Things spread out
rolling and unrolling, packing and unpacking,
— this painful impermanent world. Gary Snyder
My cleanse continues, now entering its fifth month. The results are mixed. It’s possible I’m in better shape. Of course, this too could be an illusion.
I watched Trump’s interview with Chris Wallace last night. How anyone can have any confidence in this buffoon is hard to believe.
And now his senseless base is calling him a leader because he finally wore a face mask. It came months too late and he is possibly the last politician in the country, if not the world, to put one on. This is the exact opposite of the definition of the word leader. When you are the last one to do the right thing you are a follower. Period. Enough about Trump, I think the country is paying attention. And that will help.
In 1989 I bought a new truck. A red Nissan pickup. It was the cheapest vehicle on the market at the time. Six grand to drive it off the lot. After some convincing the salesperson agreed to let me put the downpayment on my AMEX card. At first he said it wasn’t allowed and when I offered to go to LA and buy the truck there he found out it was in fact allowed. They would have probably taken a goat if that was all I had. But all I did have was an overextended AMEX. But it went through and to this day American Express hasn’t forgiven me. But, they created the situation, not me. And that, as they say, is another story. When I drove to Cattleman’s to celebrate the bright red truck had eleven miles on it. It’s amazing what you could get away back in those innocent days of easy credit. I bought a round (with the AMEX) and drove home marveling at how broke I was. I believe it was the Greek goddess Artemis who said boldness is a fine quality in a young man. At least I think it was Artemis. I should look that up.
A few days later I bought (the trusty AMEX again) a sharp matching cab for the back and now felt reasonably secure in the fact that if I had to run I’d at least have a place to sleep. And sleep in the back of that little truck indeed I did. Although never while on the lam. Staying a few steps ahead of AMEX is not difficult.
I slept in that truck in some beautiful spots; some parking lots, a couple beaches, several places in Yosemite, Saddlebag Lake, to name just a few. I was always ready to stay where ever I ended up. In the back I kept a cheap sleeping bag, a camp stove, beach towels, an old pair of boots, a foam pad, a first aid kit and box of books. The books were mostly guide books and trail maps. Some field guides to birds and flowers, mushrooms and sea shells, trees and dragonflies. I had the maps to Tuolumne Meadows, Sequoia NP, Big Sur, Wawona, Kings Canyon, Los Padres National Forest, Rand McNally’s USA roads and, for nostalgia purposes, Vermont’s Long Trail. There was a book of aphorisms by Ed Abbey and one poetry book, Gary Snyder’s Myths and Texts. A wonderful little book about the wilderness that I love so much. I read that book with the black and white picture of a cross-cut section of a redwood on the cover several times, by campfires, beside rivers, under stars, and in the cab by headlamp. Later to my modest traveling library I added his book The Practice of the Wild. Another wisdom book that belongs on a lonesome wandering trail so when you return home you have the strength to keep the sense of wildness in your heart while navigating the perils of daily life in the chaotic city.
I sold that truck thirteen years, two cross country treks, and a hundred and sixty-five thousand miles later. I couldn’t have bought a goat with what they paid me for it. I gave away some of the field guides to curious kids and put Myths and Texts on the bookshelf. I read Snyder pretty often for his dedication to the earth and its many communities, his passion for poetry, his grasp of the transitoriness of all things, his sense of gentle humor and his ability to communicate big ideas. His work in itself is a field guide in many ways. And it’s a map on how to find your way and balance society and solitude. He does it like the zen student (master) he has been now for a very long time.
So it was with pleasurable anticipation that I decided to read Myths And Texts again for the first time in almost twenty years. I wondered how it would hold up after so long. The poems are as sharp and edgy as I remember them to be. They pull at that urge to be far from a road absorbing the silence of deep Nature’s grasp. He writes, “Truth being the sweetest of flavors.”
In the last few days here’s what I learned about the comet NEOWISE. Today, July 23, the comet will be the closest to earth as it’s going to get. 64.3 million miles. It will be as bright as the North Star and easy to spot appearing just under the Big Dipper, Ursa Major, about an hour after sunset. The comet’s full name is C/2020 NEOWISE. The telescope that discovered it in March is the Near Earth Object Wide-field Infrared Survey Explorer. NEOWISE.
The comet is made up of about equal parts dust and water. And it’s moving pretty fast, 144,000 miles per hour. That’s about 40 miles per second. Because it’s so far away it will look like it’s standing still. Astronomers calculate that it won’t be near Earth’s orbit and visible again for 6800 years. Well, I figured, by then I’ll be 6858 years old so I had better get a look at it now. Just in case.
The Mesa here in Santa Barbara had a sky filled with wisps of fog and light clouds. I drove up 154 and out of the overcast. The glow of the sunset lasts a while this time of year so I kept going until I got to Lake Cachuma and pulled in the vista spot and was amazed there was nobody in the parking that looks out at the dam. The air was cool and the smallest sliver of moon hung in the west. Crickets chirped loudly and an owl flew over my head. At least I think it was an owl, it was a dark shadow and its wing beats were almost silent. The night air was fresh with hints of pine and sage.
By the time my eyes adjusted to the dark the Big Dipper was prominent in the sky. With my binoculars I easily found the comet. I spent the next forty-five minutes amazed at the workings of nature. It truly is fascinating how big and wild the universe is. And science’s knowledge warps my brain. This three mile across bit of rock and dust and water has taken a long time to flit past us. It’s already traveled around the sun and is now starting its journey out past the farthest parts of the solar system. It looked like any other dim star except for the long blurry tail estimated to be over a million miles long.
What did the earth look like 6800 years ago? Well, our ancestors most likely looked to the sky and wondered what the finicky gods had in store for them by sending such a bold portent. Would it precede a flood? Or a pestilence? (Like now!) Or was good fortune to follow? Who could say?
And 6800 years from now? Will humanity have survived? Will we have beat the poor odds and overcome our ignorance and won our battles against climate change and curtailed our nuclear appetites? Will we have finally understood that we are all one and erased the disease of racism? These are mysteries and what ever survives of our species they will certainly look back at the year 2020 the same way we now look back at 4820 BCE. And hopefully it will be with amazement that they made it that far. So much will happen in between now and then. And NEOWISE will have made its lonely journey to a far off place where the sun’s gravitational pull will finally turn it back from the dark emptiness and once again it will pass by this small and special planet whose inhabitants will greet it like a long lost member of our corner of the galaxy. It will certainly view us with cosmic indifference. Which is all our descendants can expect.
A note on comets. Halley’s Comet will next be visible on July 28th, 2061. Forty-one years from this week. Chances are that I won’t be around to see it. But that’s ok. Probably Ellie will. And Juliette and Marcus and Liam. And if they are, and the odds are good, I hope when they look to the sky that they remember me and wish me happy birthday on what will be my one hundredth.
In thinking about travel I’m reminded that Pak always says, “If you need it and you don’t have it, you don’t need it.” This referred to a piece of equipment or gear as well as specific cooking ingredients like fish sauce or lemon grass.
We generally traveled light in those days of sleeping in tents (matching yellow ones from The North Face) or the cabs of our trucks. We ate simply, for us. There were exceptions like when Pak showed up to our campsite at Tuolomne Meadows with live lobsters. We ate them quickly and disposed of the shells by wrapping and tying them off in a garbage bag before putting them in the metal dumpster a few campsites away. We didn’t want to drive the bears and raccoons mad with desire. Bears are especially drawn to powerful smells as we saw one night when a big black shadow crept up on us and swiped a bag of marinating chicken out of our cooler. We were less than ten feet away. Our dinner the next night was more light than we planned. But Pak made due and we did not go to bed hungry.
These days I travel a bit more comfortably and usually over-pack just in case. I am by nature a trip extender and hate to be caught by surprise with less than I need when I add those extra days on to a vacation. I’ve been stuck in far off places (Alaska, Cape Cod, Yosemite, Dingle, Prescott) having to buy socks or jeans or a jacket. So I’m overloading my green Golite pack for a quick drive somewhere.
I am not one who is known to pray. I haven’t had particularly good luck when I did. Maybe it’s because I only prayed for the impossible. But, one would think, if god can’t do the impossible exactly what kind of god is he? (She?). Compassion is not his strong suit no matter what the preachers say. They lie.
Imagine if you had the power to cure someone from dying of cancer. I suspect it wouldn’t be a dilemma as to what you would do. Easy choice it is to alleviate not only the suffering of one person but at the same time also taking it away from their family and loved ones. One swift decision and an entire group of people is relieved of excruciating pain and anguish. Prayers for this type, asking for the reduction of horrendous suffering, are rarely listened to, much less answered. We cry out to an indifferent void.
My brother Mide, who had at times a contentious relationship with his creator, argued with me that all prayers are answered by god. “But!” He’d admit, “The answer is usually no.” Funny guy that Mide.
My friends who struggle are always in my thoughts. Some say that constitutes prayer. Maybe so, but I feel that I know better. Hoping for the best can be a terrible awakening when you have to keep lowering the bar and somehow find solace in the worst of outcomes. We all have been through it, countless times. That Indian teacher long ago figured out that all life is suffering. Once we understand that simple fact it makes things somewhat more tolerable.
I’ll admit that my stray thoughts for the well-being of those I love don’t accumulate into a cloud of healing energy that then flows toward them. But I do it anyway, think positive thoughts. Good vibes, that lovely hippie girl calls them.
So it is a bit of a shock when there is indeed good news, like today. The heart warms. In the past I would have been tempted to say, “Thank god.” But like Daniel Dennett I now say, “Thank goodness.” Thank goodness for the doctor who dedicated her life to battling the most terrible disease. Who went to school for years and studied everything she could about the frightening challenges that she would encounter. Goodness of her heart, and the hearts of thousands of other doctors, who truly make this world a better place. So I will keep practicing positive and hopeful meditations. I’m reminded of the story about the great physicist Niels Bohr. A fellow scientist was visiting his house and noticed the universal symbol of good luck, a horseshoe, nailed above the door to his barn. “Surely,” said the guest, “you don’t believe that that horseshoe brings you good luck?” Professor Bohr replied, “No, but I am told that they bring luck even to those who do not believe in them.” Think about that for a while.
7/28/2020 — Sitting in the fog at Ragged Point reading The Hero With A Thousand Faces. Or I should say rereading this amazing book. However, it’s been many years since I read it start to finish. Usually I just sip at it, like from a rare bottle Glenmorangie. A very little bit goes quite a long way. And like an eighteen year old scotch, Campbell’s writing ages well. It becomes more pure and nuances never noticed before jump out at you and inspire new thoughts. The world appears slightly different after the fresh immersion and the glow of the difference is in your favor. I haven’t had a whisky in close to a year now (Since Massachusetts with Hauge.) and it’s been longer than that since I cracked open The Hero.
Campbell lectured here just down the road at Esselen. You get turned away these days if you don’t have a reservation. And today the road is closed completely. I wonder if they need a caretaker. If Hunter could do it so can I. I’ll look into it when I have internet service. Here at The Point I’m off the grid. Which was part of the purpose for this jaunt. Campbell writes about the comfort and safety of the womb and enshrouded in fog I can certainly relate. Although it’s very chilly here on the cliff for this time of year. Maybe that’s why I’m pondering a warm dram. But I hold off. Ive gone this far, for now.
He writes about life and death, the promise of bliss;
“Full circle, from the tomb of the womb to the womb of the tomb, we come: an ambiguous, enigmatical incursion into a world of solid matter that is too soon to melt from us, like the substance of a dream.”
This afternoon I took some small hikes around Pfeiffer State Park getting out of the fog and into the heat for a while. I went part way up Mount Manuel and then walked around the redwoods and up to Pfeiffer Falls. A mere trickle at this time of summer. I find an overgrown side trail that looks not only inviting but empty of traffic. Although I found that Pfeiffer, like Yosemite, has many quiet lonely trails once you get about a half mile from the parking lot. So I trek along the little used trail and soon I’m in a small patch of yellow star thistles. Their fragrance is fresh and sweet and I’m lulled by the aroma. (The poppy family maybe? Ha.) I remember reading years ago (20?) that these are an invasive species. How many generations does it take for a flower not to be invasive anymore if they can never be iradicated? When do they become native? I ponder these questions as I linger in my private garden oasis and listen to the silence, a rarity for me these days. A breeze in the grass is the only sound, that and my breath. I soak up the quiet like some sort of junkie. A lonesome overgrown path can touch something in me that no church ever comes close to. Out here a few miles from another human I’m more connected to whatever it is that’s bigger than us than I could ever be as a member of any congregation. I feel less fragile. Before turning back to the main trail I look up the slope and remember that it’s never inappropriate to say a grace and give thanks. I bask in my astounding luck, while it briefly holds. There is a Hasidic poem or prayer that Campbell quotes in The Hero.
“Doth it go well—-’tis thanks to Thee.
Doth it go ill— ah, ‘tis also thanks to Thee.”
That’s about right for a day like this.
On the way back to my jeep I stop and rest in the redwood grove among trees that are easily older than me. And I can’t help but thinking that they will be here long after I’m a faded memory. I will be dust for longer than I was alive and these solid and magnificent trees will still be growing and adding life to the slopes of Big Sur. Humbling, like watching NEOWISE.
I am reminded of a trip so long ago, in human years, when Eksuzian and I ended up here at Pfeiffer late one night after many stops admiring views and drinking beer. There were no campsites available so we pulled his Honda Accord between two massive redwoods and dozed for a few hours wrapped in our jackets listening to Steal Your Face. Those were the days my friend! In the morning were were off to San Francisco and were on the road before the ranger was out collecting fees. We left a few bucks under a rock at the kiosk window, if I remember correctly.
I drive by an accident. There are four or five sheriff’s vehicles and a search and rescue truck and everybody is looking over the cliff. Expressions of anguish are on their faces. Everything can change so fast. Isabel, my grandmother, used to snap her fingers and say, “Like this!” Three vultures are perched on a rock, also gazing down. An omen perhaps, not a good sign.
The damp air drives me into my warm room with the fake fireplace. I order a mediocre risotto from room service. I should’ve known better.
I put on my down coat and go back outside to watch the sunset from the end of the trail that leads to a viewing spot on the cliff. The sun sinks yellow into a cloud. Then reemerges underneath more orange and reflecting on the water before it slips into the fog bank. The night goes dark. Later the moon, Shakespeare’s mistress of melancholy, shines in the window above my bed that faces the hills. I read The Hero until I can’t keep my eyes open.
I have a leisurely drive home the next afternoon. I stop and look at the Piedras Blanca lighthouse which is lit up on this foggy morning. Then I stroll the short boardwalk and watch the elephant seals bellow and snort, roll over on each other and nap in the sand. Some are almost twenty feet long and must weigh 2000 pounds. The bigger ones have scars either from fights or shark bites.
I take the long way home driving out to Sisquoc and stopping randomly to watch hawks, inspect grapes and just to smell the summer air that is filtered through the live oaks and vineyards. I’m not sure if it is my imagination (sometimes feral, sometimes turgid) but I seem to be noticing that the air is clearer and fresher lately. Both up here in the valley and down on the coast. It’s entirely possible that having fewer planes in the sky and cars on the road is allowing the earth to cleanse its atmosphere. I suspect air quality scientists are measuring the effects that Covid-19 is having on the environment.
A Grateful Dead flashback. 32 years ago this weekend, July 29 - 31, 1988, me, Reilly, Eksuzian and Weiss made the journey to Laguna Seca Raceway for three concerts. It was an epic trip. There was a semi-complicated web of a friend of a friend of a friend that resulted in comp tickets for all three shows. Rosemary Reilly was the conduit and we sent her roses. Appropriate on two levels; our love for her and, well, American Beauties are a symbol used often by The Band. We loaded up Eksuzian’s car (the same white Honda) with food and booze and got to Monterey a day early to acclimate. Weiss flew in to the little airport and we picked him up before checking into our hotel.
David Lindley and Los Lobos opened the shows. Particularly enchanting was watching Jerry swaying on the side of the stage as Los Lobos ripped through their amazing set. Towards the end he joined them for a few songs. The crowd went wild. Parts of the weekend are a bit of a blur. There was a some very fine opium available and we might have bought some. Or perhaps I dreamed that.
On the second day Bill Graham rode up on a ATV to me and Reilly while we were walking way away from the stage as wispy tendrils of fog drifted across the hills. He asked us how the weekend was going. We had to admit, “It was pretty fucking good!” The great impresario behind this event, and many other adventures, peeled away laughing.
We kept noticing that we had all this extra cash that was supposed to go for tickets. Even after sending the roses our wallets were fat. We upgraded our room, bought more beer and ice and filled the sinks, we bought stickers, (opium?) tie-dyes, posters, burgers, presents, hats, postcards…
The Band seemed to have a good time too. They sounded great, in sync and louder than normal. The set lists were typical for the late 80s but the performances were inspired. Today I listened to some of the old bootlegs and at least one of my memories of that weekend is accurate. That of Phil’s bass shaking the ground. He was as heavy as I ever heard him and a treat to watch. And I think Bobby wore the snake tank top. But I could be wrong about that. That might have been Dominguez Hills. (Where I lost Reilly for two days. He eventually turned up safe in Montecito. But that’s another story.)
After the final encore on the third night we, thousands of us, walked single file over the brown hills to the far parking lot. It looked like a scene from a movie about a biblical exodus. Like after all Sunday shows we were exhausted, dusty, thirsty, exhilarated, had ringing ears and a shitload of new stories. Foolishly we drove back to Santa Barbara that night. Everyone had to work the next day. Eksuzian got us safely home. Not for the first time I might add.
Like every August the beach to the east of Sterns Wharf hosts thousands of raucous Common and Caspian terns. I can only surmise that the harbor teems with baitfish. Sardines I would guess. I stood for an hour today and watched them alternately stand on shore, then in huge flocks fly out over the water and dive for food. Every now and then hundreds would rise in the air and circle the beach before settling back in the sand.
And just now as I’m sitting here trying to be intelligent and entertaining I hear an owl outside my bedroom window. It sounds very close. I wait until I hear it again and am sure it’s as close as I thought. I quietly go out in the front yard and wait some more. Owl calls are tricky and most times it’s almost impossible to discern what direction the hoots are coming from. I stand in the dark for a while. It’s a wonderful still night with hints of salty ocean smells in the air. Jupiter is bright in the eastern sky. I wait. The next hoot comes from almost directly above me. I squint and can just make out the silhouette of a Great Horned on the wire above my jeep. I shine my flashlight on this beautiful bird knowing from experience that it usually won’t scare them off. Plus I realize the owl has no doubt been watching me since I snuck out the door ten minutes earlier. He looks right at me and then turns his head and hoots again toward some trees up the street. I turn off the light and watch the owl’s dark outline against the starry sky. Then without making a sound he flies up the street and disappears over a house. Back inside, an hour or so later, I hear a final distant hoot that conveys, for me somehow, a note of melancholy loneliness.
Owls are symbols of stoic wisdom. The nighttime counterpart to the eagle. I have a cast-iron owl in my kitchen. It was Fran’s but she gave it to me years (30?) ago. A symbol is a powerful thing. Robert Hunter said "I'd really prefer not to get into tearing apart the symbology of my songs. And I'll tell you why: symbols are evocative, and if there were a more definite way to say things, you'd say them that way. A symbol, by its very nature, can pull in many, many shades of meaning, depending on the emotional tone with which you engage the piece.”
And Joseph Campbell writes, “..and shows why long sermons are unnecessary among idol-worshipers. The devotee is permitted to soak in the meaning of the divine symbol in deep silence and in his own good time.”
And this probably explains the massive popularity of emojis.
The last ten misty and foggy mornings are unusual for August. Last night I pulled on an extra blanket. It’s been cooler than normal, but refreshing and invigorating. Before I go for a walk in the wet breeze I stay under the covers for a few extra minutes reading Petrarch. He writes:
“and these new tears, shed for these old desires,
prove that I’m still the thing I used to be,
a thousand things have changed, but I have not.”
