamsun, (sp?), called Hunger, - another famous book- where he questions I think why he loves a woman and says, - Go Ask the Dust. But I am partial to Dusk, and though I never read either book, or even saw a physical copy of either book, - I thought that it would all have been better if someone asked the DUSK something. There is nothing like it. And that sign, - OMG. Well, there was the water, and there were not many people around. Old farms and houses,- don’t be deceived, the middle class is long gone,- and these must be worth a couple million- or the smallest one half of one million or three quarters- don’t be fooled if the white porch or whatnot is not painted this year,- they don’t need to, lol. The sun remained high, - and I saw some graveyards, but one of them was new, and for this reason lacked character. A grave yard to be anything must be at least a few decades old, and of course the older the better. What else? Verdant parks, - sandy beaches, - dirty but still beautiful river rock, - the idea of seagulls, which are beautiful and garbage birds at once. Rural people (make of that what you will), - and slowly, ever so slowly the sun begins a descent, - and the dusk is crowning, - beginning to be borne. I loop back, - I am starving for a coffee, - am unromantic in my longing for more clearly marked ways and stores. I loop back. I don’t have all the petrol in the world or a little house by the lake that I pretend is the sea.

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COYOTE, OWL AND OTHER

The fog is there and paints everything. When the world becomes opaque it is more of a mystery. The one that appeared to dream cannot remember the dreams and the waking world is like that also. Downspouts wait adroitly and calmly for more rain. They can seem like neat and interesting appendages of houses and buildings. Just to think of all of them that are in the world. There is a train station and lights, lights that peer out from the thick fog. What do the animals think? Somewhere deep in the valley where nobody goes is the makeshift coyote den. There may be a few coyotes and they curl and sleep but rise a bit, awakened, and one licks dew from some feral shrub leaf that has fallen and sits carried by a previous wind inside the den. No nature walker, dog walker, writer, photographer, or soul good or bad shall ever know about the coyote that licked some moisture from a leaf. And one day after roaming and hunting the forest floors, summits, ridges, valleys, - after fighting and loving and wondering and waking up to morning fogs or suns or night moons and other- the coyote shall pass from the earth. Where does he go? Where does he really and actually go? Shall he remain around there in his astral, in his etheric, in his second body? And does a coyote beautiful and mysterious, spry and curious and hungry, have seven bodies? Is the coyote a hungry ghost? Is the coyote God? Whatever is or is not the case, - the whistle from the station, miles and miles away, - blows. Technology lives with nature. Tracks lay out across the rural lands and the cities too. A bird alights on a traffic sign. That old owl that used to guard the highway, survey the scene,- for so many months together,- and even in the winter I think,- was not seen again. Have you ever witnessed an owl fly? Really actually in real life? An owl seems close to a hawk though people do not say so. Its feathers healthy and interesting, its size something with a bit of robustness, - its line straight. Maybe the owl or another is watching and waiting in the fog. Maybe. 

The mist comes with the wind, and if there be spirits in the trees or earth, by the old vines that grow along fences that keep loams,- then in a dewy fog strewn world is when they must be there. Trucks barrel past, - so worldly, so confident, full of the artifacts and goods. It’s been a long time since we saw the sea. It’s been a long time since the pelicans of the Pacific fly in those mornings high above and across tall palms terrene trunked and verdant leafed. They seemed like dinosaur. And it can be remembered that it was if not the stormy season, then it was a stormy season, - and we waited there as the tide turned itself over and over and over again. Where were the people? - reading and watching and relaxing and being in rooms. Rooms with water and books, clothes and towels, dreams and ideas. It took some time but the fog rolled away and the pelicans fly off, - that clear blue sky and the sand that everybody wants, - it presented itself. And now? - Now the fog, beautiful in its own right, - thick and stronger than the sun, for a time, - settles. If all the owls and coyotes, if the insects and birds, if some wild dog or cat wait in the feral woods, curled, slow, easy, restful and waiting for the sun, - maybe there is one of them that intuited a spark of inspiration, - something that can’t have its origin or logic found, - something that is a bit of verve and nerve and energy that comes from the Entire, the Whole, the beginning and before of existence itself. And due to this thing the insect, animal or bird awakens and darts or runs or dives across the thick trees, through the valley chaparral, and out to the larger open meadows loams and fields.

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SPIDER

There is a spider full of belly and the sun crowns her head. I saw her sunning in the middle of the web that was affixed to a piece of wood and ran long across the day and into a tree where it disappeared. But the spider either saw me or felt and sensed some kind of vibration as I went to photograph it. Hurrying away quickly it left under some cover and stayed there. I was outsmarted in a way by the spider. I stood there thinking but I didn’t think much. I waited for her to come out, but she was coy and infused with some kind of intelligence. I think she is also pregnant. But, unlike other humans, I had no intention of harming her else I would have already done so. And if I couldn’t find her, I would have destroyed the web. But I just wanted to see her. It looked like I upset her to a degree. Looking up and away, there were cumulus, a red flower in the sun, some birds, and the rest of the sky. I walked away, into the air of day. I looked briefly at some jalapeño peppers that seemed robust, ready. But I waited, because someone said they are supposed to turn from green to red and then back to green and then be picked. I don’t know either way. I waited. I wait. I wait for the peppers and the autumnal sun to burn itself out a bit, to let the cool nights come as promised. Well, nobody really promised anything I guess. I wait. The sun should leave as it burns my eyes. It can go somewhere else, - to the other side of the earth. I would like the moon. I am a moon type. I would like to see the spacious night, the bat before at dusk, and to hear the wind and pensively remember that the leaves will turn hue, - orange, yellow, gold, red, and brown. Then we will write prose poems in the creative months, and photograph the landscapes that both drip with color and chime with birds that gather to talk about southern migratory paths. And the spider? Well I don’t know what shall become of the spider. For now her belly is full and she may sneak out again for many creatures like a bit of sun. I’ll leave her be. She has her business to tend to and I have mine. 

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THE DEER AUSPICIOUS AND AWKWARD

(though I do have a picture and will be updating this post at some point with it, it’s not here now if this note is being read. – tech issues).

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It was a long stretch of one lane highway. Incredibly so. Leaving behind the urban sprawl that you can’t call out on paper (people just want to live in places), I felt nonetheless that it was among other things overcrowded, kitsch-like, somewhat decadent (if something can be ‘somewhat’ decadent), rather w/out soul, non-creative, unoriginal and boastfully so. 

I noticed that there were no cars in the front or the back. Usually there is at least someone, and that is normal enough. Yet, it was one of those magical times, and an Indian summer to boot. There was actually a wind coming across some flaxen fields and I had just passed a Christmas tree farm that leaves the sign up all year. The sign says, get this, - ‘Christmas Trees.’ I always find it funny or ironic to see the sign under the great and boisterous morning star that shines, that lets itself out and down upon the earth so bright, say, in the July day, that everyone you do happen to see wears sunglasses and shorts.

The highway. Nobody coming. It was almost like the perfect time to do something, but there was nothing to do but keep on towards the destination, the dog walk. Then I saw played a game and drove slowly. Most people might speed, but not me, - if anything I have the soul of an aged one, - in ways anyhow, - and think that everyone should slow down. So I do. 

Then I see the deer.

I shall call this one a ‘he’, though I don’t know. I came to a stop to let him pass. How beautiful he was, a coat or back that received the light, - grown legs, lanky and a bit unsure for the road and the situation and perhaps another reason I don’t know. He looks at me and it’s like he is asking permission to cross. Are you trustworthy? Maybe this is what he thinks. This sure looks like it is what he thinks. Then he slowly goes across and when he gets to the shoulder takes off down into some bushes. I glance thinking I shall see him going ‘off yonder’ like something out of what? - Zane Grey or Jack London or whatever. But it’s like he was a vision, a piece of real mercury in the end there. 

Vanished.

Some sadness erupts and it is surprising that this shows up. 

I look at the empty fields. A car then does come past from the other direction. Nobody would ever know he had been there. I carry on. The deer I once read, is an auspicious sign, and in some native cultures can symbolize family. This is well and right I think, though I don’t know what anything means.

I continue along. I and my furry friends shall soon be around a small pond and the thick evergreens. There will be a long walk up and along the top of a mysterious valley where wild mushrooms grow numerous and confidently on fallen parts of birch trees. I’ll go far and far, wide and long, surveying a sand pit where some strange bird has dug a secret hole that little stalks of green and yellow bamboo grow ‘round. I’ll be searching. 

Enlightenment was a monumental bore. What can be done with it? I’ll be a seeker again, delving back into the dual. Praying to the Virgin Mary, to St. Theresa, to the Holy Family all. I’ll not think of the smart ones, the clever ones, but instead the salt of the earth types. Autumnal hues announcing themselves and I’ll take note and be a proper witness. The nights, cool and spacious, with dreams and leaves that roll down streets and tumble over grates on their way to somewhere. What shall we dream as the frost forms and Thanksgiving or Halloween tries to reach closer? In the day, beside the old fences and under the quiet blue sky, I’ll drive far away, as best I can, - and keep a lookout for that great deer like a vision  under the Indian summer afternoon sun.

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