I set out early Saturday morning to camp on the beach at Bolivar Peninsula’s west end. I have converted the RAV4 into a micro-camper and wanted to give the new fixings another test run. I spent the morning in Galveston and took the ferry to Bolivar around noon.
The jeep photo was not desaturated or converted to B&W and the sky above that cloud bank was a bright grayish peach.
Sunrise on the gulf just East of the entrance to the Houston ship channel.
The tip of the peninsula is cordoned off for the bird sanctuary, east of this the beach is lined with camping rigs of various sorts and sizes. Ten dollar parking pass gets you a year of beach camping here, so it’s a fairly popular spot for RVs. Lots of birdlife with many wintering species staying here for the season without the burden of a ten dollar pass.
A vast winter sky holds no position in particular, but binds all within it to an inter-connectivity which teaches all things how to be.
Found this birder at the ship channel on the Galveston side before taking the ferry to Bolivar. Those are (mostly) Black Skimmers on the sandbar, wintering here by the hundreds every season.
One of the legendary Bolivar Mosquitoes. I photographed this one on the window glass after having had its fill of my bodily fluids and wishing then to escape. You’re welcome. A steady gulf breeze tends to keep them inland but that dies down at night and they will find you if you’re up and about early like I always am.
I intend to do some traveling next year, so expect more travelogue type stuff here. I will write another poem when one occurs to me and not before.
If there’s one thing Indiana Jones can’t stand it’s nazi sympathizing archeologists who leave their Christmas shopping to the last minute. I think we should all buy each other worthless trinkets (from a vendor in the street—no big box stores!) then bury them in the sand for a thousand years: voila! Priceless relics for everyone!
But seriously, may the blessings of all the wisdom traditions of gods and humans bring the enduring conditions for peace and calm abiding within the mind-streams of all the sentient beings, past, present and future. Svaha. Om.
Adrift in the wilds for how many seasons—I no longer kept a count. The days don’t belong to calendars any more, the clock is an angle of light, the seasons become ciphers in broad strokes. Hadn’t seen another human face in scores.
I keep off the game trails lest I become game myself, but I keep tabs, know where they lie. The bears tend to leave me be, but you never know. I sling my hammock up in the canopy and it’s a real charge to hear them down there in the dark. Wondering how interested they’re becoming in me. I trap for meat, saving the rifle bullets for the attack that has never come. Bear, or wolf, or man, it seemed inevitable.
One day late morning, a whiff of campfire smoke. I plot a course of avoidance and three days later, again. I switch from avoidance to pursuit—I’ll go down in a fight if that’s the way it is. Damned if I’ll be prey. I pick up the pace, less stealth, weapon at the ready. Here’s some sign then, human tracks brushed over with pine needle, clumsy, done in haste. Ground cover is sparse here, stick pines scattered like tossed coins, reaching straight up, their lacy foliage lapping up the sunbeams high above. Then I see him.
A stick himself, wrapped in rags and a cut-down blue sleeping bag, a bulging lumpy kit slung over one shoulder, holding a golf club like to swing at a baseball pitch. Crazy hat looked like a nun’s habit. I leveled the Winchester at a sapling three degrees right of his heart. Yo, keeper. What say we ease into this.
Wilders know how to settle a sudden tension. Those that jump to guns are mostly dead by now, the rest of us develop a keen appreciation for alliances. Thing is, I had not had an interaction in so long I was livid with doubts. You forget how real it is when your nerves are lit for battle and your wisdom is calling for calm.
He lowered the club and I eased off the trigger. You tracking me? I ask straight up.
I am not sir. Headed east and south.
That rabbit fresh?
Yessir. Fresh this morn.
The kill swung from his kit, limp ears at the level of his thighs. He had clubbed it coming out of its hole, which impressed me mightily. My traps lately were always sprung or untouched and I had a hankering for meat. I had a bag of fresh mushroom and some radish and we were soon working up some vittles.
Trust is not a thing appears fully formed and time would tell. Camp divided, each to our side with a fire in the center. My Winchester leaned against a trunk behind me, his club in the dirt beside him. A damn golf club. Then it occurred to me.
Don’t tell me, you’re the ‘Lost Linksman.’ Our eyes met with fresh caution and curiosity.
Silly story had been making the rounds of the back country forever. Some country club dandy, not right in the head, tees off and slices into a wooded rough, gets lost. Keeps playing his lie and slices further into the wild. Terrible golfer, and with mental problems too, they say. Obsessed with it, before long he’s lost his ball and his way back. He retreats into survival mode, nothing but a wedge and a whiskey flask to fend off the elements. Years on, the sightings become more outlandish and legend-like, a kind of Bigfoot. Crazy man come at’ya roaring like a beast and swinging. They say his canines had grown into small tusks.
No man, he said. A smile crept onto his filthy, hairy face. That bob was nuts I tell you. This is his club right here.
You took it from him.
I kill’t him is what I did. Come at me like a bull hog and I bashed his skull with a cypress knee. The smile receded. His eyes cast downward at the pictures in his memory. It was right believable in the telling.
Talk is a dressing for the wound of life and liars practice a pointed kind of treachery. We ate charred hare and spoke of other things. Better days. All the troubles. We wonder where trouble comes from. The stars do seem to turn on a point within us, so when we see ourselves as the center of all things it feels inarguable. But it just ain’t so. I aimed to part with him the morrow, I being proven trustworthy of my own self and him not so.
We slept on the ground and come morning the camp perimeter was crisscrossed with possum tracks and he was gone. My Winchester was gone. In its place, a golf club, once wielded by the Lost Linksman himself. I mean, if you’re buying what he’d been selling.
Out here, the law is not practiced in court, it’s the ply of reason, catch as catch can. No hearsay, I am my own witness. At bottom it’s no less civil for the lack of wigs, robes and procedure. I picked the wedge up and swung it a few times. I’d never touched one before. I knew he’d try and cover his tracks. Knew too, he weren’t much good at it.
Merlin Sheldrake talks about the amazing world of fungi. Warning: your basic ideas of what life is and how it all works may experience dizziness. He is a biologist with a PhD and a mesmerizing speaker.
A rotten orange and this magic wand
some bones to hold
the lump erect
A starter pistol barks for the ready wheels
all thrust and penetration
A fire burns until it's out
without much worry
Impermanence (Tib. metakpa)
The magic wand is the appearance of a fixed reality in the orange before it rots. Bones give structure to thoughtless agency. Onward, into the fog. Impermanence is demonstrable, what use is its contemplation? Born into bodies, we had to invent the wheel. This is not the problem. We are like plankton feeding ourselves to the whale of endless craving. We are fire, burning through everything we desire, and suffering pain and loss is the inevitable smoke of this burning.
“In horror of death, I took to the mountains – again and again I meditated on the uncertainty of the hour of death, capturing the fortress of the deathless unending nature of mind. Now all fear of death is over and done.”
Bird photographs from this year. (27 photos). I wanted to do a 2020 retrospective about something besides all the things that nobody ever wants to think about ever again, ever. And I think you know what I’m talking about.
On January 1st each year I reset my Year List and start counting bird sightings all over again. I went out that day and made a life-bird with this Couch’s Kingbird, seen at Corps Woods in Galveston. The photo here is from March, but I logged this bird repeatedly for over 3 months at this location. All photos Nikon Coolpix P900, in the Houston/Galveston area, Texas, US. Order is generally but not strictly chronological.
"Casting about for a trace of something honest,something true we hesitate to reject anything,
accustomed as we areto blessings in disguise."
I spend half my time erecting, and half scaling, the walls of my own skull. I am the scheming busybody who thinks he likes to think. Well, who doesn’t. The walls in here are covered with layers of rubbish. Decades of bumper-sticker wisdom, political slogans, crude drawings of primitive men searching for mates or battling predators or drug addiction, and poorly conceived positions argued passionately. Impulsive declarations by the vandals of my own spastic grabs and blames. Much of it is painted over, or scrubbed away, the hard lessons learned thus lost to the tar pits of a faulty memory. How long have I been wandering in circles? How can four connected walls seem such a maze?
Acceptance of all these rogue mentalities is something akin to Manhattan art brokers giving nod to spray-can vandals. Casting about for a trace of something honest, something true, we hesitate to reject anything, accustomed as we are to blessings in disguise. There’s something to be gained by this kind of analysis, we suppose. But when it comes to actual reality, analysis falls mute. It is here that we get like we give, where the mathematics of division meets the impossibility of zero. Something real, experiential. Of course, I had slept through it.
It had been a long, convoluted dream, though one detour in particular had been enthralling. The longest, tenderest embrace I’d ever experienced in or out of dreams, with a newly beloved appearing as a stand-in for the entire encyclopedia of love. As if deposited into my arms by the loftiest ideal, she plunged us both down that well of affection where so many have gone to gladly drown.
A long, long embrace that had bridged the gap from dream-time to now. It’s a shaky ground, this memory received as if by telegraph from a dream, fading already, like the dilapidated shack that is the destiny of all homesteads. I kick off the sheets and stare at the ceiling. The qualities of dream-time are doing costume changes for the memories, slipping into something more comfortable, though less familiar.
However will I accept the peace, should it ever come? I’ve too many engagements. I’m too habituated to distraction. Everything seems to promise closure, but all movements ever do is incite motion.
After many drawings and design revisions, and much sawing and clamping and gluing, my little table project has finally come together. Construction is all dowel pin and glue except for the drawer, which is screwed together and installed with drawer glides. It’s full of wart, blemish with a couple slightly off joins, but is quit heavy and solid. Most cuts were made by hand. I was aiming for a boxy, utilitarian look, but with some grace to the lines and proportions. Neo-shaker? I had to taper those 2×4 legs, that was just too boxy.
If you’re in the Houston, TX area, this one’s for sale.
When people die suddenly in numbers and the reports start coming in, they always count the bodies as ‘lost souls’ but nobody really knows who or what up and took off, or how or where. There are beliefs about such matters, and they are codified in considerable detail. We are corralled into a struggling span of life with just enough awareness to get suspicious about the bigger picture and start crafting explanations.
A body with the life gone out of it begs a certain question. Convinced that everything has to have a location we consign the absentees to heavens and hells, based on our own prejudices. It’s the best we can do without actually knowing what is going on. Sometimes we allow that the souls stick around out of confusion, broken heartedness, or vengeful hankerings. We like this idea because it suggests maybe you don’t have to actually go and you can stick around in some form, maybe even harass some prick who richly deserves it.
It’s a fun game this speculation. We do that more as children because it has the mark of serious business and when we are young we look ever ahead to being older. Then we grow up and settle for one answer or another that seems to comfort that nagging doubt that so intrigued us as youngsters.
I recently had an oracle tell me that I had in a previous life worked as a carpenter for the Romans, making crosses for their executions. I listened intently as she went into some detail. How I wound up in this meeting is a long story, but I can assure you it was not paid fortune telling session.
The Romans were busy in those days quelling insurrections and what not, and I had plenty of work. I was occasionally drafted into their horrid processions as cross bearer for the poor wretches who had been too whipped and torn to lug their own tree trunk. There’s a special indignity to that part, like digging your own grave.
So I served in that capacity too, though all I wanted was to shape wood. I had no choice, there’s no bargaining with authoritarians. The condemned would limp behind me as I marched along, quietly thinking about ways to make cross timber less weighty. The Romans liked the cross bar fat and heavy. Cruelty seems to serve some purpose when you witness it like that first hand. The grizzled spectacle drew crowds. They reviled me as the rightful representative of the prisoner and cursed me, spat at me.
Naturally, when I first learned of this incarnation of myself I rushed to the conclusion that I was the Messiah. Silly egotistical bugger that I am. Sometimes I think we never really grow up, we just suppress our childishness to the extent it interferes with all the serious things need doing.
Once, when the Buddha had taken birth in one of the hot hell realms, he and another fellow were tasked with moving loads up the side of a steep, fiery mountain. His mate became exhausted and was repeatedly whipped by the cruel attendants so Buddha decided to carry his load for him. This inkling of kindness infuriated these brutes so much that they went mad and beat him to death right on the spot.
It is early in the AM, Thanksgiving Day, 2020. I remind myself that gratitude is itself a kind of happiness, and that there is always something or someone you can identify that is completely worthy of gratitude. Even though the world is a ball of shit. That’s quite something, isn’t it? Happiness at your fingertips and all you need do is change your mind.
We really should, however, end this charade of pardoning a ceremonial turkey as we mindlessly slaughter a billion others. An honest tradition would have the president chop off its head. Why do we lie to ourselves like this?