20140430 Uncle Beast and R'dale
1:15 at BP
aaignment, write a narrrative poem.
Wednesday, April 30, 2014, 4:20 PM, I am walking Home from Roldale. I also walked over. I am trying to make up, or start making up, for not walking at all yesterday.
I am slightly bummed out because I had trouble with a full card for the Psion and got delayed and was unable to copy what I wanted to copy from the oldc ard onto the new one because the card was full and I had to delete everything. Sigh. I really nbeed to reread my work. The farther into the novel I get, the more stuff I have to remember and keep in my head.
I am wearing my new sandals. They look and fit exactly like the old ones. Except that they aren't worn down at the heel. I left the old ones in the closet at R'dale for emergencies.
dandelions out. And blue vioelts. It's gotten windy. and colder and less sun than when I walked over, and I am cold. The white magnolia acress from Balduck park is on flower and looking blousy.
I wanted to walk into the park and look for fawn lilies, but Keith is planning to drive over to Village to .eet me, and so I can't take long or ot will throw off the timing.m Abnd there are fre-raning dogs. Still, I go in, as far as the first patch. I find leaves but no flowers. Spring beauty, though. In flower.
Now I am trying to hurry to make up for teh time I lost looking for fawn lilies. Also because I am cold. I am trying to think of ideas for a narrative poem, but what I keep thinking of is my latest hummingbird dream, But that is more lyric than narrative and nothing really happens.
In the dream, there are beautiful twisted trees on a shining hill and the trees are full of blossoms and the humming birds are flitting around drinking nectar and I am filled with joy. I5t's rare because so many of my dreams are scary.
I am approaching Canyon Bob's, only Canyon Bob doesn't live there any more.
The sidewalk is littered with silver maples blossoms. In the park, some teenage boys are playing football. A fat woman ponderously climbs up the front stps of a house followed by a thin young man with a mohawk haircut. He is carrying something, but I can't see what. His hands are raised as if he were carrying a cake or pie.
Some of the trees now have that classic spring mist of green, tiny green leaves or flowers Othe4rs are bare and few have slightly larger leaves.
I saw no dead birds in dead bird alley on the way to R'dale, so I am expecting no birds now, either. Wendy Wyatt, private eye.
Dead bird alley has been slightly pruned. Something is in flower--a flowering plum or almost, maybe? No dead birds, though.
Not all the dandelions have flowered yet. I look at some that haven't, feeling a little sad. I've been thinking of collecting some and eating them, but have been busy, tired and forgetful. Keith goes by and ooo-oos at me. I pass the Dutcman's breches i flower in front of the abandoned green house, feel sad about the places where wildflowers have been covered with trash or leaves or piles of dirt.
I guess I didn't hurry anough, since I'm only at McDonald's and Keith is already at Village. But I've been wlaking fast enough to not be cold any more.
5:23 PM Oddly, Keith was not at the store. I didn't get a cart, because I expected him to be there. But after filling my arms with stuff, I got a cart and then was there a while longer waiting for turkey before he shwed up. We got a lot of stuff, and mostly, no meat. Except chicken sausages. For cutting into stir fires. We got tons of veggies, a case of beer, wine, a little turkey (they almost out of boar's head), spaghetti sauce, baconsalsa and on and on. 4 large bags of stuff, not counting the case of beer. Keith took it home and I am walking home. I can see hi carrying bags up from the curb. I will have to email Graham and tell him we got cheese, sour cream, salsa etc for tacos.
I pass a cluster of musrooms that look liek coprinus only I am not sure they are. By the time I know for sure,w hen they start autodigesting, then they won't be as good to eat.
I was hoping to come with an idea for a narrative poem, but I did not.
Thursday May 1, 2014, Mayday! 12:54 PM I am sitting in rian Powers's office in one of those hurry up and wait situations. I had a restless night, was up three times, including a couple hours after k got up and went back to bed at 6:54 and then was a wake a while and finally slept until around ten and didn't get going at all until 10:30 and then talked on the phone with an assited living lady. etc so I was really runnin late. I didn't get to shower or even wash or braid my hair. I feel sweaty and dirty and gross. I didn't even brush my teeth. I put on clean udnerwear but sirty clothes (thinking I might shower later, but that rarely happens.
I hate the fact that it is so dim in here.
I can hear BP and someone talking, not what they are saying, but just the sound of their voices rising and falling.
I need to write a narrative poem for class. Every time I try to think aboit it, I think of the humminbird grove. But like I said yeserday, that is more lyric than narratice.
And besides, how could I communicate the thing that made the dream special, the joy of it, without soundling cliched or maudlin etc? Everything about the dream shouts cliche But the feeling of the dream (or vision was anything but cliched to me.
There goes the lady ahead of me, to the restroom, and there goes BP to the restroom. He's running lae.
The trwisted fairy trees on a hill that looks like a print, a perdact arc of circle with the magicaltrees and their brights saturated glowing colers.
Can I think of any story fro my past that I have not yet told or could tell differently or better than would fit in the container of powem? I ahve so many stories, large and small. But at the moment, it is lyrical moments I am remembering, the moon over white lake, the rainbows.
2:20 PM Thurs, cont Now I am at Pier Park. They are predicting raina nd thunderstorms, but it isn't raining yet. The sky is dark, cloudy, with thunderous looking clouds and it's windy and cold. And am not dressed warmly enough and may have to go home early.
Again, I am tinking about a narrative poem And about the rainbow trees with the humming birds. About the very dark horizon. The ships going by, the cold wind, the water that seems opaque rather than trasparent, a kind of pale grey green. My hands are cold in this big wind.
A few boats have appeared in the slips. One is called Bliss and another Starling. I like those names. I might want to use them in Discovery at Hog Isalnd. I probably should not write about things I don't know. Unless I can afford to investigate. And what are chances that will remember to put those naes in that Ms? Not good. Another is called My Way, but I don't like that name as much as Bliss and Starling.
There are also boats with no visble name. I wonder about them. I have labeled this Psion Caution Bravery Psion.
It is always interesting to me)( the detritis that collects in the corners, balls, water bottles, dead fish, lakeweekd, driftwood, trash.
Two geese are hissing at me. I hiss back, circling around them to give them some space.
I can see rain at a distance, clealy against brighter clouds behind it, grey streaks of rain slantin in the wind, pretty, but I'm already cold and not eager to get wet. I hope it stops or misses us or slow enough that I can finish my walk. I am not wearing a raincoat or hat or anything but a sports jacket/dress jacket. I've walked 26 minutes.
I brought cameras, but it's so windy and there isn't much calling out to be captured.
The rain is getting closer and all seems to be coming from a single cloud that is lmost over me. I wonder what makes oe cloud rain and another notr ain The water on the beach almost seems to be glowing and I realize it is the pinbky beige clouds behind the rain cloud. On the beach I find the breast bone of a large bird, very light and dry, like the keel of a ship. I find a plastic rake and a bobber and an empty snail shell. There is a bleached pail and chartreuse platic cup and trash. I hear a rhythmic thumnpic and it takes me a moment to realize the are pumping out the pool, which is essentially empty and the pump isn't fond of pumping nothing and they probably should turn it off. There are buds on both the viburnums and the shad.
There is one drop of water on the Psion's screen, but it may be not from rain, but from the pump, which walked past. It doesn't seem to be raining yet.
Redwinged blackbirds are burbling. The wind is blowing the waves lamping and the pump thumping and clicking and at a distance, traffic, motors. And yet, some sort eerie silnce, too, underneath.
Instead of going for an hour, I think I'll aim for 45 minutes. I've got 34 so far.
Oh-oh, it's raining. Maybe I won't do 45. Maybe I will go to to the mall an do 20 minutes there.
I am almost back to my car. The rain seems to have dwindled to almost nothing and I think I am going to rish walking to the beach outside the park, which I used to do a lot, but haven't done recently. I am position to do it.
3:05 PM I am at the beach, which has grown. People have been dumping trash here, which is sad. The natural trash, the flotsam and jetsam, is bad enough, but black bags of crap, parts of an old trunk, things like that, have been brought and deliberately left.
I can't think of anything but the dream, so I decide to write it and see what happens.
3:36 PM Well, dang it, I sat on the lake wall and wrote a poem from my dream.
3:45 PM I have made 3 drafts so far and am thinking it may actually be a poem, but whether it qualifies as narrative, I don't know.
I've only walked 45 minutes. On the beach, lots of tennis balls. A dead goose, a live starline, a pink action figure (toy), tons of zebra mussle shells, driftwood, trash. Bobbers, multple bobbers. Red and white, dayglo yellow and white. Two geese are honking at me. I want to walk the length of the expanded beach. The pink action figure is an ape with its mouth open. There is a yellow plastic pistol, I guess a squirtgun. Large clamshells, too. Twice I tried to stop my watch and beeped but didn't stop. Mints, touch me nots growing. Black peppermint. Grass and sedges. A fishing pole with a reel still attached, half buried int eh sand. Plastic bags and cups, beer and soda cans . I sink into pockets of rot. Rope, yellow and black nylon rope wond around some wood. I get zebra mussel sjells and crus in my sandals. A colorful beach towel, half -rotted. Wow! The beach has really accreted (grown) since I was last here, much more than I thought. A soocer ball, clean and good looking, and more tennis balls, good and bvad and half buried. lots of birds flitting about. A fishing net (seine type, with big holes for big fish. I find a dead bird, maybe a grebe (black head, long beak, grey feathers, partly rotted.) I try to photograph it with Fiona, the W3, but cannot see it on the view screen, so I try again with Pandora. But Pandora can't get far enough away.
I walk to the very end of the expanded beach. there are more dead bird and live bird and mussel shells and sand and something that looks like a pup tent and I walk until beech disappears inder the water and head back to look for a place to climb up.
For no particular reason, I pick up a faded, once red plastic thing that looks like a spring, but isn't. I put it in my pocket. Then I pick up a snail shell, but when I can't determine if it dead, I put it back.
There are small succlent plants gowing in the rocks. I can't remember their names. They have yellow flowers, but are ot flowering yet. The dandelions are.
Even though I am cold and alone, I feel happy here in a melancholy way. But I have walked almost an hour and am about ready to go back.
4:11 PM I am walking back along the strip of grass between Lakeshore and the lake. The birds I saw on the beach were starlings grackles, robins, ducks, geese. Now, however, I see a tern. There are ponds between the beach and the lakewall and phragmites. I see another dead bids. I walk down onto the lakewall to try and see it. It may be a pigeo or a gull, diifult to tell.
In some spots, the ponds between the wall and beach are very black. The traffic on y right is loud, fast and annoying. I managed on the beach to () it out. Screen it out, blot it out, ignore it.
The older parts of the beach have common evening primrose and willows growing on it.
Across the street, one of the rich houses has a stunning display of daffodils.
My new sandals are now full of sand, mussel shells, crud, and sludge. That's how I know they're mine.
I walked more than an hour (68 minutes), so that's good, and I wrote a poem--we'll see how good that is! I am really really really glad the rain stopped and I was able to walk on the wild beach in the wind. I feel like myself, for a change.
Out on the stormy windy lake are three of those 4H sailboats, looking forlorn, clinging togther, with a man shouting orders. and here comes the rain
4:38 I am over at R'dale to downlaod the Psion so I can work on the new poem for clas, or decide is unworthy and start a new one.
*
You walk all day in the rain; the wind beats against you,
reddens you hands and face, dries your eyeballs. Your legs
feel like concrete, hardening in its molds. You want to sit
to lie down, to sleep, but you haven't arrived yet. You must continue,
step after step after step. The soles of your feet ache.
You approach a hill that rises in a round hump toward
the setting sun. Fire rims each of hundreds of ancient twisted apple trees. Each blossom
explodes into flame, and hundreds of hummingbirds
glow with ethereal light. Your hair, loose, and floating
around your face, burns and burns without turning to ash
The humming bird hang suspended, then flit from flower
to flaming flower. The colors deepen in the sky and the trees
and blossoms and birds take on impossible hues.
You forget your fatigue and stand staring. The hummingbirds
have tiny voices, but so many of them sing that the grove
reverberates with the sound and color and smell of joy.
You taste the promise of apples.
1st draft 2014051-1500
*
The Promise of Apples
All day, you walk in the rain; the wind beats against you,
sucks the warmth from your sodden clothes, reddens
your hands, face, and eyes. Finally, the rain stops, and you begin
to dry, but your legs feel like puttied concrete, hardening
into blocks. You want to sit, lie down, sleep, but you haven't arrived.
You must continue, step after step after step. The soles of your feet
ache with the effort. You taste salt, sweat and sorrow.
You approach a hill that rises in a round hump toward
the sun, setting under the edge of clouds. Fire rims
each of hundreds of ancient twisted apple trees. Each blossom
explodes into flame, and hundreds of hummingbirds
glow with ethereal light. Your hair, loose, and floating
around your face, burns and burns without turning to ash
The humming bird hang suspended, then flit from flower
to flaming flower. Colors deepen in the sky and the trees
and blossoms and birds take on impossibly brilliant hues.
You forget your fatigue and stand staring. So many humming birds sing
with their tiny voices that the grove reverberates with song.
2nd draft. Immolate 20140501-15:35
*
A Promise of Apples
All night, you walk in the rain; wind beats against you,
sucks the warmth from your sodden clothes, reddens
your hands, face, and eyes. Finally, the rain stops, and you begin
to dry in the wind, but your legs feel like puttied concrete, hardening
into blocks. You want to sit, lie down, sleep, but you haven't arrived.
You must continue, step after step after step. The soles of your feet
ache with the effort. You taste salt, sweat and sorrow.
You approach a hill that rises in a round hump toward
the sun, rising under the edge of clouds. Fire rims
each of hundreds of ancient twisted apple trees. Each blossom
explodes into flame, and hundreds of hummingbirds
glow with ethereal light. Your hair, loose, finally dry and floating
around your face, burns and burns without turning to ash
The humming bird hang suspended, then flit from flower
to flaming flower. Colors deepen in the sky and the trees
and blossoms and birds take on impossibly brilliant hues.
You forget your fatigue and stand staring. So many humming birds sing
with their tiny voices that the dawn grove reverberates with song.
20140501-1541-1c(3), 2nd draft. Immolate 20140501-15:35, 1st 1500
get rid of one of the two hundreds!
* * * *
In Uncle Beast, Harmon is supposed to preach tonight in Bon Matin and then take them out to eat at (). Tiny has learned that he has fake ID.
In her post apocalyptic story, Leah, Troy and Alys have just eaten groundnuts and hog peanuts and 2 have told their stories and they are dirty. Not the stories, the people.
*
Mary
No comments:
Post a Comment