Collectanae & Lucubrations of L. F. Hawkins

2012-01-20T09:57:00.000-08:00

Snap, Crackle, and Pop!

Before the Silver Thaw

After two days of heavy snow a warm front moved in bringing even heavier rain. But we live in a narrow valley on the east side of the Cascade Mountains in Oregon and the frigid air, comfortably settled in, takes days to moderate. As a result the rain is falling through a layer of subfreezing air (26F) and freezes on contact with the surface, any surface. On the one hand it can be quite beautiful (one name for the event is “silver thaw”), on the other, devastating to trees, shrubs, power lines, etc. And driving, for those who must, is simply dangerous. The ice coats each and every branch and twig and leaf or needle and continues to build (like dipping candles) as long as the temperature remains at or below freezing. Several years ago branches were encased in close to half an inch of ice. The weight is tremendous and there is only one inevitability: branches, even whole trees, are snapped off at the weakest point.

Early ice buildup

Around midnight last night I was awakened from what for me masquerades as sleep by a series of snaps, crackles, and pops. My foggy brain thought at first it might be the Chinese New Year, but that is still four days away, I think. I soon realized it was the sound of various tree limbs breaking loose under the unaccustomed weight and crashing to the ground. All night long at varying intervals the night was punctuated with loud bangs. We had just had over a dozed large Douglas firs that towered over the house cut down (now have firewood for a few years) and thanked whatever instinct persuaded us to do it. Even now I can hear the devastation continue. So far our few outbuildings, and the “tea house” and “studio” are unscathed. More rain predicted for this afternoon so things will probably get worse before they get better.

Pruning courtesy of nature

Douglas fir limb encased in ice

Birch tree missing its top

Postscript: As I was about to post this to the blog we lost our internet connection, then electricity. Now, two days later, we are up and running, as they say. As our water is via a well and I've never bothered to buy a generator, we had to do without that luxury too. Damage to the garden is extensive, extensive. And my old greenhouse appears to be a total loss. Now we are being lashed with sleet and the wind is reaching a fevered pitch which will probably bring down more tree limbs , etc. Makes one realize how feeble we are as a species when it comes to dealing with the physical world, despite our vociferous bellowing to the contrary.

2011-10-14T09:34:00.001-07:00

Let the Fireworks Begin

We've yet to experience our first frost which is somewhat unusual and something I hope Al Gore doesn't hear about. But, one of the many vine maples [Acer circinatum] I started from seeds or cuttings many years ago has responded to whatever primeval genetic code orchestrates such things and dyed the top of its canopy Sedona red. Almost makes me want to go into the woods at midnight and perform some ancient Druid dance to hurry the mercury down. We have two other large maples whose leave are only able to produce varying shades of yellow, but we do have five Japanese maple [Acer palmatum], and while small, all under ten feet, their amazingly varied foliage turn half a dozen shades of red, bronze, copper, gold, and a few tints that aren't recognized nor produceable on an artist's pallet. Then there is the incendiary Eponymous alata 'compactus', variety "Chicago Fire". Although in a shady location it too has begun to take on its brilliant crimson fall color.

And so many others who grace our gardens with their temporary farewells, The ancient birch, perhaps the first tree I planted 37 years ago, the leaves of which, while only turning a somewhat uniform yellow are so dense and intense that when light is behind them the tree appears festooned with freshly minted doubloons, but without the portrait of Ferdinand and Isabella. But the treasure chest has not been opened this year, we need the nip of frost to snap the lock.

Most of the Hosta raised from seed earlier in the year (I mentioned them in May) have developed into nice little plants, and, not having decided where to plant them, and, realizing they would not survive the winter in their four inch pots I planted them in three rows in an 'out-of-the-way spot until next spring. When you can't prune a shrub or a rose or a tree without wondering if you might turn the trimmings into additional plants, and you never cease to marvel at the potential hidden in every perennial or annual seed pod, well, you end up with considerably more plants than anyone, other than a commercial nursery, can use. The fifty or so day lilies started from seed last year should begin to flower next year and although I don't expect any surprises, just like buying a lottery ticket, one can always hope that among the new blooms one of them proves to be unique, so different in fact that daylilyomania might sweep the land as did tulipomania Europe in the 1600's and I can at last afford a copy of Hortus Veitchii.

2011-10-13T16:26:00.000-07:00

The Maxfield Parish Effect

It begins, or becomes noticeable, around seven pm. The rounded hills running along the east side of the valley are suddenly awash in an ethereal, lilac light not present most of the year. I can only liken it to the quality found in many of Maxfield Parish’s paintings. Perhaps it’s due in part to our location at 45.516976 N latitude, and at this time of year sunlight must pass through miles of ozone, soot, pollen, sloughed off skin cells from a few billion people, carbon-based energy fumes, a myriad frantic insects in either a mating euphoria or lingering death buzz, water vapor from the transpiration from a land turned green by summer sun, the belched gas from herds of countless bovines busily chewing their cud, and who knows what other collections and amalgamations of aerial rubbish are suspended in the air this time of year. Whatever the cause the result is mesmerizing. The unworldly pastel glow suffuses everything with what seems like a physical harmony, work and play both cease. There is a sense that one could reach out and embrace the light as one might a friend. It doesn’t last long, a couple of weeks in late August or early September, and the effect lasts just the time it takes for the shadow of the western hills to climb and darken those to the east. By October we are preparing the cave for winter, hoping that perhaps this year we might have sunshine to brighten the snow occasionally. We read and make long lists from nursery catalogues, mumble incoherently about spring, and wonder if we should buy a Maxfield Parish calendar next year.

Hotchpotch

2011-10-11T18:01:00.000-07:00

This is my first opportunity to write since May – that’s the Prospero magic a garden can cast over your life.

After what can only be described as a miserable summer (for us spring never ended) fall has arrived. Steady cold rain shuffled with a dark cloud deck heavy with showers, wind, and the scent of snow, presupposing, I suppose, a dreary, if not a loosing hand. Still, we work/play almost every day in the garden, lately in what we call our Conifer Garden, adding new evergreens and understory plants (we try to plant those listed as zone 4 or lower, but sometimes add a particularly desirable plant or two, or three, only rated zone 5/6) as often as our meager income allows. It is sometimes disconcerting to realize the trees you are planting today will not reach a reasonable or appreciable size until long after you yourself are providing nutrients for their growth. Even worse is thinking about those who may live here twenty years from now, people (?) who will simply call in the logger and the backhoe and carve out a place to park their 1200 square foot recreational vehicle (?) wondering all the time what kind of ‘fruitcake’ planted all the firewood.

OK, this is not our garden, yet. Butchart Garden, BC, Canada

Anyway, this morning the rain was continuous and filled my rubber boots so I spent the afternoon listening to Bob Dylan, sipping a glass or two of $3.00 Pinot Grigio, and working with the many cuttings I have taken over the past few months, [I couldn’t help noticing cuttings taken from a Meidiland rose on 8.3.11 had already sent roots through the bottom of their pots. Up to now only Darlow’s Enigma as been so accommodating] I did manage to heel-in several dozen potted plants and collect too much seed from too many plants before my fingers stiffened from the cold. Too many books to read, too much music, too many ragged poems to write. Never enough books to read, and never enough music or poems to bathe in.

This is part of our embryonic conifer garden.

My head is too filled with words and thoughts after a five-month hiatus, what a hodgepodge.

Appropriately Dylan is singing “Restless Farewell” at this moment, so, if not farewell, goodnight.

2011-05-06T12:51:00.000-07:00

Fooling the Frogs

We, that is my wife, the garden manager, and myself, the horticultural dreamer, spent yesterday, the third ‘nice’ day of the year, browsing a couple of plant nurseries. We made a day of it, [that means stopping for a cup of tea and a scone or bagel at some remote café (this time on Sauvie Island)], as all the ‘real’ nurseries are at least 70 miles distant, and so our visits become mini vacations of a sort.

Of course today the temperature dropped ten degrees and the sky looks like the belly of a pregnant Humpbacked Whale (this weather may become the norm for those of us residing in the northwest). That we also live in a frost pocket on the north side of a glaciated peak does not particularly encourage gardening even in good weather, but we persist, as at least one of us seems quite mad at times.

On a typical day I spend 8 -12 hours struggling/dancing, cursing/singing, planting/weeding, gazing at, marveling at the vortex of life exploding from the earth beneath me, mixing soils for transplants, concocting liquid, organic diets for marginal plants in the infirmary, or those I have recently exposed to the vagaries of our rugged climate. This grubbing in the earth produces, for me, accompanied by a glass of wine or two, true bliss.

Today I transplanted 9 dozen Hosta seedlings and innumerable lettuce, chard, heuchara, various herbs, and many other plants grown from seed or disturbed by our new plantings, and all to the music of the spheres.

So what about the frogs?

Yes, I’d almost forgotten, the frogs. Well, when making potting mix [peat moss, vermiculite, perlite, compost and other materials] in the wheelbarrow, the tip of the trowel/soil scoop I use, scraping against the steel apparently produces a frequency that excites a frog’s libido. The faster I scratch the tip of the trowel against the bed of the wheelbarrow the more the frogs croak. I am getting to the point where I can almost conduct them like an orchestra. These are Pacific Tree Frogs, about 1½ inches long, who make their home in a small pond outside the potting shed. I'm sure they are becoming quite frustrated by now, and growing hoarse.

Though small, their ‘ribbit’ can be heard for several hundred feet, especially at night. I wonder what a chorus of Bullfrogs would sound like?

2011-05-03T09:35:00.000-07:00

Zeek

March ?, 1966 — November 28, 2011

This is the last picture I took of 'Zeek', our beloved cat of over fifteen years. Without going into the details of her last days let me simply say she was a simple cat without ego or pretensions, she never wrote a book, made a movie, or resolved more than six or seven diplomatic crises. But she proved her worth, no matter what scale you chose, more times than I can remember. At the end: no quivering lip, no sad mewing, no plaintive pleading, only a quiet stoicism worthy of Socrates.

Why did you call her "Zeek", you might ask? Well, less than two days after she was born [there were four embryonic kittens in the litter] her mother was killed. I found them under my work bench, birthed in a box filled with nuts and bolts. They were so small an eye dropper was too big to feed them and I used a toothpick to drip milk into their mouths until an eye dropper designed for a doll became useable. Gradually I added bread, mashed tuna and ground meat to the solution and two of them thrived, the other two died the day after I found them. "Ginger", her brother, was killed by a passing automobile a few days after we had him neutered, on my late October birthday. "Zeek" lived on. We always enjoyed reading the various Dr. Seuss books to our children when they were young and 'The Cat in the Hat' was a favorite. In the book the Cat takes off his (or her) hat only to uncover another, smaller cat, who also takes off his (or her) hat, until we reach the tiniest cat of all, little cat "Z". Hence "Zeek", who began life as the smallest of cats, and died bigger than I can ever hope to be.

Bon voyage Zeek, get in touch if you get a chance.

[Though obviously not about a cat I recommend a reading of 'The House Dog's Grave' by Robinson Jeffers, for what might be an animals perseptive.]

2011-04-29T09:39:00.000-07:00

The Scent of Green

Soon silence will have passed into legend. Man has turned his back on silence. Day after day he invents machines and devices that increase noise and distract humanity from the essence of life, contemplation, meditation... tooting, howling, screeching, booming, crashing, whistling, grinding, and trilling bolster his ego. His anxiety subsides. His inhuman void spreads monstrously like a gray vegetation.

~Jean Arp

"Green is the prime color of the world, and that from which its loveliness arises."

~Pedro Calderon de la Barca

I like to think of spring as being something subtle, a seasonal change that comes upon us silently and by degrees, not with a sudden flash that excites the retinas, welcome though it may very well be, but, when you venture into a temperate zone only once or twice a month, change can seem abrupt this time of year. A week or so ago, when I last ventured into the relative warmth of a lower elevation, the majority of trees and shrubs were leafless, only brown and grey stems in a landscape of native firs and pines with their limited green hues, but yesterday! I felt like Dorothy (OK, maybe Tin Man, Cowardly Lion, or Scarecrow) waking up in a field of glorious green. And what a diversity of greens! The light clear green of absinthe, a denser, sour-apple green, and piquant lime green, all making broad, painterly brush-strokes against the viridian, almost blue-green background. But it was the lighter shades that attracted and held my attention, and I marveled again/still at the process of photosynthesis and the gift of chlorophyll. I was suddenly back in college botany, and the 'Krebs Citric Acid Cycle' momentarily filled whatever brain cells were simply idling, though I could recall little of the process. Strange the things we retain in our fleshly filing cabinet. A few days of warmth and sunshine and we'll be floating in foliage of every shade of green, right here. Already Hostas are breaking ground. Is it any wonder we are awed by Spring?

Messing With One's Future

2011-04-09T22:11:00.000-07:00

There is nothing - absolutely nothing -

half so much worth doing as simply messing about in boats.

Water Rat - The Wind in the Willows

It’s still very hard for me to believe that in 1960, when I was seventeen, and my best friend, David C. about the same, we could, and did wander down to Balboa, California and into a yacht broker’s office to be treated as if we were scions of Rockefeller or Carnegie. We mentioned we were interested in purchasing a sloop, ketch, or other sea-worthy vessel of around thirty feet and without hesitation the gentleman gave us the addresses, the slip numbers, of several boats he thought might interest us. And so we simply walked on board the boats on our list without the slightest interference. I'm sure this would be impossible today. We explored all the nooks and crannies of the various vessels at leisure, striking what we imaged were nautical poses for each other. One beautiful craft I remember reminded me of a scaled-down galleon, complete with poop deck, and most likely a pirate flag in one of the locked chests. I was in love and ready to cast off the hawsers immediately and sail for Treasure Island with Robert Newton, after all I was a Hawkins. One we were intrigued with was a large Chinese Junk. And another, had we followed our hearts and not our narrow socially obedient minds, might have changed the course of our lives forever. It was a sloop provisioned for several weeks at sea; the cabin table overflowing with sea charts held down by a cup half filled with cold coffee. It was evident someone lived aboard. A silver key was in the ignition. Though we didn't know the difference between a spinnaker and a jib we thought that if the boat were under mechanical power it would be the equivalent of driving a car, and once outside the harbor we could raise the mainsail and learn how to handle the rigging at our convenience. What did we know? Visions of Bora Bora, Tahiti, Fiji, even Catalina Island danced in our heads. I wonder sometimes, where would I be today if one of us had found the nerve to turn the key.

2011-04-09T11:14:00.000-07:00

The Most Recent Strange Peregrination of F. S. Whinkla

. . . being an honest recollection of events as they occurred on the last leg of his return journey to Kleadrap from Dallas, Texas after wandering several months in and around the Orient.

[My planned planting of peas, even the snow peas, and Fava beans was once again cancelled due to frigid, wet weather. As a result I thought I should take advantage of the forced ennui and transcribe another page or two of Whinkla's Dallas/Kleadrap journal. I also turned the day into what the haiku poets of old Japan might refer to as 'a snow-viewing day', though I wrote only a few feeble haiku to commemorate the event.]

Part V

Larry, when I left the house a few hours earlier I remember descending a flight of stone steps. I remembered because of the carved marble lions, but when I went back to fill my water bottles I could not for the life of me find those ‘Lions of Judah’, nor the stairs, instead, I passed a large, harp-like sculpture that reminded me of Barbara Hepworth, and then, almost by accident, discovered steps that went down, down instead of up. And flanking those stairs were two beautiful alabaster urns overflowing with last years nasturtiums and trailing verbena, black and crisp from their winter ordeal. The bas relief carvings covering their sides were as beautiful as anything by Augustus Saint-Gaudens, and I could feel, without touching, the twining grape vines, hear panpipes, and the unrestrained laughter of fauns, maenads, a satyr (perhaps Ampelos), and what looked like Bacchus holding aloft a thyrsus. Trapped in stone they danced round and around beneath the gnarled branches of an ancient olive grove. I thought the very presence of the urns an invitation, and at least the stairs would take me into the house. At the bottom of the steps was a wooden door, also carved, but in the poor light I could only determine, with my fingers, that the design seemed abstract. I needed water, and abandoning all hope, slipped inside where I found myself in a marble-floored foyer. A hallway, opposite the doorway, seemed to stretch several times the width or length of the house, as I remembered it from the outside. Tealight candles, held in glass dishes, burned in the foyer and at intervals along the hall, and as I could see they had been recently lit assumed someone must be nearby. I called out, but getting no answer began to walk along the hall, looking for someone who might direct me to the kitchen, or a bathroom. I can hear you thinking Larry, and you’re right, I was rather distressed, but perhaps that’s too strong a word, concerned might be more appropriate, or troubled, but it was disconcerting that the only person I had seen since my arrival had been Mr. Lucien Tu Fu Smith.

I started walking down the hallway and couldn’t help notice the wooden floor was covered with Berber carpets, not the cheap, modern, mass produced abominations but traditional, hand-made rugs, probably from Morocco judging by the colourful designs and the distinctive knotting. Recognizing a good carpet is one of the things I learned from my father at an early age. As the doorways on both sides of the hall seemed alike I finally picked one at random, number seven on the left as I recall, and knocked. There was no answer, which didn't surprise me, so I tried the doorknob and found the door unlocked. On the other side I encountered a narrow spiral of descending wooden stairs, and having few choices decided to continue The stairwell, which made two complete, counter-clockwise circles, was lighted every eight to ten feet with raku-glazed sconces, and I noticed some of them used those new energy saving bulbs which somehow reassured me. At the bottom another short hallway ended in two identical doors. Well, I thought, another choice. I opened the door on the right, hoping it was right, and entered what must have been a library. It was a big room filled from floor to ceiling with wonderful wooden bookcases overflowing with books. The room must have been thirty feet long, fifteen feet wide, and at least fifteen feet in height. There were two groups of five leather-covered chairs, each group surrounding a central table. Several floor lamps, only one of which was turned on, were scattered around the room. The comforting smell of leather, lanolin, and printers ink gave the room an ambiance that was quite welcoming. I walked to the nearest bookshelf on my right and scanned the titles. My god, I thought, I must be dreaming. I ran my nervous hands over what appeared to be complete runs of Paideuma, Deus Loci, Nexus, the D. H. Lawrence Review, Under the Sign of Pisces/Café in Space, the James Joyce Quarterly, and many other literary journals I had only imagined existed in university libraries. Then I found an entire shelf of Goethe, including what looked like the 1829 edition of Essai sur la Métamorphose des Plantes! I didn’t dare touch it. I had bought a reprint of this book when I was fourteen. Suddenly I was in my boyhood bedroom with the book cradles in my hands, dreading my mother’s call to dinner. Then I passed shelf after shelf of modern novels, and more books of poetry than anyone could hope to read. Then an entire section on Astronomy, one on Architecture, then philosophy, and several feet of mythology, Abyssinian to Zaire, then, surprisingly, two or three shelves of erotica and a shelf on boat building. Larry, I don’t think there was a discipline or genre of art or literature not represented. But I was after water and needed to find the kitchen, or a bathroom. And while I was standing, dumfounded in the library, I realized again I had not seen or heard another living thing since entering the house. I considered shouting as loud as I could to see if anyone would respond, but the library forbade it. I moved further into the room along the shelves, trying to ignore the titles reaching out to me, and discovered at the opposite end of the room a door not like others I had passed. This one was less than five feet tall and covered in copper and what might have been silver, or platinum, or, at this point, mithril. I was growing tired, and my thirst had passed the point of being simply an inconvenience. I ducked my head and passed through the door. I wasn’t surprised to be greeted on the other side by another flight of descending stairs, however, these turned in a clockwise direction and were unlit. I felt my way down a dozen or so risers to a stone-lined room lit only by the accidental light that had managed to follow me. There appeared to be only one exit, a door even lower than the one before. I found the doorknob, turned it, ducked, and stepped to the other side. A blaze of light left me stumbling blindly into the room.

To be continued

Always Time for Tea

2011-04-07T10:59:00.000-07:00

Tea House Five Years Ago

Buddha, Five Years Ago

Despite yesterday being the coldest April 6^th on record for Portland, Oregon, and our own temperatures here in Parkdale consistently under-doing our own documented lows, I took afternoon tea in my unheated garden tea-house. The small building is sited in what I refer to as the ‘Buddha Garden’, a Japanese inspired garden area that began when I hauled a small, several hundred pound stone Buddha home from an import store in California. The carved rock traveled the thousand-mile journey to Oregon strapped in the back seat of our Honda Accord, where he stoically observed the passing landscape without audible comment. (The back seat however lost all internal consistency and composure) Once home I hauled the squat, gray statue to a location southwest of the house and the Oriental Garden gradually evolved around him.

I intended to say something about Japanese scrolls, but now I see it is time for morning tea. Please excuse me for a while.

No Lizards Outside the Gates of Eden

2011-03-25T19:55:00.000-07:00

One of my favorite blogs is: “Old Fools Journal”, and out of curiosity, or some primal urge to scourge myself like Los Penitentes, I decided to Google ‘Bayou Blue’, his home town, not to dream but to get a feel for where he lives. Just as I expected he lives near a lot of water. I’m sure it is not the water we have here in the dismal, dark, mouldy, mossy, acidic northwest, but a vigorous, warm, exciting, living kind of water, filled with life, good and bad, the amniotic liquid we spent the first few months of our short lives dreaming in. And seeing so much water on the map, and what looked like a lot of sparsely or uninhabited swampy land I was transported back to my early teenage years in El Monte, California, where I collected, studied, bought, sold, traded and talked snakes, lizards, turtles and other reptilian wonders with youthful dedication. What a treasure house I thought. It’s impossible now of course, and perhaps rightly so, but in those days, the fifties, I could buy, sell and trade these magnificent creatures with little or no government or environmental criticism or interference. I would exchange printing (my father owned a print shop where I realize now I caused more grief than happiness) for reptiles. I would print, at my father’s expense, even occasionally, on the difficult jobs, getting him to do the printing for me, the business cards, letterheads, envelopes and brochures that were required, and then, exchange those products for leaf-nosed, shovel-nosed, glossy, and various rattlesnakes. And the lizards: Collared, Leopard, Chuckwalla, Skink, Spiny, Iguana, Fringe-toed, Whip-tailed, and the Horned. I treated them all with the deference I would have accorded a brother. At times I would trade these desert specimens for more exotic specimens like Gray, Red and Yellow Rat snakes, various water snakes, hognose snakes, racers, coachwhips, king and, my favorite, the Indigo snake, all from the southeast. I even hatched snake eggs in my bedroom, which, despite my concerted effort at force-feeding with milk-soaked ground beef, or bread, never survived for more than a few weeks. I took no more snake eggs in trade. Perhaps it is good that in the thirty-seven years we have lived here I have never seen a lizard anywhere near. Or are the lizards trying to tell me something?

2011-03-21T17:10:00.000-07:00

The Most Recent Strange Peregrination of F. S. Whinkla

. . . being an honest recollection of events as they occurred on the last leg of his return journey to Kleadrap from Dallas, Texas after wandering several months in and around the Orient.

Part IV

I drove, rather dreamily, to the grove of cottonwoods and made camp, and as rain seemed unlikely simply unrolled a small tarp and fluffed-up my down-filled mummy bag. Then, after urinating in the dry wash, spelling my name, except for the last “la”, I built a small ring of stones and gathered enough twigs and small branches for an evening fire. It was quiet, very quiet, as I boiled the last of my water, on the two-burner propane stove I had bought in Dallas, for tea. I poured the heated water over the dark Camellia sinensis leaves, leaned my back against the thick, deeply fissured bark of one of the larger Poplars and opened ‘The Old Coyote of Big Sur’, a book about Jamie de Angulo, and began to read.

I must have fallen asleep because the next thing I remember was darkness, an empty tea cup, a closed book in my lap, and the distant lament, or exaltation, of a coyote somewhere high in the surrounding hills, and even though it must have been later than five in the afternoon I was immediately reminded of Lorca’s “Lament for Ignacio Sánchez Mejías”, but don’t ask me why, I do not want to think about it.

Larry, when I opened my eyes a warm wind washing down the canyon had picked up the golden cottonwood leaves and set them dancing in a dozen dervish-like spiraling cones. I suddenly felt the essence of Σαλωμη (why did Whinkla use the Greek for Salome?) before me and hoped I was not to become a surrogate ‘John the Baptist’. The trees swayed in the quarter-moon moonlight and I thought they might be singing, singing or chanting, like a disciple of Pope Gregory the 1st. Conversely I felt I might just as easily encounter an aroused Oberon or Puck prancing along the bed of the stream, I sensed something magical afoot, but when I stood and stretched my limbs the colourful whirlwinds melted into the sand and the breeze died like a dying man’s last breath.

I walked over to the Odyssey, refilled my glass with Cabernet, and decided to light a fire and broil an Esposito’s cheese and parsley sausage or two for dinner. It was then I realized I had no water to cook the pasta I wanted and would have to return to the house to fill my bottles.

The moon and the milky way provided enough light so that I could clearly see the darker, geometric outline of the building, so, leaving my wine glass next to the unlit pyramid of twigs next to the fire ring I took two empty gallon plastic jugs and walked toward the house.

To be continued

A (questionable) Gentle Madness

2011-03-21T14:47:00.000-07:00

Ahh, in the mail today, another book. Glancing at my “to read” shelf I notice it has grown to three, three foot planks, that’s nine feet of books, books on or about virtually every person or subject a human, or non-human being could imagine. Who could be interested in so many diverse things? Only someone who wrote a high school essay titled: “On the Distinguishing Characteristics Between Mysticeti and Odontoceti Whales”, and another on the relevance of Ezra Pound and the structure of modern poetry, that’s who. The "why" of all this I have never been able to fathom. And this latest book, “A Gentle Madness”, to be invited into the house with all the pomp accorded royalty, or a new hybrid Azalea, I had read several years ago, most likely when it was published in 1995, but I wanted to read it again, and have the soft textured pages in my library where I could glance at the spine and touch it with the whorled, worn tips of my fingers whenever I felt like doing so. Try that with a Kindle or a NOOK!

But none of this is what I intended to say. What I wanted to do was complete my transcription of F. S. Whinkla’s diary/letter concerning his return from Texas after several months abroad. If I didn’t know him so well I’d think my leg was being pulled.

Twiddling my Thumbs, and Toes

2011-03-14T20:49:00.000-07:00

Having nothing useful to do while waiting for something to happen

Last night I sat at the kitchen counter reminiscing with a bottle of Merlot from the Napa Valley and a finger worn copy of ‘The Climber’s Guide to the Sierra Nevada’, held open by an empty bottle of James Busby Pinot Grigio. As I read, my stiff, arthritic fingers unconsciously searched for small handholds on granite peaks, mountains I had not climbed when I was able. I felt for any irregularity in the crystalline igneous surface that might provide purchase for the edge of my vibram-soled boots, any defect in the Formica counter that could promise promise. I was making little progress and closed the book. I thought of going to bed and attempting to enter my past via a dihedral on the north ridge of Mount Cotter, or forget the high hills entirely and go for a stroll among the booksellers beside the Seine, or I could do as I had been doing for the past several weeks: sit quietly, do nothing, and wait for spring.

Something was bothering me; had been troubling me a very long time. What it was I could not ascertain, just a general feeling of lassitude, uncertainty and doubt. I realized the few things I had managed to accomplish lately had been done simply to fill the empty hours between sunrise and sunset, or sunset and sunrise. Perhaps what I felt was guilt? But about what? I did have a list of projects I wanted to begin, or finish, and yet somehow couldn’t find enough enthusiasm to even think about. It was true, many of my projects, the mosaics and sculptures especially, required warmer weather, and many of the others would be difficult to execute huddled around the heating stove, but not all. Perhaps I had too many things I wanted to do and could therefore not concentrate on any one for any length of time. And at my age I was constantly reminded of how limited that time might be.

I opened a bottle of Cabernet, slipped on my down parka and wandered out to the back porch. As I expected there was not a star visible and cold water dripped from the eaves. The only bright spot was the long sweep of snow reflecting light from an upstairs window. In defiance I created a night sky worthy of Van Gogh's 'Starry Night', but without the cypress or church steeple, and filled my glass. But, after a few minutes of transcendental bliss, I felt the wolverine of uneasiness gnawing away at my tranquility. I decided I had to do something, but what?

Then I remembered, as if I had ever forgotten, I still had Whinkla’s recent notes to transcribe. And then I suddenly recognized the underlying source of my guilt! Whinkla! I remembered that under my bed there were several cardboard boxes filled with his letters, manuscripts, and journals. There was 'Blimp', the handwritten manuscript I’ve safegaurded for several years, a document I had once started to transcribe/type for him, but given my human limitations, abandoned, feeling guilty of course. And Whinkla told me he has an even larger collection, a trilogy he refers to as the Malador manuscript he would like me to look at. I think I might have typed some of those pages into the computer earlier, but I can’t be sure. I’m not sure of anything anymore.

I refilled my glass and promised myself I would finish up this last unfinished business with Whinkla and then tell him I simply did not have time anymore to be his secretary, editor, guardian of his manuscripts, psychiatrist, clearing house, answering service or anything else, he would simply have to fend for himself. That’s what I decided, last night.

2011-02-05T13:44:00.000-08:00

The Most Recent Strange Peregrination of F. S. Whinkla

. . . being an honest recollection of events as they occurred on the last leg of his return journey to Kleadrap from Dallas, Texas after wandering several months in and around the Orient.

Part III

I don’t know what I expected to find, but the room I entered might have been the lobby of almost any non-commercial motel or bed and breakfast in the western U.S., except for the flowers. Most prominently placed, on a black lacquered shelf opposite the entrance, was a large, dark, copper-hued raku vase holding three pink peonies, a lobed philodendron leaf, and a gnarled piece of light brown driftwood, all delicately placed. Someone was adept at ichibana. An oval coffee table and several leather chairs took up much of the floor space. To the right, behind the front door, a short counter extended from the wall and beyond that, partially hidden by a cabinet, I could see the whirling glow of a computer screen. A small fire of piñon logs burned gently in a corner fireplace, and just for a moment Larry I imagined I might be in New Mexico. To the left of the mantelshelf hung what looked to me like a Cezanne, a giclée print I imagine. Two corner windows were curtained with heavy cinnabar-coloured drapes, tied back with black velvet cords. I called out “Hello.”

At the end of the counter was a beautiful potted Melicytus ramiflorus tree in full bloom. The yellow-green flowers growing on the naked twigs exuded a pleasant, intoxicating fragrance. How did I know it was a Mahoe tree Larry, well, to tell the truth, in case you think me more a horticulturist than I am, there was a very informative metal tag attached to the white-barked trunk. The shrub is native to New Zealand by the way.

As no one had appeared I called again, this time louder. After a few seconds I heard the faint sound of music, Vivaldi I think, coming from behind a curtained doorway at the back of the room, and then an elderly man bounded out to greet me. I say bounded, but danced would also be an apt choice of words. “My goodness,” he said, hurrying toward me and offering his right hand, “I was being charmed by a Bach cantata and didn’t hear you come in. Now, how may I help you?”

“Well, I’m not sure.” I said. “I stopped at a store in town and the clerk must have thought I was looking for a place to stay because he gave me directions to what he thought was a Bed and Breakfast somewhere up this road.”

“Ah Brian, where would we be without his kind assistance?” he sighed, rolling his bright blue eyes toward the ceiling, “But yes, and no. Yes, I suppose this is what people call a Bed and Breakfast, but No, I’m afraid we’re booked solid for the next several weeks. I’m sorry.”

“I understand,” I said, “I hadn’t thought of looking for a place to stay before I stopped at the market, it’s only mid afternoon. I have no idea why I drove up here. Another time perhaps.”

“I’m sure you’d enjoy yourself here,” he said. “By the way, I’m Lucien, Lucien Tu Fu Smith.”

I was about to respond but he quickly continued.

“My father was rather enamored of Chinese and Japanese poets as you may have guessed. And with a surname like Smith, well, you have the yin and yang of things.

“Whinkla,” I said, “F. S. Whinkla, and the F and S are just that, the letters F and S.” I shook his hand a second time and tried not to stare but he somehow commanded my attention. He was sixtyish, not heavy, but showing unmistakable signs of a portliness to come, about my height, five ten or so. He had white hair that fell a little below his shoulders. It was thicker than mine, and I remember his eyebrows were somewhat darker, and very bushy. His mouth seemed small, but that might have been a result of his Hemingway-like beard. His hands felt rough, but his fingers were long and slender, somewhat delicate looking. His voice was very pleasant, deep, measured, resonant, yet clear. I could imagine him reading Dylan Thomas aloud to himself as he wandered the fields and hills”.

“Tell you what,” he said, guiding me by the elbow toward an adjacent room, “there isn’t a motel or hotel within fifty miles. You seem like a decent chap, and if you want to stay the night there’s a small bunkhouse beyond that grove of cottonwoods” He indicated the trees which were about a hundred yards, clustered around the mouth of an arroyo. “We tell the government we’re a working ranch so we maintain a few outbuilding and half a dozen pieces of machinery none of us know how to operate, just in case. You’re welcome to spend the night there, no charge. But you may find the accommodations a little rustic.”

“Rustic,” I said, perhaps a little too quickly, “you’ve no idea the places I’ve slept the past several months. I appreciate your offer but if I could just unroll my sleeping bag out in the open that will be accommodation enough.”

“Well, there it is then,” he said, pointing to the horizon. “four hundred plus acres of calcified earth to chose from. But, if you change your mind, the bunkhouse is unlocked.”

We both stood staring out the window for a few moments and I became aware of how quiet it was. I thought I could hear the faint, high-pitched sound of a violin, but it could just as easily have been the silence ringing in my ears.

“This is the common room,” he said, walking over to a refrigerator, “we keep this ice box filled with bottles of our well water, juices, whatever’s in season, yogurt, milk, even a variety of beer if the guests have been generous, and sometimes, if you get here before I do, a bottle or two of wine. Of course there’s coffee, cocoa, and a variety of teas. Help yourself. If you feel like leaving a little something there’s a piggy bank on the counter next to the toaster. There’s a microwave and small gas stove. Pots, pans, plates, and all the other culinary apparatus you’re likely to need are in the cupboards and drawers. There’s a sink to wash up in if you decide to cook. I serve a hearty breakfast for our guests, but if you’re only going to be with us one night you’re welcome to join us tomorrow, anytime after sunrise.

I was overwhelmed Larry, I didn’t know what to say. “I’ll be glad to pay for breakfast,” I muttered, “and I should probably pay for camping in your field.”

He fluttered his bird-like hands. “No, no, I consider you my personal guest.” he said, “You can park your car in the barn if you like. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll be off.”

I thanked him again, and after another look around left by a side door. After descending what seemed like a long flight of dark stone steps, guarded at the bottom by two white marble lions, I wandered back to my car. I felt a little confused, apprehensive even, though I couldn’t identify a cause.

Larry, I apologize for taking so long to explain what happened on my drive home from Dallas, I thought I could sketch an outline in a couple of pages, but even leaving out most of the details I see this taking far too long, and I haven’t even gotten to the heart of things. I’ll try to make the rest of this as short as possible.

to be continued

2011-01-01T18:22:00.000-08:00

The Most Recent Strange Peregrination of F. S. Whinkla

. . . being an honest recollection of events as they occurred on the last leg of his return journey to Kleadrap from Dallas, Texas after wandering several months in and around the Orient.

Part II

I drove west over broken asphalt into the arid foothills of the Rocky Mountains for at least fifteen minutes without passing even one metal, wood, or cardboard sign that indicated a bed and breakfast was anywhere nearby. Then, surprisingly, I topped a rise in the road and found myself in front of a large log building that might have been a hunting lodge flown in from the shores of Great Slave Lake, or the dream home of a defrocked Prairie School architect who had suddenly discovered the Yukon, or even an American version of a monastic Tibetan ashram.

I have to admit the building was impressive. There was even what looked like a Gothic stone turret on the northeast corner topped by a dome of glass or plastic that might have housed an astronomical observatory, and yet the structure seemed quite at home, even comfortable, nestled between two arms of rolling, low ochre hills that descended from a slightly higher henna-coloured ridge. In the distance a craggy, piebald mountain and attendant lesser peaks added a Chinese scroll-like feeling to the panorama framing the house.

I didn’t see any other vehicles so I parked in what looked like the front of the building and sat quietly for a minute or two. I think I was hoping to hear a voice, the mechanical sound of a tractor or the bark of a dog, the crowing of a rooster, but the only sound I heard was surrealistic silence. I turned off the ignition, got out of the Odyssey, and climbed a short flight of steps to what appeared to be the front door.

The wooden porch was wide; probably fifteen feet, and chairs of various size and design were gathered in several cliques, as if conversing amongst themselves. I noticed two tables had chessboard inlays, and one a stone or glass mosaic for ‘Go’.

I stood in front of the door and told myself I was being ridiculous, that it was too early to stop for the night and a good motel was probably less than an hour away. But Larry, I tell you, I felt compelled to knock on the door rather than return to my car.

I rapped lightly on the door. No answer. I knocked again, harder. Still no answer. I tried the handle and of course the door was unlocked, so I went inside.

to be continued

2010-11-27T19:59:00.000-08:00

The Most Recent Strange Peregrination
of F. S. Whinkla

. . . being an honest recollection of events as they occurred on the last leg of his return journey to Kleadrap from Dallas, Texas after wandering several months in and around the Orient.

Part I

It was my third day on the road since leaving Dallas and I must have been somewhere east of the Rocky Mountains, maybe Colorado, or western Kansas. I remember checking out of a Holiday Inn Express around eight that morning because George Stephanopoulos was signing off when I turned in my room key. I’d eaten the complementary breakfast, treating myself to a plate (actually a bowl) of biscuits and gravy, and two, or was it three? hard boiled eggs, as well as four sausage patties balanced on an English muffin slathered in butter and scrambled eggs. Since then I had been driving north on highway 335 listening to Mojo Nixon, remembering Chapel Hill, and speculating on what might have become of Skid Roper. I must have been driving four or five hours because I was hungry, despite the less than customary breakfast I had consumed, and Mojo was beginning to sound like a voice of reason, and the gas gauge was near zero. I have a difficult time admitting this, but I simply don’t remember where I exited the highway to look for a place to eat and fill the gas tank, but that’s what I evidently did. I don’t have a receipt, but I do recall getting gas outside a little museum in the center of town. The museum was closed, only open on weekends, but the gas pump worked and accepted my Discover Card without complaint. As the tank filled I remember being somewhat mesmerized by what looked like a Calder mobile dancing in the wind across the street. A few hundred yards further up the street I stopped at a small store and bought a plastic tub of vanilla yogurt and a cardboard cup of what turned out to be horrible coffee (I tossed it into the weeds a few minutes later). For some reason I asked the young man at the cash register if there was a hotel or motel nearby. He told me the nearest place was either twenty miles south, or thirty-five miles west. Then he mentioned, if I was really tired, there was a sort of bed and breakfast place a few miles out of town, and without my asking gave directions.

to be continued

The Sanctity of Silence

2010-11-20T10:30:00.000-08:00

(Whinkla will have to wait)

Strange Interlude

It was five-forty in the evening and I was preparing a salad for dinner. My wife was not feeling well and had gone to the bedroom to rest. It was dark outside which made the kitchen seem that much warmer, at least visually. I was probably philosophizing about the state of things when suddenly I became aware I was no longer tearing lettuce leaves. My hands were still poised above the bowl but as motionless as stone. A flush of seemingly limitless tranquility had overwhelmed me. Only my eyes seemed capable of movement. I had become a snapshot of myself. There was absolute silence all around. I listened. Nothing, I could hear nothing. The refrigerator was between cycles. The one, non-digital clock must have already ticked away the previous minute. The water pump was silent. No sound came from the highway a hundred yards away. No barking dogs. Trees silent in the non-wind. For a moment I thought perhaps I had been struck deaf, so overwhelming was the lack of sound. It seemed something immensely denser than silence had filled the kitchen, the air was not vibrating with the myriad frequencies it usually carries, but sucking them in, creating, how can I describe it, a numbing vacuum. I didn’t move, nor want to, for to do so might shatter the sanctity of the moment.

Perhaps the clock finally ticked, or the refrigerator needed to cool itself, but just as suddenly as I had been enclosed in a cloak of unaccountable bliss, it ended. My fingers began to move again and I tore a lettuce leaf in half with a deafening sound.

2010-11-16T20:01:00.001-08:00

I just found out that Whinkla returned from Asia over a month ago! Why he didn’t call, or come by and pick up the packages he had mailed, before yesterday, I have no idea. He was quite excited and blurted out dozens of intriguing hints about his unbelievable adventures. “They’ll make you think ‘One Thousand and One Nights’ was nothing more than a collection of articles from the Wall Street Journal,” he said.

We talked and shared a bottle of 1974 Charles Krug, Lot F-1 Cabernet and he eventually thanked me for taking care of the numerous boxes and envelopes he had sent from various parts of the world. Then, as he was about to leave he said he simply had to tell me about something that had happened on his drive home from Dallas, Texas. He sat down again and related how he’d flown in a vintage Harlow PJC-5 from a dirt runway in Bejiaoxiang, a small village outside Ya’an in Sichuan province, to Hong Kong, then on to Tokyo, and then to Dalles. “There,” he said, “I decided to rent a car and drive back to Kleadrap . . . to reacquainted myself with the great beating heart of the American west after six months abroad.” I thought I was going to have to open a second bottle, perhaps a pre 1980 Reserve Beringer, or was that a ‘third’ bottle? but instead Whinkla stood up and took a sheaf of wrinkled papers from his briefcase and handed it to me. “Make for a good bedtime read,” he said.

I accepted the wad of paper he handed me as if I was accepting the holy grail and he pulled a large net bag from an inside pocket in his jacket and began to stuff in the packages I had accumulated over the past few months. “I’ll try to get back next weekend, if you think you’ll be home,” he said, “and I promise you hours, perhaps days, of unbelievable entertainment.” “I’ll be here,” I said, and helped him carry the unweildly bag to his bicycle. I watched for a polite time as he wobbled down the road and then went back inside where I opened a second bottle of wine, or was that a ‘third’?

An hour or so later I was comfortable, and comfortably in bed, and after adjusting the bedside lamp unfurled Whinkla’s bundle of papers. The first thing I noticed was that the arrogant S.O.B had opened with something in what I suppose is Chinese. I respect that he speaks, at last count, fourteen languages, but I still wince whenever I encounter words and phrases I don’t understand. Like when I read Pound or Joyce. At least Burton was discrete with his esoteric verbal knowledge.

Well, rather than paraphrase Whinkla I’ll simply retype his document, though I have had to excise more than a third of it for even I wasn’t all that interested in the colour of the crone’s teeth or toenails, or the exact texture of the molding of the bathroom lintel in the Gaudi bathroom.

Next post will be the words of Whinkla without introduction or explanation.

Not My Mother's May

2010-05-23T09:32:00.000-07:00

Waiting for Warmer Weather

So, the keepers of meteorological records and other arcana say April was the warmest on record, globally, and yet we in the Portland, Oregon area experienced the coldest April on record, and there was measurable rain on all but four or five days. The wind has been from the north, northwest for weeks smelling of moose and muskeg and seems as cold as a triple dose of menthol. After an hour or two outside I feel inclined to look for facial cuts. Looks as if T. S Eliot was right. Now it is May 22nd and I can detect little or no difference from April, regarding the weather. I have to admit the garden is quite green, though damp, and many plants seem to be languishing, twiddling their roots to pass the time as they wait for a splash of sunshine to start photosynthesis again. This is not the magical May I remember.

My mother's May was filled with sunlight, nodding flowers, winging, singing thrush and wrens chattering in the hedgerows. Once in a while magnificent white cumulus clouds would drift across the blue sky and bless us with a short refreshing shower. May was a time for tea outdoors, sipped beneath the budding canopy of a flowering tree, shrub or rose. There were pleasant riverside walks to search for frogs, dragon and damsel flies, water striders, and denizens of the grassy riverbank, though I never encountered Ratty or Mole, and never glimpsed a frog or toad dressed in a waistcoat. Perhaps, as we neared town, we would stop for an ice-cream cone at a gaily painted bank-side wagon, then stroll home through ferns and freshly-leafed trees to the sound of older boys playing cricket or soccer on the green that bordered the wood. There were fresh peas to be filched and eaten while crouched between the vegetable rows in the communal garden up the street. (My peas, alas, are only a few inches high) I wonder if the gardeners whom I luckily never encountered, ever wondered about the yield from some of their plants?

It was usually pleasant most of May, as it should be, not drear and drippy day after day after day like this. [In my garden people come and go, talking of rain, and wind, and even snow.] I am anxious to mothball my parka and wool garments for the year and walk about in cotton shorts and sandals. I suppose I can whine on until June and continue to make the best of it.

May 23: Woke to 40 degrees and rain: must be time to plant tomatoes.

2010-03-29T09:58:00.000-07:00

Email Out of Nowhere

The following message was waiting for me when I opened my email this morning:

Larry, never in my wildest dreams could I have imagined finding a teahouse in this remote corner of the world. Not a teahouse in the Japanese tradition to be sure, but a public place that serves a variety of teas. The incongruity of this place reminds me of the opening scene in Meredith Monk’s film “Book of Days”. I am astonished this place exists, but thankfully so. And there is Internet access as you can see if you are reading this! And the keyboard is in English, though a lot of the keys have strange characters inked in.

I’ll have to hurry as the generator is only fired up once a day for about an hour and it’s only because I am such a unique visitor that the young locals have allowed me a few minutes of their time at the machine. The toothless elders simply sit and stare in disbelief. Luckily I type very quickly which amazes everyone even though what I type must look like gibberish to them. The owner of this out of the way café tells me he went to school for three years in Santa Cruz, California, in the eighties, hence the name: The Sticky Wicket. He has already shown me a much-thumbed picture of himself standing on a California beach somewhere with his wife, who is from Whittier, California (haven’t met her yet). Who would have guessed? His is the first English I’ve heard spoken in several months and it almost sounds foreign to me. Anyway, after several grueling days of cross-country travel I am euphorically sipping a cup of black tea, my first in several weeks! Fortunately I have grown accustomed to Yak milk, and local honey is available. Dawa, the owner, admits he sells far more Yak butter tea than anything else.

I am down to my last pencil nub and make my journal entries on flimsy scraps of paper I manage to buy or beg along the way. Can you imagine what might happen if I pulled a sparkling white ream of 8 ½ x 11, 20 pound bond from my rucksack right now? Very little, probably. Only Dawa might be impressed.

I started out from Rangpur with at least a dozen number two pencils but gave many away, and others were apparently stolen. Will write if I find sufficient paper and an envelope, or just a sheet of paper large enough to fold into an envelope. Remember those thin, blue-paper aerogrammes we once used? My watercolours are almost exhausted so I make few sketches.

Well, the local lads look rather anxious for their turn at the machine and I need to refill my cup so I’d better sign off. Just wanted to let you know I am still alive. I have much to tell you.

Ciyarsa, (or something like that)

Whinkla

Ps I may stay here a few days, or weeks if the weather holds, and if I do I’m sure I’ll be able to email you again before moving on. Nights are still chilly. Dawa has a large photo of a place called Mt. Emei in Sichuan Province, China on the wall above his tea collection. Looks like an interesting destination.

2010-03-19T11:00:00.001-07:00

A Postcard from Whinkla

It’s been several weeks since I received the package Whinkla sent from Yadong and I was relieved to receive a postcard this morning, though I note it was postmarked almost five months ago from what appears to be the town of Lachune. I can’t find the town on any map and Google has no listings, but perhaps I am misreading the name. Here’s the text:

Larry,

On my way again. Will probably send my completed journals for safekeeping. They grow heavy in my rucksack. I do hope the package I sent earlier arrived safely – OK to open. Climbed several lesser summits in the mount Kabru area, solo, during a ten day trex (stopped short of summits out of respect). Have regained strength and will begin walking north toward China/Mongolia tomorrow via Yumthang valley if possible. Lots of Rhody’s. Wish you were here.

Whinkla

Going to America

2010-03-19T09:53:00.000-07:00

The Mauretania II

Length: 772 feet (235.8 m)
Beam: 89 feet (27.2 m)
Tonnage: 35,738 gross tons
Engines: Steam turbines turning two propellers.
Service speed: 23 knots
Passengers: Originally 1,360 people, reduced to 1,127 people during 1962 overhaul.

Going to America, or, Remembering Myself at Nine

It must have been April, and I was nine, and the only entry I had made in my little red diary, a Christmas gift, said simply: “Going to America”. From what scanty records I have somehow managed to save I can determine we were approved for travel to the United States on March 24, 1952. Then on April 26th my father took 100 pounds from a bank account [probably provided by my grandparents] for travel purposes, and on May 6 we were officially admitted into the country at New York.

Of our departure from England I remember little. A word or phrase caught accidentally in my young mental net. My father mentioning at the railroad station the hammer he had stored within reach, (I now use it) in case he was asked to open the trunk or trunks in which we had packed our meager lives. I think I remember feeding the pigeons in Trafalgar Square in London (I have a picture) though I don’t know whether we spent the night in London (very unlikely) or if we were simply waiting for our train to leave for Southampton. I don’t remember boarding the Mauritania, though I do remember a lot about the ship itself. If it had not been dismantled for scrap in 1965 I think I might even be able to find my way around its decks today, fifty-eight years later. I remember being given two or three of those colouful paper coils, streamers, that I happily and dutifully unfurled as the boat slipped quietly from its English berth. I most likely waved, but to who I can’t imagine. Of our stops in Le Harve, France, and Cork, Ireland, I have no memory. Asleep perhaps. Of the weeklong voyage there is much I remember, but I will keep those memories to myself for the moment.

I don’t remember passing the Statue of Liberty, or docking and disembarking in New York. I vaguely remember my mother and father, my two sisters and myself being driven by my father’s brother, Ronald, up the Hudson River to his apartment in Dobbs Ferry, New York. It’s a little strange, but although this would have been the first time in an automobile, [we may have been driven to the train station in Stourport in a cab] my memories of the ride are questionable. I remember my uncle, as he jockeyed his car back and forth, back and forth into a curbside parking spot saying: “This is where I get my daily exercise”. [Strange the things our minds decide to retain.] My uncle’s apartment was on the second or third floor, perhaps higher, and I remember how I immediately asked my cousin Judy to take me up and down in the elevator, many times. I had never been in an elevator before and thought it very posh, very exciting. After staying a day, perhaps longer, we continued our journey toward Pasadena, California where my father’s parents lived.

I do not remember getting on the train in New York City, nor anything of the trip to Chicago where we changed to another train, the Super Chief. My mother told me years later how a Negro porter (this was 1952) had taken a fancy to us and doted on us the entire way, [this was most probable the Chicago to Pasadena leg of the journey]. Perhaps we were the only children under his charge, or maybe our curious English accents intrigued him, but whatever the reason he apparently took very good care of us during the journey.

My first real memory, after Chicago, is when we stopped in Albuquerque, New Mexico. We got off the train to eat, and stretch our legs but the only thing I remember is the Indians. In my memory they lined the platform, dressed in colourful feathers, shiny beads, silver and turquoise jewelry, the type of dress tourists were expecting, especially those arriving from foreign countries. English boys knew a lot about the American West, all garnered from Hollywood movies and reading western comic books. I was most likely mesmerized by their presence.

So what did my sisters and I do for three, four, or five days on the train? Did we read or colour books? Play “I Spy”? I must have spent considerable time simply looking out the windows, or running up and down the aisles, delighting in the windy and noisy vestibule between cars. Why don’t I remember vast amber fields of grain, or at least newly plowed fields almost as large as England, as we traveled through the Midwest? I can’t recall noticing the deserts of the southwest? I don’t even remember going to the bathroom, or eating, and only once do I have just a hint of memory about walking to the dining car.

My next real memory is of looking out the window at a boulder-strewn, ruddy-coloured mountain side with patches of snow lingering in the shade of large rocks and under the gnarly, widely spaced firs.

I have no other memories until our arrival in Pasadena. I remember the train had slowed and buildings lined each side of the track and then, suddenly, the train was crossing what I later determined was Colorado Boulevard. I got a quick glance down that magical avenue and was astonished at the lines of shiny automobiles and the towering palm trees. Palm trees. Trees I had only read about in books of fantasy, or perhaps seen pictured in a magazine or encyclopedia. Then, just as suddenly the view was blocked by buildings once again until, a moment later, the train arrived at the station in Pasadena, California.

I don’t remember getting off the train, or what must have been the short ride with my grandparents to their home on Hudson Avenue. Had I questioned my parents when they were alive I could have filled in much of my early life, which must now, and forever, remain unknown.

Where Have All the Flowers Gone?

2010-02-27T15:42:00.000-08:00

I just returned from a 2600 mile, unintended, ‘road trip’ to Southern California and, while most of what I observed and heard caught my attention, one thing stood out above everything else: the lack of hitchhikers. Doesn’t seem like hitchhiking is a popular form of transportation anymore, except in an emergency, but from the age of 15, until I joined the Air Force at 18, I hitchhiked thousands of miles. In my junior and senior years in high school I skipped classes on numerous occasions to hitchhike fifty plus miles, round trip, to various beach hangouts or, more likely, Bertrand Smith’s Acres of Books in Long Beach, California. On many nights I would hitchhike to coffee houses in Hollywood, or Pasadena, or, more often, to either Bob Hare’s Insomniac Book and Art Fair coffee house in Hermosa Beach, or the Venice West Café further up the coast. I would arrive home very early in the morning, often having had to change my route several times because of lack of traffic, and miss another day of school. And yes, I had many interesting encounters along the way, many of which I may explore here in future posts.

But the greatest hitchhiking adventures were the summer trips to fish streams whose waters were as clear as a vacuum and climb crystalline white granite mountains in the High Sierra, and then, sunburned and sinewy and full of poetry, move on to San Francisco and North Beach. In retrospect I understand now why my mother was so upset when I set off on these journeys. I don’t know how I would have reacted if either of my sons, when they were sixteen or seventeen, had told me they were going to be gone for a couple of months hitch-hiking around the country to unknown destinations, and not be in touch, other than for a very occasional post card. Thankfully I never had to confront that situation. But back to our recent trip. We traveled Interstate 5, highway 99 (How the terrain, no, the landscape has changed since I thumbed my way up and down this highway in the late fifties. How I have changed since I thumbed my way up and down this highway in the late fifties) and numerous roads both in the Los Angeles area and other towns, large and small, along the way. I saw no hitchhikers, not one, not one.

Aren’t there curious, dissatisfied, disillusioned, young dreamers in the country anymore? What happened to the rucksack revolution? Where are the Zen lunatics drunk on Basho and Li Po living these days? Where the angel-headed hipsters? Why don’t I see people hitchhiking the highways with tattered, dog-eared copies of Whitman, Rimbaud, Coleridge, Blake, Kerouac, Ferlinghetti, Corso, etc. weighing down their army surplus backpacks? Where are the romantic, would-be poets with scribbled poems stuffed in their penniless pockets? Doesn’t anyone hitchhike sixty miles to be checkmated in a game of chess with a coffee drinking, pipe-smoking Scandinavian immigrant anymore?

Alas, 2600 miles without a hitchhiker in sight. I might as well have been looking for an Ivory-billed Woodpecker. Where have all the flowers gone?

A Wink from Whinkla

2010-02-01T16:53:00.001-08:00

A recent e-Mail from an elderly woman in Caddo, Oklahoma, asked the whereabouts of F. S. Whinkla, and I had to respond I hadn't heard from him for over a year. My last contact was in early January of 2009 when I received a handmade card postmarked Taktshang, Bhutan. On the front was a watercolour sketch of what I presume is a mountain monastery (that’s it at the top of this post), and on the other side a cryptic note: “Further Along”. I kept the card, but put all thoughts of Whinkla out of my mind, knowing that when, or if he felt a need to communicate, he will.

Coincidence? Today I received a fat manila envelope covered with exotic stamps and cryptic markings postmarked, I think, Yadong, Tibet, and my address is in the unmistakable purple scrawl of F. S. Whinkla. I am as excited and as frightened as a five year old contemplating his first day of school.

Wish I Could Say More about Stay More

2010-01-30T19:20:00.000-08:00

In every book, magazine, newspaper, or product package, in fact every printed word, are numerous references to people, places, or events that lead to other people, places, and events that lead to even more people, places, . . .well, you get the idea. But it is impossible to pursue them all because, like an old tree, the branches bifurcate time and time again until the original trunk that spawned the thread is only a dim memory. Eventually one has to say, “enough, I’ve traveled so far along this twig it’s lost any semblance to its parent, I think I’ll back up and try another branch, one with more girth.” But, these peregrinations do make for an interesting, exciting journey, and often lead into areas one would not otherwise have entered.

That’s how I became aware of Donald Harington. I forget what it was I was looking for when I read he had died (November 7, 2009), and that many considered him America’s greatest unrecognized novelist. I had never heard of him, so of course my interest was aroused. I had to get my hands on one of his books and quickly succeeded with “Farther Along”.

“Farther Along” was definitely different from the hundreds of other novels I had read, but like T. C. Boyle, and a few other contemporary authors, an entertaining read. I am now in the enjoyable process of reading his other twelve (I think) novels that feature, in one way or another, the mythic Ozark mountain town of Stay More. His novels are, if not unique, definitely a departure from the dry fodder we are usually offered and deserve far more attention.

Frida by Frida - Some Thoughts

2010-01-15T18:08:00.000-08:00

I’ve only read about 1/3 of the book so my comments and reflections may change, though that seems unlikely. For anyone interested in Frida Kaho, her life and work, this is a book that should be read. I can think of no better way to attempt to understand a person than through their uncensored, unabridged letters, journals, notes, etc. I was immediately devastated by the loneliness and aloneness permeating her letters. The earliest note is dated November 30, 1922 and the last is written on March 13, 1954. Almost from the beginning her letters seem to be a cry for recognition, a yearning, a terrible need to be acknowledged, accepted, touched in some way. Her letters invariably end with heartfelt expressions of love, and pleas for response. Here, as a teenager, the deep, unrequited love she felt for Alejandro Arias that led to so much disappointment and despair sends shudders down my spine. If only I had had a girlfriend as passionately devoted to me at seventeen!

And as if polio wasn’t enough the accident, at eighteen, changed her life dramatically. I don’t think she ever recovered physically or, more importantly, emotionally.

This is a tragic yet poignant story: yet one overflowing with inspiration for the flagging spirit. How she persevered through such travails is beyond the comprehension of those of us who have lead relatively uneventful lives, lives without major trauma, physical or otherwise. Many among us do suffer, perhaps more than Frida, yet somehow manage to build useful, meaningful and productive lives. The human spirit is more resilient than we are willing to give it credit for. That Frida never (rarely) lashed out at God, the tram driver, practicing doctors, unfaithful friends, life itself, or anyone or anything else during her troubling life impresses me. Most of us are quick to blame something or someone else for our troubles; it’s easier that way.

It’s hard for me to imagine spending week after week on my back encased in plaster, unable to move much more than a finger or an eyelash while friends danced and traveled and sipped coffee at a neighborhood cafe. And then with what I can only refer to as a sort of stoic resolve enduring the numerous operations, hoping each time for improvement, only to find the procedures had had little success. And there is the emotional harm inflicted by her philandering husband Diego Rivera - more than many of us could or would accept.

That she endured her life until the age of 47 is in itself worth honoring, and then to have produced so many remarkable paintings. . .

Frida wrote in her diary, a few days before her death, which may have been a suicide:

"Espero alegre la salida – y espero no volver jamás."

“I wait for a happy exit – and I hope never to return.”

Frida Kahlo

Perchance to Read

2010-01-14T19:56:00.000-08:00

I have always imagined that Paradise will be a kind of library.

Jorge Luis Borges

Like most people I read for a variety of reasons. I read for information because I am curious about everything, from astronomy to zoology, though I admit I often don’t fully understand everything I read, especially in the sciences. I do not read political, economic, or so called ‘self-help’ books. At times I get mired down in books on religion and philosophy but eventually manage to move on for a time to other subjects.

I read for pleasure, though much of what I place in that category may not resonate with others. I enjoy books by or about writers and artists, even scholarly tomes filled with details and the minutiae of their lives and work. I just received 32 back issues of Paeiduma, a journal devoted to the study of Ezra Pound and his circle and I have been happily reading my way through them whenever I have a free moment.

My bedside table is stacked with books I am in the process of reading, and I skip back and forth as my mood dictates. Here’s what I’m enjoying now:

Zen in English Literature – R. H. Blyth (I first read this around 1975 as a 33 year old drop-out, and I can say I find it as interesting now as it was then.)

Notes From an Italian Garden – Joan Marble (after reading ‘A Year in Provence’ by Peter Mayle, and all of Frances Mayes’ books I have been loosing myself in the countryside of various Mediterranean countries whenever I can.)

Mogollon Diary No. 2 – Bill Rakocy

Paideuma Volume 11, #1

Frida by Frida - Raquel Tibol (more on this later)

The Cockroaches of Stay More, and Butterfly Weed – Donald Harington (I didn’t become aware of this author until a few days after his death on November 7th of last year. Now I fear the day when I close his last book.)

Tooth and Claw – T. C. Boyle (Almost always a pleasure to read.)

Apache – Will Comfort

Wah-To-Yah and the Taos Trail – Lewis Garrard

The Legend of Semimaru - Blind Musician of Japan - Susan Matisoff

Numerous magazines including: Wine Spectator, Audubon, Garden Design, Architectural Digest, The English Garden, Smithsonian, Nature Conservancy, Art In America, and Artnews.

Upstairs I keep a shelf for new arrivals - books I keep at arms length for the present, averting my gaze whenever I pass by. It looks like I need to add another shelf.

Bathtub Baudelaire

2010-01-13T18:34:00.000-08:00

When you have a library of several thousand volumes scattered throughout seven rooms and an outbuilding sometimes a book ‘goes missing’. Over the years many of my books have disappeared, often following visits from friends and family. I suppose the feeling was: "with so many books how can he notice?" Well, I did and do notice, and while I once felt rather violated (especially since in most instances I would have gladly given the book away if asked) I’ve reached a point, an age, where the loss of books is less traumatic. Of course there were instances (usually after a reorganization) when I thought a volume had been ‘borrowed’, only to later discover it tucked in an unexpected place. A case in point occurred today, and it was a pleasant surprise. Today I decided I no longer needed several feet of watercolour instructional books, and that the space could be put to better use housing T. C. Boyle, Robertson Davies, Donald Harington, Pound, Lewis, and Camus. Imagine my surprise, as I packed books into boxes to be taken to the library for their annual sale, when I discovered my tattered, rubber-banded paperback copy of Baudelaire’s ‘The Mirror of Art’! I had looked for this book several times during the past twenty years, always without success, and although I never considered it a book someone had ‘borrowed’ I was at a loss to explain its whereabouts. All those years it was waiting, shelved between books on human anatomy and Etruscan tomb paintings.

I remember the last time I was reading it, and the joy it brought me. I was lying in the bathtub after a miserable day spent planting trees in driving rain at near freezing temperatures, in actuality I was probably hypothermic. With the water nearly as hot as my water heater could manage I submerged myself, waiting for my body temperature to return to normal, and, being one of those persons who cannot spend more than a few moments without something to read at hand, I was reading ‘the Mirror of Art’. I was transported to a time and place a long way from the fiberglass tub. I look forward to bedtime, and the opportunity to continue the book from where I left off. Whether Baudelaire will bring the same joy I recall from so many years ago is something I can only hope for. If not, I have Beckett and Joyce, and several biographies to frolic with.

Now, if I could only rid myself of this persistent cold and sinus infection.

Dog River Review - The Covers

2009-11-13T10:56:00.000-08:00

The Dog River Review

(1982-1996)

Dog River Review, Volume 1, No. 1, Spring, 1982

It doesn't get any simpler than this

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Dog River Review, Volume 1, No. 2, Autumn, 1982

Not much to be said for this one either

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Dog River Review, Volume 2, No. 1, Spring, 1983

St. George and the Dragon

Artwork submitted by a Hood River High school student.

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Dog River Review, Volume 2, No. 2, Autumn, 1983

Destruction of Printing Presses in Mayence. Drawn by H. Vogel.

[With this issue I began to use illustrations from several old volumes

I had found at a garage sale.]

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Dog River Review, Volume 3, No. 1, Spring, 1984

Poetry Reading in Parkdale

Preaching the Koran. Drawn by Lisc.

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Dog River Review, Volume 3, No. 2, Autumn, 1984

Poetry Reading at the Editor's Home

Literary Circle in the Beginning of the Reign of Louis SVI.

Drawn by P. Philippoteaux.

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Dog River Review, Volume 4, No. 1, Spring, 1985

"And he actually thought this was poetry!"

Death of the Last of the Hohenstaufen. Drawn by H. Plueddemann.

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Dog River Review, Volume 4, No. 2, Autumn, 1985

STATE TROOPER

Art by David Sheskin

[Cover did not scan well.]

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Dog River Review, Volume 5, No. 1, Spring, 1986

"Have you ever been so bored? If it wasn't for the free wine I'd have stayed home and mucked-out the pig pen."

Herodotus Reading His History to the Assembled Greeks.

Drawn by H. Leutemann

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Dog River Review, Volume 5, No. 2, Autumn, 1986

"These bloody poetry contests attract the worst kind."

Storming of Antioch. Drawn by Gustave Doré.

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Dog River Review, Volume 6, No. 1, Spring, 1987

"The gods are indeed kind - all this and a boxed set of the Dog River Review!"

Croesus on the funeral pyre.

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Dog River Review, Volume 6, No. 2, Autumn, 1987

George Montgomery (1938 - 1987

Cover photo by Linda Karlson

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Dog River Review, Volume 7, No. 1, Spring, 1988

dogs in creek

Cover by Wayne Hogan

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Dog River Review, Volume 7, No. 2, Autumn, 1988

dog on round stones

Cover art by Wayne Hogan

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Dog River Review, Volume 8, No. 1, Spring, 1989

WHY THIS EDITION IS LATE

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Dog River Review, Volume 8, No. 2, Autumn, 1989

take-off on NEW YORKER drawing

Cover art by Wayne Hogan

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Dog River Review, Volume 9, No. 1, Spring, 1990

A Lively Discussion at the National Endowment for the Arts

The King with the mob in the Tuileries. Drawn by F. Lix

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Dog River Review, Volume 9, No. 2, Autumn, 1990

STOP LOOKING SO GLUM, THE DOG'S BEEN LATE BEFORE

Catherine de Medici and Charles IX

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Dog River Review, Volume 10, No. 1, Summer, 1991

EARLY ATTEMPT TO STEAL THE (Judson) CREWS MANUSCRIPT

Rollo Besieging Paris by A. deNeuville

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Dog River Review, Volume 10, No. 2, Fall/Winter, 1991

Validating the truth of Zeno's Flying Arrow paradox

Battle of Dogorgan. drawn by Gustave Doré

[This issue came with a wrap-around paper collar, as follows:]

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Dog River Review, Volume 11, No. 1, Spring/Summer, 1992

[Each cover was highlighted with colour pencil so each one was different.]

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Dog River Review, Volume 11, No. 2, Fall/Winter, 1992

Picture of the editor's son, Jefferey.

[This issue made possible in part through the generosity of Sheila Nickerson.]

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Dog River Review, Volume 12, No. 1, Spring/Summer, 1993

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Dog River Review, Volume 12, No. 2, Fall/Winter, 1993

Facsimile of page 6971 of Judson Crews' 10,000 page autobiograph, of which, only small portions have been published. See HENRY MILLER and MY BIG SUR DAYS - Vergin Press.

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Dog River Review, Volume 13, No. 1, Spring/Summer, 1994

The Children's Crusade. Drawn by Gustave Doré (with my apologies).

[This issue made possible in part through the generosity of Mr. R. M. Host.]

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Dog River Review, Volume 13, No. 2, Winter, 1994/95

Bulbous Imp

Cover art by Stepan Chapman

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Dog River Review, Volume 14, No. 1, Summer, 1995

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Dog River Review, Volume 14, No. 2, Spring, 1996

THE LAST DOG

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Where Have I Been All These Weeks?

2009-11-12T14:11:00.000-08:00

It was recently brought to my attention that I had not entered anything on my BLOG for almost eight months. Yes, when I visit, that appears to be true. I don’t know exactly how to explain such a non-event. Perhaps I’ve had nothing to say during the entire time, then again, not. I may have been in a deep, blissful, meditative state, a coma even. Maybe I have been held incommunicado by outsiders who demanded all my time and resources, or, given the state of the nation, of the world, preoccupied with discovering solutions. Regardless, I seem to be unsleeping at the moment, even alert and capable of at least muddled thought.

When one has the opportunity to grow old, that is, pass into one’s sixties, though I suspect the term ‘growing old’ is subjective, and not easily defined, time really does appear to accelerate. Seems I am forever putting out the trashcan, yet the conscious part of me knows it is only once a week. If asked I would tell you the electric bill arrives three or four times a month. If only Zeno’s arrow paradox were true, and the shaft of time remained in flight forever. Alas, such endless flight is not possible, or should I say, Hurrah, such endless flight is not possible!

Sometimes, usually in the heart of night I hear the waters of the river Styx lapping against my front porch. I waded into the warm waters of Lethe some time ago, but I suspect the Styx will be considerably hotter.

The garden continues to expand into undeveloped areas of our two and a half acres despite declining energy, and shorter days created by a greater need for rest. I no longer propagate hundreds and hundreds of plants; a few hundred have to suffice. I fire the kiln occasionally, just to watch some of my clay projects explode. Creating new concrete garden art, I now realize, will have to end, perhaps as early as next year. Why sixty-pound bags of concrete mix seem heavy and awkward I have difficulty understanding. Travel to unknown towns and countries is always thrilling, and never fails to stir creative juices to a youthful passion. Still write; or rather make copious notes and convoluted outlines for poems, stories, plays, silly films, love letters and a category or two I have been unable to define. I make the occasional mosaic, putter around with stained glass, collage, art books, etc. but generally am content to read, add books to my library, listen to music, watch an occasional ‘art’ film or documentary, and generally spend the days musing on the past, the present, and a variety of futures.

The ‘tea house’ is a welcome refuge from what is already near silence and tranquility, and sipping tea while reading the poetry/haiku of Basho, Li Po, Buson, Issa and a glorious host of others brings much pleasure. And after fifty years of toil, at mostly unrewarding and uninspiring jobs, it’s nice to at last have a certain amount of freedom to follow those paths not taken.

Now, having read the above, I sense a distinctively negative atmosphere, and nothing could be less true. Life is at worst a grand adventure, and the ability to draw breath should not be taken lightly. ‘Carpe diem’ may be a hackneyed phrase, but true nevertheless.

Suddenly I feel a resurgence of creative imagination; a flood or words crowd my fingertips. I happily yield to such inspiration and hope I can find material suitable for this site before another eight months have elapsed.

Not Proust

2009-03-28T19:51:00.000-07:00

A Remembrance of Childhood Past

I was only eight, perhaps nearing nine. Mother in hand, my hand in mother's hand. We tramped muddy back roads and rutted country lanes and mouldy woods in search of grasses. Me, diving eagerly beneath every brambly rabbity hedge or piney copse, scrambling up sandy banks held together by Hawthorn roots and blackberries, tiptoeing into fetid bull frog marshes awash with swamp-loving snakes, ready to grab every turgid green stem I saw. We searched on more than one day, or perhaps not, maybe it was only one long day. I recall we scoured the edges of pig pens and goat fields, sheep nibbled pastures and all the odd neglected cabbage, rutabaga and pea fields we could find. Toward the end of the day we climbed slowly up the Snipes, a balding hillock where a few years later my cousin David would find evidence of early Roman occupation and then use his discovery as the theme for a float in an annual school parade, but I don't think we discovered any Italian grasses to add to our collection.

But the collection of grasses. It was a school assignment, perhaps a science fair, with coloured ribbons to be awarded, and untold prestige heaped on the winner. I suppose the ribbons were Blue, Red, and White, what other colours could they be? Green? I worked hard. My mother worked harder, much harder, she always worked harder, but I think she was used to it. It was my mother who carefully carried the grassy stems I had plucked or clipped (with what I know not) in her billowing dress, or was it a paper bag? (Perhaps a bag that once carried hot chestnuts, or baked potatoes, or licorice allsorts) But, whatever the means we managed them home safely. The contest, as I remember, was to see who could collect the largest number of different grasses. We had worked hard, very hard. Then, after the sun had set my mother and I sat in the front parlor, or else in the kitchen beside the hob, and arranged what I had collected in a glass vase, or perhaps only a tin cup, but it was full, overflowing, crowded. I looked at it, how could anyone else have ferreted out so many different genera and species I thought, though I doubt I used those terms?

On the day of exhibition I confidently placed my collection of grasses on the display table beside the others. Glancing quickly at the other contenders I thought there was no possibility of my failing to take home the most important, brightest ribbon, whatever colour it might be.

After the judges had ooh'd, ahh'd and coo'd for a very long time they eventually chose a winner.

It wasn't me. I had been disqualified.

My collection of grasses, they said, would have easily been the undisputed winner, but, I had included a sedge.

Promises, Promises

2009-02-17T14:39:00.000-08:00

or, some notes regarding Trout Creek Press and the Dog River Review.

Every year around this time I promise to organize the chaos in my studio, a workspace that unfortunately has come to resemble an abandoned storage unit. Each year the clutter multiplies and further restricts movement; there is little room to work, even in miniature. But, this year things will be different, I promise.

Much of the tidy mess is comprised of boxes of the Dog River Review (1982–1995), and copies of the thirty-one plus chapbooks I published between 1984 and 1996 under the Trout Creek Press imprint. But every time I think I have at last reached the point where I can take a pragmatic approach to dealing with this accumulation, I turn away. How can I simply dump them in the recycling bin? I can’t, and so for years I’ve been shuffling them from one shelf to another, lifting the cartons into the rafters, or stacking them one on top of the other until they threaten to crush themselves into oblivion, but not this Spring, I promise.

So, a list of what’s available seems like a logical beginning, if only to know what I might be throwing away. I know copies of the Dog River Review are out there, all except number one. And I know other early issues are in limited supply. Of the chapbooks, who knows? Of some there are an embarrassing number, others only a handful, and a few most likely unavailable. Here’s the list:

Dog River Review, # 2 (1982) thru #28 (1995)

1984
The Peter Poems and Other Disgraces – Joseph Semenovich
1985
Twenty-one Waking Dreams – Roger Weaver
1986
10/170 – Connie Fox
1987
What Are You Doing - Robert D. Hoeft
In The Compass of Unrest – Sheila Nickerson
No Difference – Fritz Hamilton
Against All Wounds – Judson Crews
Red Hair and the Jesuit – Lyn Lifshin
1988
Wanted! – Arthur Winfield Knight
On the Rack – Gerald Locklin
1989
Secret Affinities – Terence Hoagwood
1990
Measuring Time – David Chorlton
1992
Tales and Declarations – Bruce Holland Rogers
Entre Nous – Connie Fox
De La Palabra – Sam Silva
Body Bags – Nathaniel Tarn
Sweet Harvest On – Sam Silva
Glass Wall – Phoebe Grigg
1993
Vito & Zona – Wilma Elizabeth McDaniels
Love Against the Grey Winter Mean – Sam Silva
The Human Flower – David Chorlton
1994
Traveler’s Advisory – Steven Sher
The F. S. Whinkla Interview
Coffeebreak Poems – Steven Hartman
The Water Under Fish – Leslie Leyland Fields
1995
Reality Sandwiches – R. M. Host
Art As Anyone’s Salvation – Sam Silva
Making A Sacrifice Like Art – Sam Silva
Orbits – Brett Hursey
1996
Lex*i*con – Robert Rucker
Life flight – Robert Rucker

1989
Lands of Frost and Stars (cassette tape) – David Chorlton

If anyone is interested in purchasing any of the above, or desires more information, they can email me at: lhawkins@hrecn.net. I do realize that eventually they will have to be worse than remaindered, but for a few more months I will continue to move the cartons around like a game of musical chairs. Someday the music will abruptly stop.

Perhaps I can persuade Whinkla to help.

2008-12-14T15:10:00.000-08:00

Synchronicity and Coincidence

Despite my inner desire to relegate synchronicity to the land of UFO sightings, alien abductions, the Yeti and Bigfoot, and other unproven, perhaps un-provable, mental distortions I must admit it often seems a power or force beyond my comprehension is at times responsible for some disturbing concurrences without apparent casual connection. I accept without question the numerous minor ‘coincidences’ that occur daily, but two events, somewhat more significant, come to mind, one just two days ago, and the other over a year ago.

A week ago I went to a local estate sale where I purchased several dozen books, one of which was the first paperback edition of The Oxford Companion to Philosophy. The book was eventually placed on a table beside the Beckett’s and Joyce’s and various biographies I was in the process of reading. While not a book to read it was something I intended to look at whenever I needed to clear the mind. I had noticed immediately the cover illustration was a cubist picture of Dora Maar by Picasso, though I didn’t recognize the actual painting. The following morning I was working the Daily Crossword in our regional paper. 15 across: Caspian’s neighbor – Aral Sea, 16 across: Somewhat dilatory – Slowish, 17 across: Captured back – Retaken, 18 across: “Dora Maar” painter – Picasso. I put down the pen. Dora Maar. I hadn’t looked at a Picasso book for months or thought about him, and certainly not Dora Maar, yet here she was, entering my life from two different directions in the space of twenty-four hours. Why, I have no idea. Simply a coincidence I suppose, to be considered for a moment or two and then shrugged off.

About a year ago I was upstairs reading, or perhaps writing, when my wife came in and turned on the television. I’m not fond of television and continued doing whatever it was I was doing, though my subconscious was evidently ‘listening’ to those other voices in the room. At the mention of Lucille Ball and “The Long, Long Trailer” my mind moved automatically to a higher state of awareness. In the mid fifties our family watched the “I Love Lucy” show religiously, but I don’t recall ever seeing any of her films. I don’t recall what they were saying about the Lucille Ball or the movie or why, perhaps it was going to air later that evening and what I heard was an advertisement. I returned to my book and promptly forgot about it. That night in bed I arbitrarily picked up a book from several I piled on the nightstand and opened it to my bookmark. It must have been a history, or perhaps a travel guide to the Sierra Nevada Mountains of California, though for some reason I’m thinking it was about a town in Idaho, I really can’t remember. I began to read and when I turned the page the proverbial shiver ran down my spine, or at least my brain tingled. Here the author of the book was saying not to miss visiting the steep incline that had been used to film and important scene in ‘The Long, Long Trailer”. (I remember he mentioned the road used in the film had since been bypassed by a new highway which makes me question the Sierra Nevada location – if anyone knows for certain where those trailer scenes were filmed I’d like to know). Just a very strange coincidence I suppose but the next morning as I was turning the pages of the paper to get to the Crossword puzzle a short article on an inside page more than grabbed my attention. It was an article on the film “The Long, Long Trailer’!

2008-12-01T12:21:00.000-08:00

Nishan Toor

Two days after Thanksgiving I went to the kitchen to make tea and found Whinkla sitting at the counter. He’d quietly made a pot of tea and was busy with his Skeleton Key to Finnegans Wake.

“Whinkla,” I said, a little surprised, “I didn’t hear you come in.”

“Then be thankful I’m not a burglar after your first editions,” he laughed.

“Thanks for making tea,” I said, “but what brings you here so early in the morning?”

“I was sorting through a box of papers yesterday and found these,” Whinkla said, placing a rubber-banded roll of papers on my kitchen table, “and thought you might be interested.”

“What are they?” I asked.

Whinkla smiled, “They’re sketches and drawings created by Nishan Toor.”

“Never heard of him,” I said.

“No, not many have I suppose,” said Whinkla, “unless you happened to have lived in Southern California.”

“Where did you get them?” I asked, as Whinkla slipped off the rubber bands and began to unroll the sheets.

“That’s a story Larry, but to keep it short and simple I bought them at an estate sale in the mid sixties.”

“Tell me more,” I said.

“Well, discovering these drawings, and something else I haven’t told you about yet, got me thinking about my days in the southland. Handling these pages resurrected many pleasant memories. As I lay in bed last night I relived one of those days. It must have been 1966 and my parents and my grandmother, my dad’s mother, were making their regular weekend circuit of garage and estate sales in the Pasadena area. For some reason I’d decided not to hike up to Mount Wilson and instead tag along with them. Well, sometime during the morning we found ourselves at an estate sale in Altadena. In retrospect I see now it must have been the home of Nishan Toor, who I assume had recently died. I can’t remember much of what was for sale but my grandmother, knowing my interest in art, noticed a table covered with a variety of drawings. As I’ve mentioned before my grandmother was the consummate garage sale shopper and before I knew it she had talked whoever was in charge to sell her, that is me, a bundle of the drawings, some photographs, and the other object I mentioned for only a few dollars. I married a few months later and packed a lot of personal things away, including the Nishan Toor sketches. I hadn’t forgotten them but I didn’t think about them very often either, that was until a few days ago.”
I watched as Whinkla unrolled the collection of drawings, architectural plans and photos. Most were on tracing paper and quite small.

“So why have you brought them here Whinkla?” I asked.

“I knew you’d be interested and like to look them over,” Whinkla said, “and you’ve got a computer. I thought you might do a little cyber research on Nishan Toor for me and let me know what you find. I’d hate to see these things eaten by mice, or damaged even more in some way. If there was a society, or someone truly interested they might make a nice gift, might even be worth a dollar or two. He was primarily a sculptor, I think, and some of his work, like a statue to commemorate World War I soldiers was, or is, located in Paris, France. There’s a picture or two showing him with the statue, and the other item I have is a plaster bas relief maquette of a panel I think must have been for the pedestal supporting the statue.”

“Let’s go to the computer,” I said, “and take a look.”

2008-11-20T15:32:00.000-08:00

Loaves and Fishes

The days slumber away beneath a mat of leaves and I drowse away the morning beneath an eiderdown. Whispers of winter creep through the bare branches of the curly willow outside my bedroom window. I can see beads of water glistening on the twig-tip in the pale light. The sun is little more than an asterisk in the distant sky.

But how nice it is to once again have the use of an oven, for cooking. We had done without ours for six months or more due to the exaggerated cost of repair (why does everything seem to operate at the whim of a printed circuit board, a chip? The only chip I care to think about is what Americans call a 'french fry'). But we gave blood a few more times and saved enough money to buy the replacement panel and now I am happily back to baking. A loaf or two of crusty bread every second or third day, and other 'goodies' as the spirit and my taste buds move me. Yesterday: Pear, mango, apricot, ginger muffins, and if I do say so myself they are/were quite tasty. I'd baked a few loaves in a cast iron dutch oven out in a fire pit but the outcome was always a bit of surprise, and there was little room to experiment with recipes.

As to the fishes part. I fired a clay fish yesterday in the Raku kiln and while the results were acceptable, the need for more experimentation or experience is obvious. But, as my beloved Mr. Robert Allen Zimmerman has sung so succinctly: "There are no mistakes in life some people say, that is true I suppose, you might see it that way". We live, and learn; that's the process.

Beautiful November rain and grey skies - time for another page of Finnegans Wake beside the fire.

2008-11-08T12:31:00.000-08:00

November Morning Tea

I ran into Whinkla this morning at the post office. He was picking up several packages of books he had purchased and I was mailing two I had managed to sell. “Larry,” he called, as I was getting out of the Honda, “what a coincidence. I was thinking of dropping by but wasn’t sure you’d be home.”

“I’m home more than I’m not these days Whinkla, so your chances were pretty good.”

“Yes, but you never know, and I am traveling shanks’ mare these days.”

“Well let me get these in the mail and I’ll treat you to coffee, or tea.”

“Splendid.”

I posted the books and walked with Whinkla to the only café in town. There, over two cups of Earl Gray, he unwrapped his latest acquisitions for my perusal.

“Ah,” he beamed, opening one of the boxes, “it’s the Chaim Soutine, and Campbell’s A Skeleton Key to Finnegans Wake. The candles will burn late tonight.”

“Chaim Soutine?” I said.

“Yep,” Whinkla said, “I just finished a biography of Modigliani and the references to Soutine pricked my curiosity. “

“What doesn’t?”

“Yes, how unfortunately true. Seems there’s always more and more books I want to read. So many imponderables I’ve yet to challenge. And unfortunately, so few years ahead.”

“Seems you do all right Whinkla.”

“I suppose. Larry. . . .I have to ask, do you have any comments on Blimp?”

“Not yet, but a lot of strange stray thoughts have been swirling around in the gray matter. One thing that puzzled me from the start is why you call it Blimp when just about everyone who reads it will know damn well it was a dirigible, not a blimp?”

“You’re right, and a damn big dirigible, or zeppelin it was. Well, at the time I was piloting the Heidelberg, which by the way makes the infamous Hindenburg zeppelin. of Lakehurst, New Jersey fame, look like a maquette, my children were very young and had a hard time saying dirigible, but Blimp was well within their capabilities. So I told them I flew a blimp. Remember, I did fly blimps as well, out of Tillamook, Oregon, at the end of the war. Have you ever flown in a blimp, or dirigible Larry?”

“Never had the chance.

You wouldn’t believe how enthralling it is. No sounds save the wind. A state of dreaming; a suspension of time. Sometimes, on those mystically quiet days I actually thought I might descend into an unknown country, a land not unlike OZ. If you ever get the opportunity, rare these days, don’t hesitate.”

“Your book doesn’t begin that way.”

“No, no, blimps, well blimps and zeppelins, or dirigibles, do have their problems, and high, unpredictable winds are one of them. I was never afraid of the wind, even when it reached hurricane force. Yes, it might blow me off course, if I had one, but there’s little to bump into once you’re off the ground. But I was afraid of debris sucked up from the surface; afraid an errant stalk of corn or roof shingle from a farm in Kansas might rip open one or more of the gasbags. Fortunately it never happened, though we did have minor leaks occasionally, but for other reasons.”

“Well Whinkla I haven’t had a chance to read more than the first few pages. I did take it along on a trip to the coast last week thinking I might have an opportunity, but the weather was beautiful and we spent most of the day hiking the shoreline, or deep in the old growth forest. At night, after a glass or two of Merlot, well. . .”

“I understand Larry and please don’t feel you have to read it, yours is an extra copy. I just thought it might provide a little amusement during the coming winter days.”

“You mean like today?”

“Tis a trifle dreary outside, but we’ll adjust, like we always do.”

“I don’t know Whinkla, every year it gets a little harder. I’m getting old, and there are a great many things I’d rather do these days than shovel snow; and those interminable inversions where the fog never lifts for weeks at a time. If I could afford it I’d spend half the year in northern New Mexico or Arizona, and you know which half.”

Whinkla nodded and smiled but said nothing. He carefully rewrapped the books and stood up. “I’ve books to tend to Larry, but I hope we see each other again before too long. There’s a warm fire, and I’ve laid in a new selection of wines for the winter should you venture out that far. And let me know if you manage a few more pages of Blimp.”

I bused the empty cups to a plastic tub and when I turned around Whinkla had disappeared

Whinkla and the Blimp, page two

2008-10-19T16:51:00.000-07:00

My wife and I spent most of today working in the garden: a two plus acre landscape requiring more attention and energy than either of us have at our disposal, especially when we are both the other side of sixty. And after several months of body-abusing ten hour days the mind craves other, less physical things. We, or at least I, quit early, it wasn't even seven o'clock. Kicking off my boots and dirt encrusted pants at the back door I tip-toed inside. A bottle of Merlot from, of all places, Idaho, caught my eye, that, and the open manuscript from Whinkla on the table beside the only comfortable chair in the house.

Whinkla and the Blimp, Page Two

The sky darkened and the cabin lights grew brighter by comparison. Captain Worley pulled down the eyelid of his left eye with the middle finger of his left hand and the eyelid of his right eye with the middle finger of his right hand. He pressed both fingers toward the center of his skull and began to dream in colour. A dream, that featured eleven golden-haired virgins climbing the Eiffel Tower in Paris, a clutch of crow-black coiffured, feather-thighed beauties in Brussels, and an unseen raven-haired painting by Yvet Tinguy; a new scatological play by Jaffe; an orchestral balustrade against reason by Shields. And somewhere, somewhere it seemed, there was a lonely canvas by Chiricas flapping unnoticed in an Atlas Mountain wind. But beneath it all there was the endless droning monologue by the divine Duli in Dulian Engleesh to contend with. Worley was beginning to tire. Then, without warning, the Nigerian crew chief who had been minding the mainsail on the quarter deck as stoic and mindful as a Masai warrior, screamed something unintelligible in French, or English, and vanished like a breath of hoary nimbus in July.
"Two gone. Two gone by god." Rooney said, pressing two sea-damp fingertips to his mouldy eyelids emulating the captain, "and to think, twenty-five years of pain and suffering for this." He raised his arthritic right hand half-way toward the fog-dark heaven, "twenty-five years! twenty-five years!" Then, walking calmly to the railing broken by the first mate's sudden departure, he took the tail of the first fish that struggled into the unraveling net draped over the warped boiler-plate and folded it into a crane. Smiling, he blew his gin-tinted breath into the fishbirds' rump and tossed his inflated creation to a pulse of wind. He watched silently as the bulbous bird fluttered feebly above the tattered mizzenmast and plum-pink tourist bunting, and then, as the bird winged swiftly toward the glowering sky, farting brown gas, he prayed with glazed, bornagainchristian eyes for vengeance and forgiveness.
"Rooney, you'd best do what arctic air spilling over the free support system does," Worley said, scratching his testicles and grinning like the Cheshire cat, "I've got this beast under command again." And as he grinned and picked his raw red nose the ship settled quietly on its broad, stainless steel breast and moved resolutely toward the fire-charred horizon. He poured three fingers of rum into his salty glass and let his rheumy eyes squirm like mealworms through the starch-less minds of the passengers. He descended to D Deck and saw the two, would-like-to-be virgins from the Greek village of Plomari massaging each other's nylon thighs. He watched the watered-down apricot nectar salesman from Laureville, Ohio vomiting into the light-weight acrylic toilet; the baker of whole-wheat/whole-grain breads-in-the-shape-of-best-forgotten nightmares, recently from Albany, New York plucking his hirsute eyebrows; the hissing and rattling reptile saleswoman from Port-of-Spain, Trinidad toying with a viper of considerable size and intent, and finally, bigger, brighter, and louder than everyone else. He saw too clearly the Resident of the Unrelated States of Pan America from Truth or Consequences, New Mexico holding two palsied pink hands in front of his crotch to hide the spreading pee-stain. The Resident was leaning limply against the artificially corroded zinc bar in the Overlook Saloon. He looked bored. His Zodiac shirt was unbuttoned to the navel exposing his hairless, bleached-bone chest for the benefit of three giggling Yugoslavian gypsies less than half his age. But his weak eyes were fixed on a dimpled pewter sheriff's badge from the city of Calico, California, USA the baker from Albany had thumb-tacked to his starched white chef's hat. Phosphorescent sputum dribbled from the Resident's mouth like a third term re-election speech. Then, as the Cyclops dipped unexpectedly into a trough of two dimensional water, Worley saw a uniformed, uninformed receptionist appear. She appeared disoriented, but managed to wipe the Resident's mouth on the sleeve of her baggy Calico-cotton blouse and lead him away to the gymnasium where a five dollar-a-plate dinner was about to be served in his dishonor. The Resident stumbled, mumbled into the room, then applauded his entrance. He smiled benignly, as protocol required, and casually fingered the chipped Taiwan-china cup, empty on the oaken lectern. He fingered his fractured string of Bolivian rosary beads; nodded drunkenly to an inanimate placard listing his broken promises and said, smoothing his spittle-stained tartan tie and inhaling until he was almost six feet tall: "I truly believe, that even if all the Peripateticismists of Romania were seething with wine fury and beating a litany to Aristotle on their furry antelope drums. . .and, even, even if their scaly tongues were scraping a Black Sea breeze from a Red Sea, or licking the shriveled gray gonads of the envoy from Turkey, the poems of Ovid, Sappho and Cattalus would still be rare in this cast iron, cast-aside country - and, and, and, if you would honor me with your vote of trust and confidence I promise, I promise. . .more than a chicken in every pot, or a confidence man, or woman, in every town, or a canoe or kayak in Tipperary, I promise a nirvana and satori a year to all eligible voters over the age of seventy-nine. I promise a vodka martini, shaken not stirred, in…"
The crowd interrupted, misreading the message on the TelePrompTer, and drowned the sagging words of the Resident with syncopated applause as they vapidly sucked their complimentary lemon and cranberry champagne.
"Fraud will always pay to preserve integrity," the Resident continued, as his embarrassed receptionist and interpreter tugged his frayed sleeve and whispered, "it's time for your bath sir, …warm water, bubbles…your yellow luffa ducky…" The Resident of the Unrelated States of Pan America allowed his head to stumble against the finger-stained lecturn.
Worley sighed and reluctantly opened his eyes. Outside the jack-frosted cabin window he saw a broad turquoise ribbon spiraling upward from beyond the distant horizon like an unraveling DNA molecule. It held encephalitic children in its twisted wind, and he knew this was their final journey and at last they would dream they were normal, and alive. The darkening sky shimmered; whether from agony or ecstasy, Worley could not tell, his glass was as empty as a newly fired ceramic cup. Instinctively he tightened his grip on the splintery wooden wheel and whispered into the ship's intercom for another triple Barbados rum and coke - no lime, then began to hum the Greek paean to Pan he had penned on their last visit to Corinth. The music had been borrowed from an early 90's song by the Scorpions, or some obscure reptilian group. The source of the melody might be in question, but the lyrics were his, of that he was almost certain. His deep hypnotic, mantra-like humming was absorbed by the open intercom and broadcast at an even higher level to the lower forty-eight decks. Forty of the forty-four flatulent ferrets in the hold paused momentarily in their rapturous gormandizing to listen, as did the crowd of chuckling drunken passengers staggering from the gymnasium. Even the Resident of the Unrelated States of Pan America, delirious in his pastel bath, put down his duck-shaped luffa and told Penelope to stop reading Ovid and listen to the spirit of the ship. The captain's triple rum and coke arrived and the first verse of the Paen to Pan came to an abrupt end.
Rooney mumbled something about a Castilian Spring, rubbed his rump, and returned to someone else's dream. Above the main deck, awash with fetishes and aborted nightmares, a fluttering multicolored, macaronic sail sagged from the mainmast. It spilled into the room of dozing shadows. They stirred fitfully in their filched peace. The ocean tried to roar but managed only a dim shimmer and dry-bone crack like a kaleidoscope of misdirected hope, low above the bow. There could be no darkness here, not now, only the damp, oily sheen of lamprey eels, slugs and nocturnal masturbation. But night still persisted in the deep shadows of the dusty life boats.
The blimp's bloodshot nose rose gradually above the thorax of the sea and sniffed Worley's medulla oblongata, but the stern ropes, held fast to Rooney's eight sleeping fingers, pulled down the sails and stopped enough stale air to dock the wind-beast safely against a ridge of warm North African sand. Only a few vipers were disturbed.
On deck seventeen, the Resident had finished his bath and now snored loudly between two linen dreams. But four, sand-coated lizard-men with Pan-like endowments were massaging his wife's naked body with their marble thighs. Her skin was being sanded away. Small particles of lust danced in Minoan sunlight. A blanket of blue-bottle flies hummed patiently overhead sensing sensuality and the rewards of animal sex.

Mr. Rooney" Worley said, as formally as his intoxicated state would allow, "I think we'd better check the hold. The muses may have been disturbed by that last sea surge, the nasturtiums stunted. This last upheaval may have disturbed the very cosmos. We simply must check the hold."
Rooney poured more than seven ounces of Jamaican rum into Worley's plastic cup, and refreshed his own Gin and Gin before nodding agreement.
"Ahh, right you are cap'n Worley," he said, limping toward the gangplank like Long John Silver, "I'd best check the hold."

Whinkla and the Blimp

2008-10-12T15:05:00.000-07:00

I arrived home from a brief journey to the Canadian Rockies to find a large manila envelope propped against my front door. It was from Whinkla.

Hours later, after unloading the Odyssey and lowering the level in a bottle of Cakebread Cellar Cabernet Sauvignon to what would be minus four Celsius on a Canadian thermometer I ripped open the envelope with one prong of my Ah-So corkscrew. Inside was a handwritten manuscript of several hundred pages; a holograph with several dozen sketches and doodles not unlike Dali's "Secret Life". Clipped to the first page was a discount coupon to membership in a local skeet club and a short note:

"Larry, you know I trust your judgement and taste so I'm hoping you might find time to read the enclosed little story. It's the first part of what I envision as my somewhat fictionalized biography. Out of sequence of course, but one night, about six months ago, I had this vivid dream in which I was once again piloting a dirigible. Remember how we touched on this aspect of my life back in September of 06? Well, I've been thinking of those 'old days' more and more of late. Anyhow, here it is, the opening chapter. If you can't find the courage to read past the first page or so, let me know and we'll have a bonfire, another bonfire. Let's get together before Guido Fawkes Day, hey? We may not be dancing 'round a bonfire in Albion, or dangling our feet in the Guy Fawkes River in Australia but a few truck loads of pitchy pine will make quite a blaze despite the lack of gunpowder, and maybe, just maybe, we'll waken Robert Catesby. "

I dropped a small crystal of rose quartz in my goblet, whispered "Al Biruni", poured the last of the cabernet and turned to the first page of the manuscript.

BLIMP

"We're nearing Gulf Stream One," Rooney announced, scraping the arthritic index finger of his right hand across a burgundy-stained nautical chart of the Uterine Sea. "I see twenty-four coaling derricks and a Peabody clamshell sparing with the Devil’s spume.”
"Hold tight to your limes and hawser lines!" Captain Worley yelled, as he watched a whale-sized hump of bruise-blue water swallow the stern of the Cyclops, "and an eye to the lifeboats. Alert the crew!"
A bitter northeast wind hunched its shoulders against the curve of sky and blew till it rattled the rigging and ripped the words from Worley’s mouth.”
“Damn! This is what it must have been like on the Bedford back in 1783!” Rooney screamed, “I smell Sperm oil. Let’s have a whaling song Captain Worley. Do you know one?”
“No time Rooney,” Worley cried, “the gyroscope and compass are off the gimbals, and we’re probably flying upside down!”
The Cyclops lurched drunkenly to the crest of the stormy swell and paused, outlined for an eternity on its trembling Helium toes. It was at the apex, at the aphelion of all the gravity-challenging amusement park, theme park, and carnival rides dared and defied in youth. The one pivotal moment when the very act of living is given meaning, or tragically trivialized. Sensing disaster, Johan, the first mate, a primate of enviable size and agility, snatched one of the priceless snake and ebony-wood archaeological artifacts rolling about the tilting deck and vaulted clear of the ships railing. But the weight of the oversized phallic symbol he had grabbed provided just enough negative inertia to drag his hairy simian legs down, down, down, down against the green-pitted brass rail, and the ancient, time-corroded metal exploded with fifty-seven years of relief into a shower of forgotten symbols. The first mate, followed by Captain Worley's prized mahogany tea crate and a case of Tarragona wine from Catalonia, catapulted into a cream-flecked mustache of iridescent sea-foam. The spectral dusk turned Prussian blue as Jonah, flailing his left arm like the one-bladed propeller of a doomed Spitfire, disappeared, mouth agape, through the swinging doors of the Sargasso Saloon. Worley sighed and pressed a monogrammed carmine silk handkerchief to his oily brow. "The lousy bastard," he cursed, turning to Rooney, "did you see him make that obscene gesture with his right hand? and I swear I heard a vulgar comment about the queen?"
"I thought it simply a chimp salute, and a word of new-age good cheer," Rooney said.
“Nonsense,” said Captain Worley, grasping the spinning wheel a little tighter while trying, with only moderate success, to sip his triple rum and coke, “I’ll have him in leg irons if he shows his low browed, simian face aboard the Cyclops again.” "But I'll tell you what Rooney, I'm more concerned about my red and black lacquered Shanghai tea chest. Jesus Christ, my first-edition Henry Miller’s and Lawrence Clark Powells were inside. And wasn't the bastard wearing my Sunday Macintosh?

As Jonah fluttered desperately in the suffocating embrace of the wild water a wrinkled navy-blue Macintosh spread limply around him like the wilted petals of a winter-frosted water hyacinth, or an installation by Christo. The chimp, doing his best to remain upright, like the sexually aroused stamen of a Peruvian Lily, was finally sucked down into Poseidon’s hidden chamber to fertilize his garden of hybrid kelp. Germination in reverse.

Worley shrugged his shoulders, and like the Charioteer from Delphi stood crisp as hammered gold in the darkening cockpit. He gazed mindlessly toward the saw-toothed horizon, unaware the carnivorous sea still thrashed his vessel like a school of flesh-starved sharks. Thousands of goose bumps had lifted him above the counterpane of sleep; had carried him far above the confusion of his own dreams and nightmares. Worley was drunk on someone else's imagination.
The running lights flickered, flickered with green light, flickered, flickered. The lights were reflected in the polished lexan windows, and re-reflected in Worley’s rum-polished eyes. Worley felt nauseous. He sensed he had exceeded his threshold of tolerance for imbalance and steadied himself against the flickering, flickering instrument panel. He stood erect and tried to assume the posture of a ship's captain, bumping his polished head against a rough metal cross beam with a watermelon thud in the process. “Shit,” he said, rubbing his forehead with one hand and pouring the last sips of Santa Clara rum into his Lamprey mouth with the other. “Shit,” he said, and smiling like a Moray eel, slipped the empty glass into Rooney's jacket pocket. "Four pints to starboard Rooney," he sang, chuckling drunk on the fermented black-market Cuban sugar cane, "and batten down the south spinnaker and overcharge the Hatches in first class, cabin number five, and the Johnson’s in number eleven, and the Smiths cowering in Cabin Class number fifty-seven.” For a moment he was Robert Newton playing Long John Silver, thumb and index finger pressed against his chin, right eye closed, plotting an advantage and sailing the Hispanole to an imaginary Treasure Island “Them is me orders Rooney lad.” Worley ahah’d, “now step lively. We've a cargo of crocheted doilies to deliver, and more passengers than I care to imagine. And while you’re at it see the ship's wine cellar stays ship shape during this Napoleonic ordeal."

I riffled the remaining pages, chuckled, and wondered what beautiful and unexpected peregrinations and hallucinations Whinkla would take me on. In what arena would he reign?

WHINKLA -April 1, 2008

2008-04-02T10:44:00.000-07:00

Wonder of Wonders, or is that World of Wonders? I was upstairs staring at the computer around nine last night when I heard what sounded like a knock on the front door. I haven't had a visitor after dark for more years than I have fingers and toes so I was immediately suspicious. Not frightened or threatened, just curious. When I slipped down stairs in the darkness I could see a head faintly illuminated by starlight framed in the door's small glass window. I opened the door immediately.

"Whinkla!" I yelled, "Whinkla! My God man, come in. Where in heaven's name have you been?"

Whinkla stepped inside and took off his boots. "It has been a while, hasn't it?"

"At least a year. No, closer to two. Where have you been? What have you been up to?"

"One question per customer Larry," Whinkla smiled, but yes, I do have a tale or two to relate."

We moved quickly to the kitchen where I busied myself making a pot of tea. Whinkla sat at the breakfast bar thumbing through a recent copy of Smithsonian magazine and humming softly.

"So tell me everything," I said, " from the beginning, that is from the last time we met."

"When was that Larry? I seem to be having a little difficulty remembering things of late, and so much has happened, or hasn't happened I loose my way. Was it the afternoon we spent investigating and inventing nicknames? That would have been the autumn of 2007."

"No," I said, "I think we saw each other last March, at the Insomniac. You were with a beautiful, raven-haired young lady."

"Ah yes, Vivien, now there's a story to chill your bones Larry. Turned out to be a modern version of Idylls of the King, at least the Merlin and Nimue part."

The kettle had boiled and I placed the cozied teapot between us on the counter. "So," I said. "tell me about her. Was she the 'Lady of the Lake'?"

Whinkla sighed, "Well she certainly cast a spell on me, one of my own I suppose, but I did manage to escape before becoming just a voice in a Hawthorne tree, or worse. . . . Tea should be ready."

The Republic of Dreams

2008-03-26T12:57:00.000-07:00

I dream vividly, in great depth and astonishing detail, but haven't the self-discipline to remember most of what I experience in the republic of dreams. However, occassionally, a dream is so real that after I wake it's as if I was still in the other land. One such dream I managed to commit to paper, and I called it:

GOATS

I was walking home from the high meadow, following a muddy goat track that ran below the Hawthorn hedge, or else I wasn't descending the goat track at all. Who could tell? It was late afternoon, the sun had turned the sky an unfamiliar sulfur-orange, or it was late morning and the cobalt blue sky was blazing under a quivering red sun with a towering gray-bottomed, anvil-shaped cloud or two, looking like sacked Templar castles, acting as semi-surrealistic side curtains. I was following the goat track, though there hadn't been a goat on the grassless trail for as long as I could remember, only an occasional rabbit. Regardless, I was following the goat track down from the high pasture, or else I wasn't. Who could tell?

My house was a thatch-roofed cottage built from river-rounded boulders of granite and gneiss. Not much else was known about it. Someone, myself I think, had snaked a small copper pipe from the hillside spring so that hot water was available at the turn of a wooden handle. The availablility of water was not without cost.

The sink was overflowing with greasy dishes from an unremembered meal and it seemed like a good idea at the time to wash them. Or was that a bad idea? Who could tell? I decided to wash them, having only the two options to chose between. But, as I filled the cracked enamel sink with water, almost steam, the cups and saucers, plates and bowls began to move about and break apart. They fragmented into salmon-coloured, salmon-shaped pieces, that swam around in the oily water like anxious panfish.

Gazing pensively out the six-paned window I could see that dawn was arriving, or perhaps it wasn't. Who could tell? Had I been washing dishes all afternoon? All evening? In the sink the salmon continued to disintegrate into smaller and smaller fry. I thought how happy they would have been had they been real salmon, or even simple sardines, and able to swim off down the dark drain on an adventure, or leap up the dripping water faucet and fin their way back through mist and time to the place of their birth. Only they continued to loose their identity, dissolving into a sandy mud that covered the bottom of my sink. I was upset that my cast iron skillet hadn’t been dirty so I could have put this beautiful abrasive to productive use. Imagine a school of salmon swimming back and forth, rubbing their granular, gold-scaled bellies against the bottom of my skillet. I pulled the plug and watched the salmon disappear down the drain. Or was that simply gritty clay? Who could tell?
I turned my attention instead to another school of salmon swimming up the early morning sky, struggling against the dark. It must have been morning as sky-salmon are not known to swim up the sky at night.

I studied the high wire fence enclosing the vegetable garden. Ah, I thought, that's why the goats and rabbits no longer use the goat trail. I remembered how, after I first installed the fence, the goats continued to wander down each evening, or was it morning, to sit on their haunches and sniff the ripening cabbage, carrots and lettuce for a while, but eventually they stopped coming, leaving behind only their sad, silent bleats. The rabbits too soon discovered the fence and whimpered once or twice before hopping away to their private silence. Since then all the vegetables inside the fence had grown to maturity, split, turned black and rotte, turning magically into earth. We didn't pick a thing that year, nor the years after. We ate out of cans, or fed on dried legumes, or did we. Who could remember?
The goats returned to their high, brushy hill, and the rabbits to their megalopolis of cozy tunnels beneath the Hawthorn hedge. Both seemed happy to nibble aimlessly at wild grasses and herbs as the morning star guided the moon into view. Or was that the evening star? I began to wonder, had there ever been goats? Rabbits? Who could tell?

Later in the day, after I’d scraped the shapeless salmon from the sink and poured them on the weeds in the vegetable garden I pulled on my rubber boots and followed the goat track as it wandered upward toward the top of the hill. The rabbits were asleep, silent in their dark, humid burrows, and of course, now I realized, there may never have been goats. Who could tell?
At the fence separating my fallow field of mustard from that of someone I had never met I crossed using the stile, though I could easilly have walked a few yards to the right and stepped through a gaping hole where the goats had once passed. Goats? Or I could have simply jumped over at any number of locations as the wire net was in need of repair and sagged to the ground almost everywhere. Or perhaps there was no fence. Who could tell?

The goat track eventually led me into a neglected cemetery overrun with rank weeds and impenetratable brambles, then disappeared amongst tumbled headstones marked with broken nine-pointed stars and vague hieroglyphics. Moving forward I stumbled against the walls of a church whose huge oak doors were closed by slabs of chestnut nailed to the stone walls with copper spikes. The artistically carved Saints, Madonnas and Griffins that had once proudly decorated the wooden portal seemed to have been nibbled away by creatures with rodent-like incisors. The belfry bell was silent, as it had always been, or had it always been? Had I ever heard the pealing of the bells? Who could tell?
When I pressed my left ear against the chiped oak panel I thought I could hear, hushed and far away, the bleating of goats, and with my right ear, the crying of rabbits; a great many rabbits, a great many goats.

A Fiction of Roussel

2008-03-11T10:37:00.000-07:00

I’ve always held the belief that many treasures remain hidden: rare jewels, currency, works of art, antiquities, unknown manuscripts by famous authors and musicians, or any number of other ephemeral item deemed valuable by either their rarity or uniqueness. Many people have the habit of hiding items and then forgetting them, or where they were placed. Or else they die unexpectedly, leaving no record of their actions. I’m thinking of the box of currency slipped onto the top shelf of a bookcase in a darkened shed, the gold coins deposited, one by one, into a hollow metal fence post in the back yard, a battered leather suitcase filled with notebooks and fool scrap left with a friend for safekeeping, never to be reclaimed, the worthless painting bought at a thrift shop found to be hiding an early work by an old master, the antique chest of drawers with a yellowing envelope taped to the underside of the bottom draw, unnoticed all those years, filled with valuable stock certificates. I feel the world is filled with many more such marvelous items, waiting only for an accidental hand to discover them.

In 2006 I became obsessed with the writings of Raymond Roussel but was disappointed at the lack of information regarding his life. Then, when I read of the unexpected discovery of Roussel manuscripts in 1964 I had reason to hope there were more to be found. I knew Roussel had lived in several towns during his time in France, some of them for relatively brief periods of time. That he wrote profusely, and rewrote and revised endlessly is well known and I doubt he discarded very much of what he had written. But what had happened to the notes and manuscripts he mentions in his 1935 book, posthumously published: Comment j’ai écrit certains de mes livres?

If you change residences frequently much of what you accumulate must necessarily be left behind, at least temporarily. Furniture, books, clothing, art objects, and manuscripts are often placed with a neighbor, business associate, or in the hands of a good friend, to be picked-up at a later date, or forwarded to a new location. I think sadly of the manuscripts left behind by D. H. Lawrence at the Kiowa Ranch in New Mexico, now out of public circulation but hopefully not necessarily lost for all time. In some musty basement or cobwebbed attic, at the bottom of an old tea chest filled with period clothing and bric-a-brac, or a mouse-nested wooden box filled with nibbled paper, unknown manuscripts may yet lie patiently waiting discovery.

I was reading “The Selected Correspondence of Dr. Almeldi” when a particular statement made me take an extra breath. Dr. Almeldi was a psychiatrist practicing in Bois de Boulogne, a suburb of Paris, in the late 1800’s, and a friend of the psychiatrist Perrin Durand. In a letter to Durand, dated June 12, 1917, he writes: “I have recently accepted a patient referred to me by my sister. He’s a gentleman from Nielly, a village near Vierizon, who tells me he suffers from melancholia, insomnia, and extreme anxiety, but I tell you Perrin, after his initial visit I suspect the problem is more complex. When I write you about this case I will refer to him as Mr. Russel for purposes of propriety and confidentiality. Mr. Russel is a compulsive writer and tells me he has boxes and boxes of notebooks and papers that he feels he must constantly revise, and this burden he laments is added to almost daily by additional writing. But let me proceed to what I see as the most interesting aspect of this case Perrin, it’s his imagination. He has created worlds of words within worlds of words of such detailed fantasy that even I am impressed. I sense Mr. Russel will prove very interesting, his artistic obsessions are beyond question. A study of his madness, no, let me say uniqueness, while formidable, should prove interesting. Perrin, I feel I may need your assistance in this case, and should you chose to assist me I would be most grateful.”

Need I elaborate? When I saw the name Russel, and the remarks regarding his imagination and creativity I was convinced Almeldi was referring to Raymond Roussel! Relatively little is known of Roussel’s life so if the casual references proved to be factual, and why wouldn’t they be? then an opportunity to add considerably to what we know of Roussel was presenting itself, and there might be a chance to discover unknown or unpublished manuscripts, perhaps even an early draft of La Vue or La Doublure.

It’s well known the Roussel family estate was in Neuilly, a suburb of Paris, but what if Roussel had also lived in Neilly? The similarity of names was pure Roussel. So after a routine search on the Internet to verify names and a few other incidentals I slipped a French dictionary into my baggage and made a reservation on an early morning flight to Paris, France.

From Charles de Gaulle airport I claimed my suitcase and went immediately to the train station where I purchased a second-class ticket to Bourges. A few hours later I checked into the Ibis Hotel. After breakfast the following morning I took the train a short distance to Vierzon and paid for three nights lodging at the Campanile Vierzon Hotel. My anticipation and excitement of what the next few days might bring was difficult to control. On check-in I asked the young desk clerk if she had ever heard mention of the name Roussel. She shook her head, “No.”

That evening, after a splendid meal in a nearby restaurant, I sat in my second story room looking out toward the Sologne forests and wondered how I was going to track down evidence that might prove Roussel had even lived near the town in the 1920’s. Roussel died in Palermo in 1933 at age 56. If he had lived in or near Neilly he would have been around forty-five, perhaps fifty years old, that would make it 1927, give or take a few years. That would mean anyone who might have knowledge of Roussel would be close to 90. Suddenly I realized that was the answer. In the morning I would make a list of all the retirement homes and nursing facilities in the area. Then I would visit area clinics and try to develop a list of older individuals being cared for at home. I drank a glass or two of local wine to celebrate my arrival, and my plan, and listened to the town put itself to bed, then I too lay down, encouraged, excited, and more than anxious.

A visit to the public library provided access to local telephone directories and newspapers and from them I quickly made a list of seven private ‘retirement’ homes, and one government facility. A list of aging residents living at home, or with relatives, was more difficult to compile, but after a visit to the only local clinic I had the names, and in most cases the addresses, of seventeen individuals or couples. Of course there were likely many more but it was a start. Gathering the information had taken three days so I extended my stay at the Hotel another three days and hoped it would be long enough. That night I sat down with a bottle of Bordeaux and studied the list. I decided to begin with individuals and leave those in institutions till last. First I looked at age and eliminated anyone less than 75 years old. Then I decided to begin with people who were 80 or older. That would have made them around ten years old in 1927, the year I felt Roussel most likely lived in Neilly. There were only six names on my list, and I had an address for all but one of them.

My first stop was a disappointment; the woman I expected to interview had died two weeks before, and her daughter, who was in the process of cleaning the house for sale, said she couldn’t recall her mother ever mentioning anyone named Roussel. The second name on my list sounded encouraging, or at least the address gave me hope. I had been told of an old couple that lived in a small cottage on an unnamed lane between the Rue Andre Ribaud and Chemin de Fougery. I couldn’t help noticing the similarity of Ribaud to Rimbaud, and Fougery to the English word Forgery. But perhaps my imagination was taking the upper hand, and my wish to find a connection to Roussel too optimistic.

It didn’t take long to locate the house once I found Rue Andre Ribaud. A farmer feeding goats knew immediately who I was looking for and gave me specific directions. He told me the house was one of the oldest in the neighborhood and had been built from cobbles collected from local streams. It was, he thought, in excess of two hundred and fifty years old yet had withstood winter storms better than more recent constructions. Seeing the cottage from a slight rise in the roadway I was immediately struck by its presence, or rather lack of presence in the landscape. It did look marvelously old, even from a distance, and seemed to have become a part of the land.

I didn’t see the man or woman at first as I was admiring the luxuriant, well-kept vegetable garden that stretched from the rear of the house down to a thin line of willows bordering a brook. I paused outside an opening in a hedge of roses and was admiring the profusion of flowers and shrubs flowing about the house when their movement surprised me. They were weeding a flowerbed just inside the hedge. The woman stood, smiled, wiped her hands on her apron and came toward me. The man continued to weed.

“What a magnificent garden,” I said, and told her of my own garden, a continent away. While we talked the old man joined us. He carried a basket filled with vegetables: lettuce, radish, carrots, scallions, and Broad beans. Without even knowing my name they invited me inside for tea.

I introduced myself and casually commented on the age and beauty of the cottage. “Thank you, yes it is quite old,” said the lady, ‘please sit down. I’m Mireille.”

“I’m Alain,” the man said, and yes, make yourself at home.” Mireille left to make tea and Alain and I sat down in front of a stone fireplace and exchanged pleasantries. He said he was ninety-one years old and his wife 86. Alain had lived in the Loire valley all his life and had moved into the cottage in 1936 when he was twenty years old. He met Mireille a year or two later and they were married in 1938. Except for a short honeymoon spent in Paris they had lived there ever since. Alain told me a distant cousin on his father’s side had inherited the house but preferred the comforts of a larger town and so the house remained empty for many years. “When I was discharged from the army I needed a place to stay and the cousin was grateful to have someone he could trust live in the cottage and take care of it.

Mireille returned with tea and a plate of bread and cheese which she placed on a three-legged stool between us. She brushed off her apron and sat down on a wooden chair beside her husband. Finally I nervously asked them if the name Roussel meant anything to them. Both shook their head and said they could not recall anyone with that name. My enthusiasm suddenly evaporated and my disappointment must have been visible as Mireille asked me if anything was wrong. I assured her I was fine and thanked her for the tea. I then asked Alain about the time he first moved into the house. His head dropped slightly and his eyes seemed to loose focus, gazing back fifty years or so. “That was a long time ago,” he said, and then paused, “but I remember how excited I was to have a place of my own, and at twenty. That was really something back then.”

“Or now,” I added.

“Yes, I’ve been lucky,” he said, “First the cottage for only a few Francs a year, then Mireille, and two sons.” He stopped and I picked up my teacup, afraid to speak. Then he continued. “Of course there was a lot of work to be done. No one had lived here for years, so there were piles of stuff to get rid of. The furniture was still good, but so much trash, you know, old clothing, piles of seed and nut shells left by squirrels or rats, even a few dead birds. Came down the chimney I suppose, like they do now when they’re looking for nest sites. Couldn’t find their way out and no one here to open the door. It was a mess, but an opportunity.”

“So you spent a few days cleaning and making the place comfortable?” I asked.

“Quite a few. I had to dig a new privy and clean out the well. And I spent several days chinking the walls with new concrete. The roof was in good condition other than a bird nest or two. At the end of a week it was clean as it had ever been, only cold.” He reached over and took Mireille’s hand.

“What kind of stuff besides dirty clothing did you have to get rid of?” I asked.

He thought for a moment. “Oh there were some rusted cooking pots, an old suitcase, a box or two of newspapers, broken glass, that sort of thing.”

“What about the chest?” Mireille said.

“Oh yes, the chest.” He said. “there was an old chest in the bedroom.”

“What was in the chest?? I asked, as casually as possible.

Alain chuckled. “Would you believe nothing but paper. Boxes and boxes of paper and notebooks, and all of it written on. I think there were some pens and dried out bottles of ink and a packet or two of letters. And some sheet music. Just junk.”

My heart began to quicken again and I tried to remain calm. “Really,” I said, did you read any of the papers, or the letters?”

“Well, no, you see I never learned to read very well, just enough to get by.”

“Then you’ve no idea what they were about?”

Mireille refilled our cups and asked me to help myself to the bread and cheese, all made locally she assured me and better than anything I’d find in the city. I buttered a crusty chunk of bread and cut off a slice of cheese. Mireille smiled when she saw my surprise at finding a piece of straw in the center of the cheese. “It’s a Saint Maure, one of our valley’s best”

After what I thought an appropriate time I again asked Alain if he knew what the papers might have been about.

“Oh I have some idea.” Alain said, “I asked my neighbor to look at the papers and he said the notebooks might be a diary of someone’s trip to Africa, and the papers seemed to be about a party at someone’s estate. He said they didn’t make much sense and were just fancy scribbling.

“So what did you do with all of it?”

“Why I used the papers to light the stove. In winter I crumpled up some of the sheets and stuffed them in around the windows to keep out the drafts.”

“So you saved nothing?”

“No, it was of better use to me as kindling.”

We sat in relative silence enjoying our afternoon meal. Then, as I sat on the edge of my chair trying very hard not to show my disappointment, a disappointment they would have no way of sharing, I let my gaze wander about the room. There were pictures of what I suppose were their children and grandchildren on the mantle, a few still-life paintings of flowers, and one of the Eiffel tower, and next to a doorway that led perhaps to their bedroom a small framed line or two of verse. I asked if they minded if I looked at the pictures and photographs and they were delighted in my interest. I expected the framed line of text to be a proverb like ‘A stitch in time saves nine’, or “God Bless Our House,” but was startled to read: ‘The brightness dims within the glass and everything darkens.’ I must have gasped as Mireille jumped to her feet, concerned I was choking. “No, no, I’m all right,” I said, “it’s just I didn’t expect to find anything like this on your wall.” I pointed to the framed line of text. “Do you remember where you got this?”

Alain pushed himself to his feet and joined me. “That,” he said, “I forgot, I guess I did save something from the chest. I had the postman look at some of the papers as well as the neighbor. He picked this out as something I might want on my tombstone and so I saved it. Like I said, we can’t read very well but I think it says: ‘When the brightness dims everything darkens.’”

“Yes,” I said, “it does say something like that.”

Back at the hotel I sat quietly in my room and wondered if it was possible the chest had been filled with manuscripts and notes by Raymond Roussel? or some other author? I’ll never know for sure of course, but what an unfortunate tragedy if they were. I still shudder when I envision the burning of the Library at Alexandria, or the wanton destruction by Spanish priests of almost all the Mayan codex’s, and this, the loss of so many unknown manuscripts, whether by Roussel, or someone else.

A few weeks later, back at my home in Oregon I received an email from a friend in Palermo, Italy. He has written to tell me his neighbor, while removing a large rats nest from a wall of his house, noticed it was lined with shreds of expensive looking paper. As a curiosity he showed it to my friend who is saving the nest because of one word that caught his attention, and one he knew would quicken my blood. He is certain one of the words he can see, without dismantling the nest, is Locus!

Mid December Thought

2006-12-23T18:53:00.000-08:00

After spending most of the year thinking about, and a considerable number of November and December days creating my Christmas gift for Whinkla I thought it would be interesting to present it to him myself. Plaster, feathers, twigs, and semi-precious stones such as Chalcedony and Grossularite Garnet, and a crystal of Galena made up the body of the work, but re-cycled mattress canvas, moonlight, and a variety of type fonts applied with a Sumi brush played a very important part in the construction also. It weighed only five point seven pounds on my postal scale so I thought it would not be a burden to me. How wrong I was.

Whinkla visit early August

2006-12-09T13:47:00.001-08:00

November 9, 2006

2006-11-10T16:31:00.000-08:00

November 9, 2006

This afternoon I made a half-hearted attempt to visit F. S. Whinkla but was forced back after half an hour of slogging through viscous red mud. Twice my feet pulled loose from my rubber boots. If I hadn't been so cold it would have been hysterical. I'm a little concerned about Whinkla's situation after all this rain. Has the normally dry lake filled with water and nibbled at the foundation of his castle? Have any of the ancient trees toppled onto his bothy? Is his wine cellar intact and still reasonably dry? And those signed first editions! Better not to think about it I suppose. If I don't hear from or about him in the next week or so I'll try again, that is if the rain stops. I'm sure I'll find him with his nose in a book on Dada, or reading aloud the poetry of Jeffers or Dylan Thomas to the Yellow-bellied Sapsuckers, or perhaps reading a biography on some obscure paint dauber or juggler of words, or scanning a magazine on classic sport cars or Somoan tattoos. "What rain?" he'll probably say. He is ever the surprise.

whinkla

2006-09-11T19:52:00.000-07:00

More out of sequence notes:

Your dream (if that's what it was) of being lured to the lair of an elf with kaleidoscope eyes reminded me of a conversation I had with F.S. Whinkla a year or so ago. He had strolled down from his nest to bring me a few bottles of his four-year-old Dandelion/Sage wine. I say strolled for that is exactly what he had done, taking three days to cover the few miles. Anyway, he said the wine was at a perfect state of equilibrium and should be sipped immediately. I grabbed a bagette and we wandered off to the Buddha garden with two crystal goblets and an entire afternoon of uncommitted hours. Somehow we got to talking about oceans, and sailing, and when I mentioned storms and ship wrecks I noticed a spark, like the striking of Dover flint against Pittsburgh steel, flash behind his eyes. "Sailing," he said with a sigh, "yes, sailing." He took more than a sip of the straw-coloured liquid in his glass and stood up, gazing toward an unseen horizon. " 'I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky, and all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by' " he said, turning toward me. "That's from Sea-Fever by John Masefield, but I suppose you know it." I did, but remained silent. "Once upon a time." he continued, "I was quite a sailor, bet you didn't know that Larry. It was before I started piloting dirigibles. I'd built this boat you see, sort of a cross between an Irish coracle and an egyptian dahabeah and wanted to test its worthiness against a real adversary. So I shipped it to Ny Alesund on the north coast of Spitsbergen, that's nearly 80 degrees north latitude and proceeded to sail northeast into very bowels of darkness. It was late spring so I thought much of the pack ice would have broken up allowing reasonable passage thought I had no idea of my destination. I think I thought I could sail all the way to Ambarchik or Vankarem in Russia, or even Point Barrow. I had enough food on board to last thirty or so days, longer if necessary. You know I don't eat much, even in winter, and I had a little evaporative distillery that could make a quart or more of fresh water every day, even with minimul sunlight. I'd filled a sea chest with an extra jacket, a repair kit, sextant, an old chart of the Arctic I'd bought from a retired whaler in Tromso, and a copy of Chapman's "Terror Incognito" should I find myself becalmed, or, as I joked to the old seadogs along the quay in Ny Alesund, marooned.

Whinkla

2006-09-11T19:49:00.000-07:00

Oh, one very quick correction. The garden you mention has nothing to do with F S Whinkla. He lives in a rather substantial run-down cabin on the cusp of an alkali lake without a shoreline. He spends almost all his free moments fishing for ghosts with tangled words embroidered on a line of red silk. To sip words with him by candlelight is a delight, and occasionally, if the Tarot is sympathetic, he’ll invite you to share a spicy curry of ideas and a chutney bulging with artistic thoughts. But Whinkla does not garden, in the accepted sense of the word.

Whinkla Notes

2006-09-11T19:43:00.000-07:00

Out of sequence of course but while looking for one thing I found another notebook entry, and another:

"I'm not so sure," Whinkla said, his slow, comforting voice easing my anxiety like a second glass of plum-scented Merlot, "yes, one does face the possibility that whatever it is you've worked so long and hard to create might, in essence, really belong to someone else. But are we talking of something merely derivative, or imitative or, shall I say it? something stolen, something pirated?"

"Well tell me F. S.," I asked, "how many of the numerous things you've created

have you thrown away because you felt they were primarily the result of an inspiration from someone else? How many of your creations have you destroyed out of embarrassment, or fear? How many of the things you've written and published have been plagiarized?"

"Thankfully only an early short story Larry, and I cringe every time I open the magazine in which it appeared. Ah Anais, but I did like her style when I was fifteen, and I did learn a noble lesson. Thank goodness it was an obscure early thing of hers that I appropriated. But when I think about it, I may be too harsh on myself, there was much more of me in the story than there was of her. But I know what you mean. When is a work of art homage or theft?

. . .

"I'll have to admit when you nailed that soup can lid to the thrift shop door and called it 'Cyclops 1' I had to reconsider some of my feelings and beliefs about what is art. Then, when you sold it the next day for fifteen hundred dollars, well, that's when I went on that four hundred mile hike down the crest of the Sierra."

"You know F.S." I said, "I've tried very hard not to consciously take, or steal if you will, anything other than the essence or spirit or message of another's work of art, whether it's a painting, collage, mosaic, sculpture, dance, or a Pacific sunset, a mouldy leaf or decomposing orange peel ready-made. I digest whatever it is I have absorbed through my senses in my own fiery bowels before any excretion on the page or canvas occurs. I will admit many of the things I create are influenced and inspired by others and other things, but what other way is there? My dreams make up the bulk of my inspiration, not the actual work of others, no matter how wonderful and impressive they may seem at the time."

"Tell you what Larry," F.S. said, pushing himself from the overstuffed chair, "let's open a bottle of Cabernet and continue this exchange out on the west deck before the sun sets and I have to stumble my way home in the dark again.

Whinkla

2006-09-11T19:24:00.000-07:00

It occurs to me I should provide more background information so let me step back to the summer of 1990. At that time I was a student at Wageningeen University in the village of Soerendonck in the Nedtherlands pursuing a general course of in zoology. My instructor, Doctor J. K. van Calkenren, after more than a few pints of bokbier and several shots of Dr. Franciscus de la boie's fateful concoction suggested that if I was to concentrate my studies and research on the order Stylommatophora, family Oleacinoidea, genus Testacellidae, he might be able to procure a grant allowing me six months of study, perhaps more, at the "Skunk Cabbage Stylommatophora Center" in Washington State in the United States. Having no definite goal in mind at the time I accepted his offer. The grant was eventually approved for 5,000 Guilders, (approximately 2,700 dollars) and included round-trip airfare from Amsterdam to Seattle, Washington, and a monthly stipend of around 100 US dollars. With funding like this I felt I would be able to devote my entire time to the study of Deroceras monentolophus v. interlinea diretta calva della vipera.

Now, skipping sixteen years ahead I thought I would include a brief description of a recent visit to F. S. Whinkla.

From my notebook: (looking for my notebook). . .

First meeting

2006-06-20T09:04:00.000-07:00

I first met F. S. Whinkla in 1992. I was gathering information on Deroceras monentolophus v. interlinea diretta calva della vipera, commonly known as the Bald-headed Viper Slug, for a paper I was to present at the fall meeting of the Stylommatophora Society. I was surprised that nearly every significant reference I uncovered mentioned a town called Kleadrap, in Oregon. My pursuit eventually led me to Mr. F. S. Whinkla.

Kleadrap, Oregon and F. S. Whinkla! I had no idea at the time what a strange world I was about to enter.