(tbt) Ramble

From November 21, 2012

Ramble

The river smells of ghosts again.
Sometimes we worry they’re our own —
that this rambling brings us
to no good end.

Was a time
we were strong and settled.
Now is expectation —
and we must trust
attentiveness
to take on what defense
we can no longer manage.

And we should be so lucky:
that something might happen
to break the intensity
of this day-to-day.

But this loneliness we looked for

dominates.

We celebrate
the dark and the dead,
and can wish it were otherwise —
but know

you will never find us here.

And the answers
are dust —
something to be found out
and cleared away.

fieldnotes 11.15-16.16

Nameless

Troubled by troubling,
we weave fog to keep each other close —
no wind to dissipate,
no weather to catch a sail away.

And,
with its hidden distances,
the world is close enough to touch.
at once near and far:
sumac, riverbirch,
ethereal
silhouette of looming,
naked trees.

How we embrace it in all but deed.
How that nearness pulls us to action —
devouring loneliness,
always moving in it and with it,
a tear that pulls like a tide toward some true home:

in which to break bread,
in which to make,
in which to go gently
toward a mutual keeping of sleep.

Behind time,
behind time,
and ever behind time —

time that must be taken for so intricate a weave,
time that grows the value of what takes time to know.


11.15.16
(54/38)

flock of tree sparrows. juncos. shovelers. for a second, the sun behind the fog. other side of the marsh is the barest hint of dark gray shadow. something white, possibly a pelican. 5 geese. little bluestem and indiangrass still brilliant in sheltered places. everything close seems, somehow, more present.
the eating of poison. how that resonates in a cascading series of ways, probably more than how it was meant, but then we are what we are.
absurd darkness.
it was a red shirt in the dream. insensible shoes and rain. and the river. the rest lost in the appropriate fog.
bluebird in the high meadow. 1 goldfinch. another big flock of tree sparrows.
the walking women all together today, instead of in their usual twos and threes. how i wish i knew the language. how their apprehension makes me sad.
plenty of mallards in the pond. kingfisher. heron. yellow maple and caramel oak leaves, almost done but still making a scene, with the understory still green and fading, punctuated by red berries and chickadees.
namaste.
pelican. shovelers. grebes. mallards and one black duck.

11.16.16
(60/40)

2 geese on the marsh, which is frozen today, though i expect it will thaw as the sun gets higher. shovelers on the pond, which is not frozen at all, not even at the edges. still frost in shady spots. mallards on the river.


about fieldnotes

fieldnotes was written at the Marsh beginning Sept. 26, 2016 and ending near the same time in the following year, collected in memo books over the course of many rambling walks.
Beginning on Sept. 26, 2019, three years after the writing, fieldnotes will be published in its entirety, with posts appearing as the corresponding write-dates occur.
(at least to the best of my ability)

fieldnotes 11.8-11.16

Wrong-Footed

Trying to escape catatonia —
afraid to pick up speed and storm:

how wrath always rises with the wind,
fills the sail to send,

how it is all beyond the animal,
the machine,

how it makes us tremble.

And you know what comes,
after.

The leaves are falling fast now,
but it is all so far beyond us.
Cultivate faith in the sun
and how it counters the sadness
of seeds in the wind,

how it confounds what grows dark inside us.


11.8.16
(62/49)

sunny! windy! it is november and there are still singing bugs. tree sparrow. (winter resident returned) 10 pelicans. 2 herons. 1 egret. big flock of grebes. how sometimes naming is the only thing to hold to. naming, and solitary, slow movement. shovelers. sunlight vs. wind. tops of the indiangrass catching both. leaf smell. white crowned sparrow. orange sulphur. then two, dancing.
after so many years of trying to be understood, when do you stop?
another sulphur. fast in the wind on the high prairie. so little to see today, relatively, but still, the walking is the only thing that doesn’t feel wrong.

11.10.16
(63/41)

9 pelicans. shovelers. buffleheads! 1 heron. we set the clocks back this week, twice*. it’s hard to adjust to the gathering dark. it takes a minute to start a fire. and the world is a lot more than our petty measurement. savor the slow decline. nothing is ever in one place for long. now of the river.** red tailed hawk. sulphur. cardinals. white crowned sparrow. kingfisher chattering in loops around the pond and river. 5 mallards with 3 black ducks.

11.11.16
(50/38)

1st flock of sandhill cranes. troubled by troubling.

Notes:
*This is surely a reference to the 2016 presidential election.
**A reference to
Siddhartha by Herman Hesse


about fieldnotes

fieldnotes was written at the Marsh beginning Sept. 26, 2016 and ending near the same time in the following year, collected in memo books over the course of many rambling walks.
Beginning on Sept. 26, 2019, three years after the writing, fieldnotes will be published in its entirety, with posts appearing as the corresponding write-dates occur.
(at least to the best of my ability)

fieldnotes 11.3.16

Circe’s Will

What I would give for Circe’s hard heart
as she covers the waterfront,
watching the fog,
weaving a web to snare her sailor,
yet to find a story’s end.

‘I wanna be mesmerizing too.’

A mirror maze,
a beast unveiled —
her need so precise,
no deviation can satisfy.
Shedding one thousand shadows —
breathing beauty into the barren.

Unbound!

She might feed them for a season –
but knows how to bind is to break.

When the water lifts the unnamed lonely boat
and carries it on a diminishing tide,

she unweaves the woven —
sends them back to the loneliest ocean.


11.3.16
(67/48)

50 degrees. sun’s trying to work on the fog but failing so far. flock of … juncos already? yes. fox sparrow too.
who are our heroes of introversion?
deer. orange and yellow flame trees in the fog. it makes for a sense of unreality. magic. heartsore. just there. little bluestem in full color. just when you thought the grass was done. bluejay. 3 curious cardinals. purple finch. song sparrow. white throated sparrows. heron flyover – real low. flicker. Oh! a buck right out of the sumac. wow! clockwork. everything in its way, like clockwork. softness of moss. cardinals and juncos. mallards on the river. sharp shinned hawk. 9 pelicans. green heron. grebe. sandhill crane. 2 little red dragonflies and one sulphur.

Notes:
Quote 1: (mesmerizing): Liz Phair / ‘Mesmerizing’ from Exile in Guyville (1993)


about fieldnotes

fieldnotes was written at the Marsh beginning Sept. 26, 2016 and ending near the same time in the following year, collected in memo books over the course of many rambling walks.
Beginning on Sept. 26, 2019, three years after the writing, fieldnotes will be published in its entirety, with posts appearing as the corresponding write-dates occur.
(at least to the best of my ability)

fieldnotes 11.1.16

Maelstrom

Oh watch! —

how we preach patience without practice.
Such a hard-heeled turn takes time —

a moon —
a season —
a tide —

and still your boat might end in their reach.

But if you can endure long enough,
you might find the sirens possessed
of more voices than you’d imagined.

Go ahead.
Be afraid.
Be monstrous!

Don’t ever forget the depths from which those musics are made.

And if you can withstand their embrace,
maybe in time,
before it passes on ahead,
you earn it —
this gift of learning love’s subtlety.


11.1.16
(75/60)

warm! sunny and warm! ‘here just a while’ what a blessing of a day. a sundog at the heart of a cloud shaped like a swallow in flight. oak leaves catching the light like whiskey and red wine. the moon’s just turned and I guess so will we. A butterfly. orange sulphur. 2 blue herons. blue-winged teals. and geese of course. and I wonder, did i get tumbled down the well to force the siren song? but I feel the shift. gods. gonna have to tie my flannel ’round my waist. keep an eye out for snakes. flock of blackbirds by the cattails.
maybe sweet takes the edge of regret’s bitter in time?
another sulphur. and another, lighter one. I hear a bluebird just as I hear…
such things must be meant. no devilish work.
the birds are quiet. lullaby cadence of still-singing bugs. the end of the end of the song. sweet in decline.
investigate doorways, and the magic thereof. the gods of. all their Superstitions. the holy threshold.
coyotes howling at sirens. another sulphur. frog singing. another sulphur. ‘…and the darkness still has work to do.’ And I’m not so dull as to not understand how much easier it just became. to right the ship. and what that means. All the repercussive thoughts that go along with that.
How it is still impossible.
How we wreck and end at different depths.
And another sulphur could pass for a yellow leaf fallen. scare a bunch of frogs at the pond. how many kinds of water walkers are there? geese come in by their hundreds — jubilant or keening? About a dozen pelicans still on the water.

Notes:
Quote 1: (a while): Beth Orton / ‘Pass In Time’ from Central Reservation (1999)
Quote 2: (darkness): Peter Gabriel / ‘Blood of Eden’ from Us (1992)


about fieldnotes

fieldnotes was written at the Marsh beginning Sept. 26, 2016 and ending near the same time in the following year, collected in memo books over the course of many rambling walks.
Beginning on Sept. 26, 2019, three years after the writing, fieldnotes will be published in its entirety, with posts appearing as the corresponding write-dates occur.
(at least to the best of my ability)