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)

fieldnotes 10.27.16

Defiant Goodwill

‘There isn’t one that we cannot discover.’

In the midst of driving through the gloomy gloom, I thought of a long-ago acquaintance who, when feeling she could not find light or help, looked for advice in the first words that she came across that rang in her ears.
And, as I thought about it, a truck driving by said “Defiant!”
And then another said “Goodwill.”

Seeds planted in the rain, they come up quick.
We can still feel it trying to turn.
Don’t.
Dig in your heels against the rising pull —
those blades hung,
poised,
exposed —
and know you are a soldier, of sorts,
with skin in place of armor,
vulnerable enough to choose to bleed by your own hand.
And there’s more weeping waiting,
but know this:
The world is indeed against you
when you stand against yourself.
And the wind is picking up, colder.
Find the defiance to face it.
Find the goodwill in knowing
that even on its grayest, most darkening day,
the sun is still there.


10.27.16
(50/44)

44 degrees. cloudy and damp after a day of settled rain. it’s windy. chilly. the birds will be all together — whether we see them, a matter of chance. A dozen shovelers on the Marsh. and I am out lion-taming, I suppose. rainy day knocked the leaves down. trees, newly exposed. the new regulars. 2 grackles. red bellied woodpecker, heard. a whole flock of bluebirds! instead of flying off, they come close as if curious, about 12 feet off the trail, as if to say hello. in their midst, a purple finch. and another flock of bluebirds, or is it the same birds, following me? white-throated sparrows. goldfinches in their winter coats. cardinal. blue jay. birds all coming out to visit. raspberry leaves all red-brown-burgundy. still some berries on the branches, all dried up. this spot is some kind of magic now. can I soak it in a second? food for some kinda winter bird. and no wonder the prairie plants are continually following me home, the way I wade in to see them. … walking along the meadow by the pond it is still cloudy. I cast no shadow, and yet, my eyes trick me and I see in front of me every shadow I have ever cast. Pause and wait. Mirages pass. Water in the pond is high, and water bugs still skid along the surface at the edge. Heron objects to being sketched. 2 redtailed hawks. a big puffball. they’ve been out cutting firebreaks, and the blackbirds are quieter. black ducks are back. and 2 blue-winged teals. few patches of bluesky. sandhill crane. little flock of coots. just 7 pelicans. leaves mistaken for birds. birds mistaken for leaves. and then a big flock — hundreds — of grackles as I leave.

Notes:
Quote: (discover): Beth Orton / ‘Feel to Believe’ from Central Reservation (1999)


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 10.25.16

‘… some kind of path …’

October nibbles, adoringly,
but doesn’t bite yet —

(how it is a matter of tolerance,
an easing in to pain)

— its wind pushing our edges.

And I am frightened.
Whether losing my ground to a drought wind
or to the slow, steady erosion of a wet summer,
still I am lessened

(how my right foot tried to send me down the stairs).

It is unhurried.
It is no grand act of the gods.
But it shakes us to our foundation anyway.

And I am lost.
Naming and nameless,
I am lost.
I do all I can do,
and all I can do is let it pull me on and on —

with the promise of bluebirds, with the promise of stained-glass oak leaves, with the promise of winter’s lonely quiet, with the promise of first woodland flowers again, with the promise of it

— changeful and changeless —

and its resistance to definition
and how it lives in the unspoken.

We need not be beholden
to the constraint or myth
of inevitability.
Our living is haphazard.

I have no truck with faith.
Only, a sort of mutuality —
and the deep animal movement of the heart —

how to feel it is to believe.

And how every piece of evidence points to the illusion of the finite.


10.25.16
(53/39)

46 degrees. mostly very cloudy (though the sun came out by halfway round). mitts and woolly hat. vertigo prevention. goldfinches and robins. big flock of cedar waxwings — busy! curious! gregarious! song sparrow. and robins. and robins. and robins. downy woodpecker. a line of clouds like the rungs of a ladder. i’m too tired — soul-tired — for climbing. Feel my bones. Bones like stones. oaks and maples a crazy quilt. sun breaking the clouds. my favorite east-side tree — an old burr oak — most beautiful when bare. its breadth amazing. so quiet, birdwise. the wind in the grass, sun in trees against gray sky. in the tops of the indiangrass. everything feels unreal. watch then scare up a heron on the pond. in the sunlight, in flight, he really does look blue. lands on the other side and stills. we both watch an osprey wing over. kingfisher, heard. and still the river is full of blackbirds. redwing alarm and grackle chuckles. kingfisher, seen. still a few pelicans. 15 or so. some kind of sandpiper. spotted? 4 sandhill cranes chase off a heron.

Notes:
Quote: (some path): Nick Cave + the Bad Seeds / ‘Into My Arms’ from The Boatman’s Call (1997)


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 10.20.19

Circe or Siren?

I’m not sure what this is —

do I name everything else
to avoid naming it? —

(trees so orange you don’t need the sun)

— how we love that it is limitless

— how to name is to limit,
to confine and contain.

(Oh this endless wandering,
timely, timeless,
in my left hand I crush the yellow coneflower seeds,
breathe it in,
no, more deeply than that —
sow it in the wind for next year.)

There is just that mystery in the Sirens’,
in Circe’s story —

endlessness of ocean,
prairie seen from above,
autumn trees at the edge of a gray sky,
milky way when you can escape encroaching light

— which makes us long and loathe to tell it.


10.20.16
(56/46, gray and windy after overnight rain.)

autumn. october, for sure. ‘and if your boat is broken out on the rocks.’ flock of robins. it’s brisk enough i could’ve used mitts. a hat. remember next time. dried yellow coneflowers. save enough to pick when you’re longing for that late-summer smell in the dead of winter. northern pintail. 4 pelicans, real close. redwings and canada geese of course. the prairie grass — tall and brown in the wet wind behind the rain. the oaks even going now, subtle and varied as their wakefulness, if you care to listen. golden crowned kinglet. bit windy for bluebirds today? quiet, relatively. a day to relish the wind. still the barest hint of singing bugs, just close enough to the edge of hearing to make you wonder if it’s just your ears ringing. chickadees. there is no sunlight, but the milkweed seeds still seem to catch it. siren. awe of endless ocean before anyone knew it had an end. beauty of the near. bluebird, heard not seen. big flock — 3 dozen or so — of sparrows, caught like leaves in the wind. undergrowth has died back. this time i remember where the old fenceposts are and don’t trip or fall. big puffball. (you can always use one more field guide… fungi, trees, tho perhaps the most useful would be a guide to homo sapiens … how would you name them if you didn’t know their names?)

Circe — a lure so strong as to feel almost holy. a thing of the gods. meant.

singing trees are done for now, leaves crunch underfoot. big flock of robins. still frogs, down by the water. white crowned sparrow. 30-some-odd pelicans, still. 3 herons. 1 egret. sandhill crane. grebes. hundreds of robins, by the river. little flock of goldfinches, not at all gold anymore, as I leave.

Notes:
Quote: (broken boat): Joan Shelley / ‘Stay On My Shore’ from Over and Even (2015)


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)