All Edges of Land Meet Water
It is Eons of Ion’s and Rock’s
All edges of land meet water.
With the rotation of the Earth,
The Breath of the Wind,
Waves Splash on Rocks.
It is:
Eons,
Ions
and
Rocks.
It is a Shield and Spear Paradox
That makes Sand.
This is why Sand is appropriate for an Hourglass.
To Each
Grain
Of
Sand
It is Eons of Ion’s and Rock’s
It is the way of creatures to be busy doing what creatures do
It is the way of creatures to be busy doing what creatures do.
Single Cell creatures modulate and pulse,
As they are subjected to the currents of gasses and liquids that contain them
Tardigrades perform slow moving acrobatics,
As they feed, breed exist in their ever-resilient skins
In extreme temperatures of hot, cold, full oxygen or no oxygen
Ants and Bee’s work gather and build,
They make patterns of their paths,
Trailing their chemicals to communicate
They Hum while they work.
Birds Sing, call,
They find their mates through a Dance,
Or with a well-built decorated nest.
Then spend their lives in tandem.
Humans sing, dance, make art, build, write.
We leave our trails in concrete, or in sound.
We believe our patterns make our history.
It is the way of creatures,
It is how we keep busy,
It is how we
Keep tethered to each other.
And we reach to other species
Cross each other’s paths for good or ill,
It is what creatures of Earth Do,
And Earth
As it is surrounded by air and clouds
That move and dance as the Earth spins
And defines its seasons as it rotates
And circles the Sun,
As the Sun
Pulling its orbiting and dancing neighbors
With the force of its gravity
Through
The
Universe.
All
Because We Sing, Dance, Build, Make Art and Write.
Summer begins the wait for Orion’s Belt
I have always felt it was ironic, or perhaps unfair that summer starts with the longest day then shortens with each daylight.
It is Summer that speaks in light.
Memories of glistening Beach Sand,
Then waves lapping on rocks
Clear Blue Horizon with Orange burned in its center.
We close our eyes at a day at the park,
Behind our eyelids burned red orange
We hold a blade of grass in our lips
A Saturday
Maybe the 4th of July
People Dancing,
People laughing,
This is a memory,
Shared.
It is a day that lives in Barbeque, Trumpets and Drums, a Guitar strum’s.
A Balloon has caught its string on a power line,
Fireworks clumsily play with classical music.
And it is a time for Diesel engines.
Around the field marching dust covers footsteps,
That just made patterns.
Patterns of the stars are called constellations.
Each constellation has a story, a myth,
A lesson to learn.
It is placed in the sky for us to see.
We just told many stories while we made patterns in fields.
But those were the days when summers were something different from the rest of the year.
Something different from just another season.
Seasons are what tracks the sky.
It is the entrance of stars in their grand parade over our heads.
As you stand on your grass crouched to your telescope,
Aimed to the heavens with its stories that have been told and waiting to be heard and told again.
It is here that you sip your wine, or your brandy and remember
The waves deepening Blue horizon and Orange burn.
You listen to your stories again as they run again on the patterns made from the craters on the moon
Her Dark hair run through your fingertips in a morning in Santa Fe
Like a Pattern by Georgia O’Keefe
It flows perfectly, abstract, but with direction.
And, there is that story.
Like so many stories that is now being shared with those constellations,
Your place under, with those stars.
It is a procession.
One that could be played by a
Koto, or a Guzheng
As only those instruments could describe your peace, or place or your time underneath these stars
In a way that would connect your stories to theirs as something that does not end with your story or theirs.
It is part of the cosmos.
And I will ramble on as a mind will,
And speak of Fireflies near midnight on the edges of a field in Kansas
The Top of Mt Spokane under full moon getting ready for a midnight run down through the trees at full speed for the fun of it.
Sitting with my Design Teacher at a Japanese Garden feeding Koi talking about Godzilla
My mind wanders and wonders, what my favorite story of summer is
I simply remember warmth,
Being spoken to me by light.
That is my memory of summer,
As I aim my telescope to the southern sky and see the edge of Orion’s Belt.
In the woods, just a few yards West from Woods Lake.
I had cleared a small area for a cabin
It was the year I was living in Monroe,
In the woods, just a few yards west of Woods lake.
I had cleared a small area for a small cabin
Some nights I slept in a tent, some nights I slept at a buddy’s abandoned house about 2 or 3 miles down the road.
The Property is 11 miles north of Highway 2,
It is mostly 2nd growth cedars now, 1st growth was taken in the 60s, though there are some stumps left from a fire that was started by lightening.
One of which a hundred yards or so from the build sight had been hollowed out by time, dirt floor, empty space of maybe a 7 foot diameter
The top 6 or so feet up was shaped like a cave.
I had placed a foldable chair and small table there for sitting,
Of which I would do so often, listen to the rain dance on leaves, or wind play with branches an occasional deer would walk by and not even notice that I was sitting there with my cup of tea.
It was an escape into this tree that I liked the best of Monroe.
There is something indescribable about being inside of a tree trunk unseen while you watch the weather, birds and creatures.
Something like a live action tv I guess with smell of wood, leaves, dirt and rot, no one knows that you are there.
It is a peace that I can only imagine one can find when they are truly separated from the world and all its dysfunctional hustle and bustle.
We think of Full Moons as magical, beautiful and mysterious, I guess we do so for its folklore.
I will say, the woods are different under Full Moons, trees and paths are lit at night, you can walk and see your feet, where you are going, you can see subtle shades of green, browns, reds.
There are also shadows.
Shadows of differing greys and shapes, they move with the clouds that come between you and the moon, this accents the sounds of moving branches and leaves that the breeze or wind, or small creatures make. Creatures are busier, Owls, Coyotes, Raccoons, Mice.
It is their time, they take advantage of the moon and the deer are aware.
This is where being in a Hallowed out Old Growth Cedar is a Harbor,
The breeze will enter, swirl inside its cave, give you the scents of the forest, exit with the sounds of the breeze, of the wind, of the branches of the leaves
and the sounds of a hoot owl.
It’s a Homecoming of sort’s, Robin’s and Cherry Blossom’s
Mid-day across Albro from Ruby Chow Park
Cherry Blossoms have sleeved branches.
White, Pink fluffs under the red belly of a Robin
It’s head darts left, right, up, down and pecks the branches sleeved blossoms,
It is a Homecoming of sorts, Robins and Cherry Blossom’s
It is a statement about spring spoken by creatures rather than a position of the Earth’s orbit,
And an adjustment of clocks while we chant “Spring Forward.”
The skies darken, the air chills, drops of rain, then sleet, then hail bounces off surfaces
Cars, Roads, buildings,
The Robin has left, blossoms loosened by the hail fall to the street.
Ice balls bounce and dance to the sound of applause.
A young woman crouched forward carrying her baby wrapped in a blanket runs across the street trying to protect her baby from the hail.
Its grey changes slightly from
Its just before sunrise
The fog feels thick, dense,
Its grey changes slightly from the medium grey where it touches the ground to a hint of blue in what would be sky.
The Ground, dark grey, trees green-grey, streetlights not quite white orbs that glow with a mist showing small droplets moving at diagonals.
He is dressed in a blue down jacket, hood, ski pants, boots.
He rocks side to side as his legs take small steps.
In his arms are bags that hold the weight of all his belongings.
His dark silhouette emphasizes the smoke from his cigarette as it disappears as it mixes with the mist in the air.
He walks down the middle of the street, double yellow line under his feet.
There is no shadow behind, or beneath him, only the dark grey of pavement.
He walks under a light, its conical shape of mist triangles a sign of Shoreline Community College Everyone welcome here.
He walks past me, to a bus stop with a shelter bench, he places his bags on the ground
Sits, then lays on the bench, his legs from the knees bent, so his booted feet are on the ground.
He takes the cigarette from his mouth, holds it in his had as he breaths deep.
Brings his right forearm across his forehead.
The fog is getting lighter, less dense.
Sunrise is beginning.
Its time to start a new day.
A runner with her dog passes by
her breath denser than the fog.
The sunrise brings her shadow.
A rumble of a diesel engine starting.
Dressed in white,
Placed center stage at a 45
Demanding its center stage as if it’s been to the focal point
Of our life.
We step forward, pause, step forward,
Like standing waste deep in that Ocean Shore so many years ago, the undercurrent weight of the waves push, pull,
Now we Lean on a walker, as we leaned on the big rock in the neighborhood to grasp the lower branch.
Wheels creek with the weight, grind with the gravity of those memories that pushes each bone toward the ground.
There is a film we watch; one we have seen in the thousands of our days. Some in black and white, others in color, Scenes we have not seen in years rewrite what we thought the story might be.
It is time to step into the Monolith.
Remove the Gravity from our bones, look towards the sky,
Breath the air, smell it, taste it from each scene of that movie.
It takes longer now to close our eyes,
Light might not come back
Breath now we can hear and feel inside our body
There are shadows on the ceiling
Forming shapes, opening a door.
It is now when we decide that our Monolith is built.
I have more than once heard: A society is measured by how they treat the most vulnerable.
I think it’s evident how we measure up.
I’m going to rant a little bit.
I like my job. I find it interesting. It’s a job like no other if you’re a people watcher. It’s been said that bus drivers encounter more people than Presidents or the Pope on a weekly basis.
So, that is what gives me a license to rant.
Today, 3rd and Cherry, I have seen this man several times this past year. He sits in a provided manual basic wheelchair, the kind Hospitals give to people who need them just before they are sent back into the street or shelter.
He has no legs. He is far too skinny to look healthy.
He has one arm.
He struggles to use this chair. I have seen him trying to push the wheels forward. It’s, to say the least: Awkward.
Back to today. 2 pm. He sits on the street side of the sidewalk, facing uphill on 3rd and Cherry. His head is tilted to the side, his eyes vacant. His one arm dangles next to the wheel. He looks exhausted. He is in a dangerous place as a car speeds up the hill and misses him by a couple of feet.
I see a Prostitute that I have seen with him before. They have struck me as friends, not business. She is a blond, short polyester skirt, stained with street muck, white leather jacket; blond hair pulled back. White skin that is blotchy red, she is moving as quickly towards him as she can to help him.
My light turns green. I move south on 3rd ave.
I am repulsed by what I just saw.
A man with no legs. one arm living on the streets. His best friend, a drug-addicted Prostitute, who probably has a heart of gold. Nonetheless, her occupation creates a risk to her longevity, and her obvious drug addiction also creates risk.
Why do we allow this? Is this the best we can do?
I have more than once heard; A society is measured by how they treat the most vulnerable.
I think it’s evident how we measure up.
The same trip, on 1st between Holgate and Lucile.
Another man has his sweatpants down to mid-thigh, his jockstrap is down too, he is scratching under his testicles, he sees me and tries to wave me down. He has a grin on his face, desperately tries to get me to stop.
I don’t stop; I can’t have that on my bus, I have people that I am responsible for their welfare and safety.
I drive down streets, where both sides of that street have homeless, drugged, handicapped mentally ill. These streets have garbage everywhere, decay, destruction as we build high-end high rises.
I’m a little angry at this point. I have to say, this kind of sequence of events is not outside the norm. This is the world we have built, and its no different in just about any big city across this country, and I’m sure other nations as well.
We are Irresponsible people.
I am one person; I fully admit that I do not have the money or resources to change anyone’s life. I simply have enough money to get by day to day and save a little for tomorrow and hope for the best. There is also only so many good deeds that I am capable of doing and still take care of my own life.
I recently saw the Walking Dead.
It’s a great series, not just for the acting, writing, effects, and eye candy. It’s great because of the portrayal of what happens when we don’t take care of each other.
The people in that series return to tribal status. They have found themselves with a group of people; they work for the better good. When they don’t, things predictably go wrong.
So, they bone up; they take care of each other the best way they can. It’s not always about being a better fighter, sometimes its intelligence, creativity, choosing to walk away, or learning to enjoy the moment. Every person has a place there; every person is important to their tribe.
We obviously do not do this.
We have the wealthiest nation on earth. We have the most powerful nation on earth.
We have a divided nation. The have’s are telling us, that there is nothing to be done to help the homeless, the poor, the disabled, the druggies. Nor can we afford to educate people. They say we can’t afford to help people that won’t help themselves. We cannot afford healthcare; it is not a right; it’s a privilege.
They think these people are lazy, unworthy.
They say this while the rich, the extremely rich get more tax breaks, broader control over the planet, more overall control over consumers. In other words, we spend our money foolishly on the wealthy.
We are a sick Nation, there are days I try my best in my own world to help the people around me, and I do these things selfishly because my world is better because of it. Then I feel better about my world.
I am a Seahawk fan. I am thrilled that they are now 4-0.
Isn’t it great that we have young millionaires playing a game. Owned by the super-rich who makes more money from people with enough money to buy tickets and merchandise to support this lifestyle.
( I say this knowing that so many of those players and teams do good things in their communities.)
Is this the best we can do?
Seriously, who would you rather talk to about life?
A football player, or a teacher, or a social worker. Who would give you the most wisdom regarding life?
I pull into a stop at Chinook street under the West Seattle bridge,
I lower the bus for an elderly man pushing his belongings in a rigged up cart of a dolly and plastic milk boxes.
It tips and spills his items out of the top milk box, some toilet paper, a half loaf of bread, a peanut butter jar, some clothing. He cusses. The 2nd milk box holds a pup tent. A young man with a skateboard who was waiting for his turn to board bends to help him. The old man starts to cry, and it’s obvious he is embarrassed; the young man gets things stacked again, pats him on the shoulder, then boards.
It’s about 230 pm.
I am pissed.
I have tears in my eye.
I drive slow to Avondale, where I take a left, head up a hill.
I am thinking a Zombie Apocalypse just might be deserved.
I am not kidding.
I have watched a man walk his dog during that time frame, a good looking Pit bull Labrador mix that has a brindle coat.
I have been driving the same route in the same time frame for about a year now, and at different times almost two years before that. I have watched a number of people on this route and know some of their routines.
I have watched a man walk his dog during that time frame, a good-looking Pit-Bull Labrador mix that has a brindle coat.
He had been walking her up and down 35th sw, happy dog, smile on her face when she greets people, she has that squirm and her ears go down when she meets people, and she loves them all.
He is over 50, shaggy beard carries a ball for her, I have seen her run and catch, fetch be distracted by birds, dogs and people as she brings it back to him.
I have seen her become grey, and this past year, she has slowed. He had stopped carrying her ball early last summer, she was walking with her head down, her tail swings slow left and right, she stops, her nose in the air and sniffs, he patiently waits for her to move again.
I missed seeing them over the past few weeks, saw them today. He lives by a stop, I am letting on an old gentleman that needs the ramp as he scoots his walker past me I watch the pair, I’m saddened:
Her back legs are not working right, her hip overly swings, her front legs are weak as she shakes to walk. They are at the end of their front walk of his house where it meets the sidewalk grass, she stumbles falls, whimpers, she seems blind now, scared, he bends down next to her, lifts her front torso up, kisses her head and sooths her.
I am taken by this moment, I leave my door open and watch this grotesque, horrible but beautiful moment.
I know he is talking to her, softly, as his lips are to her head, he slides his other arm under her back, to her hips, then lifts her, she subtly jerks, he whispers again, holds her as he stands and kisses her head again, she relaxes, her head loose over his arm, her tongue out, he is holding his head against hers in a hug as they turn towards his door.
I close my door and start to pull away as he carries her to his door.
Crows are present, they have found stops like these offer foods for the day, materials for nests, a reason for territory arguments
This August morning started with greys and mists, sun orange behind clouds the warm light casting mild shadows.
Its early enough the sounds of cars, traffic and people are still singular sounds, muffled by their distance. I am at a stop at 12th and Lane. This stop is often busy with human services and care, by this stop is a small tent city know for its drug use, crime. Some are waking up, some are returning home, they are moving around, one lady makes her way to 12th, She doesn’t seem to know she’s on the street, nor does she see me, she drops her pants, her skin is blotchy, potted, she pees, then vacates her rectum a few yards in front of me. She cleans herself with a towel she tosses to the sidewalk. My door is open, I smell the garbage that’s littered, wrappers, beer cans, broken bottles, clothes. I can smell alcohol and the garbage in the air. A siren in the International district echoes between the buildings.
Crows are present, they have found stops like these offer foods for the day, materials for nests, a reason for territory arguments.
Two Crows look to be molting, they are skinnier than most, not a jet black, more of a light charcoal, feathers hang loose from their bodies unpreened, their movements are quick, they seem angry, they have found an orange needle the kind that is handed out by the state, they are pecking it. One goes to pick it up, the other pecks at its beak, the needle is dropped, the crows fight each other. Viscous, not normal territory squabble.
I had to ask myself, are they fighting over the needle for its drug?
They are rolling on the ground, talons out, pecking for eyes, one flutters away chased for a bit.
I close my door, continue south across the Rizal bridge,
I can see T Mobile Park lighted in Pink, in the distance behind, Puget Sound then the Olympic Mountain range rises above the park, its peaks are blue to white, to a soft glow of the yellow sun touching grey clouds.
Transit Transients and Other Stories 