Tuesday, October 26, 2021

Wawona -- September 2021

  Taft Point. 

  It’s been twenty years since I’ve been here. It was my fortieth birthday the last time I took the mile walk to the edge of the wall that looks down 3500 feet to the Valley floor. It’s an easy enough saunter but coming up from sea level this morning, and now sitting on a rock at 7500 feet, my breath is short. Not enough, I tell myself, for concern. 

  The point is crowded, I chat with a few people keeping my knowledge of the surrounding vistas to myself. I am tempted to correct their wild inaccuracies about which peaks and waterfalls are which, but I am not feeling very sociable. Yosemite Falls is completely dry. Lost Arrow Spire casts a slight shadow.  Mount Hoffman is commanding as the highest point visible in the distance. Pak Wu and I climbed it on a memorable summer day years ago.

  I take a quick look straight down, experiencing a vertiginous flash, before moving south to another point with views of El Capitan. A girl in bright yellow shorts, a black halter, mirrored glasses and an alluring and knowing smile passes by and nods hello, which adds to my already quickened heart rate. She finds a spot further down the rock, perhaps, like me, seeking a quieter place to enjoy some solitude. 

  Vultures coast on the thermals. I watch one hover for ten minutes without a single wing flap. They slowly drift away toward the meadows beyond the Cathedral Rocks. The sky is hazy, as expected, fires have been burning in the Park all summer. The air quality is slightly better than it was last year at this time when I was up in Tuolumne Meadow and out at Dog Lake. 

 I am sitting in the sparse shade of a skinny pine. A gentle high country wind is the only sound and I devour the silence. For lunch I eat some nuts and chocolate. I have plenty of cold water. I take a few pictures and notice that I am off the grid. No cell service out here at the point. True freedom.  

  A raven startles me by appearing from below the cliff with a whoosh and lands ten feet from where I sit. She (as I imagine for some reason. Her grace? Wisdom? Weariness?) gives me a long look and walks into the shade of another struggling pine. We look at each other but not directly. Staring is rude. She pretends to be otherwise occupied and I slowly reach for my iPhone. 

  Now I have been trying to get a good picture of a raven for thirty years. I have fifty or sixty blurry photos of black smudges set against a blue sky or a snowy slope.  It has become a joke, my inability to capture one of these wild and clever birds so that it is recognizable. I was lucky to get one a few winters ago when two landed on the hood of my jeep. I suspected they were taunting me for reasons of their own. 

  “I’m going to take your picture, if that’s ok?” I ask, just above a whisper. She gives me a look turning her head back and forth so each eye appraises me. I notice a good amount of grey in her feathers. This is an old bird and I can feel her age. I respectfully take a few quick images and then put my phone back in my canvas pack. 

  “Thank you!” I humbly offer. She gives me another long look, with curiosity it seems to me, as I write these notes. We sit together, three yards apart, for about twenty minutes exchanging our occasional sidelong glances. The eye that focuses on me is unmistakably intelligent. And I can’t help but also think there is a hint of humor in her stare. But, of course, that is only my feeble interpretation. There is no way I could ever know this. Foolish, I understand, to give animals human emotions.  

  I tell her a silly story about a piece of my life that still confounds me and she appears indifferent to the odd events that occasionally pluck my incomprehensible heartstrings. Finally I say, “Well, I better get going.” I get one more look, that piercing eye filling me with joy and wonder. Then she walks out into the sun and I see some of her feathers are actually white. She flaps hard and after our quiet interlude the noise from her wingbeats seems louder than I expected. She drops down toward the Valley and out of my view.  

  It is now late afternoon and the trail that leads out of the woods to the fissures is busy. There are more people out here on this September day than I thought there would be. I give the girl in the yellow shorts a wave and start back to the jeep. A steady flow of hikers are streaming to the point. It is, after all, a warm late summer day and I don’t blame any of them for wanting to be at such a place of beautiful views. It seems that we all had the same idea. 

  There are so many people at the trailhead that I decide not to go over to Glacier Point. I suspect it will be a mob scene and I’m in no mood to be around so many people. So I make my way back to the Wawona Hotel. 

  I check in and lug my duffle and cooler up to my room on the second floor of the Washburn Cottage. I open the three large windows and let the smells of pine, manzanita and mountain misery float into my small, but clean and comfortable, room. My home for the next two nights. The view is of the back grounds of the hotel where a fire road leads into the pines. Very pleasant. And quiet.  

 A notice handed to me with my property map informs that there are active bears in the area and to report them to the desk if I see one. Would I? Probably not. They are harassed enough without me adding to their stress. I hope though that I do see bears as I haven’t in the last several years. 

  I’m ready for another walk so I head over to the Pine Tree Market to check out the swag. Our buddy who has been minding the store for years is still there, smiling and friendly. Nothing catches my interest and I saunter back to my room. 

  I take a book, Helgoland, and my journal out to an Adirondack chair on the front lawn. I spend a leisurely hour  reading about quantum physics.  Carlo Rovelli writes, “What does Nature care whether there is anyone to observe or not?”

  What indeed?, I heartily agree. 

  I take a cool shower and feeling fresh and energized I go down to the dining room to find that they are only serving a buffet. The line is long and I feel like I stumbled into one of the Elder Hostel gatherings at the old Cattlemen’s Saloon. Again, feeling claustrophobic, I cut and flee. My escape route takes me to the Tenaya Lodge at Fish Camp where I’m given a nice corner table. Over the years I’ve had fine service here and tonight is no exception. I feel slightly dehydrated so I stick with water.  My Harris Ranch brisket burger is satisfying. Cambria, my waitress, is delightful.   Back in my room, windows open to the night air, sounds of crickets, breeze in the pines, I fall asleep reading the poet Saigyo.  


  Before sunrise I am at the new parking lot and visitor museum at the south entrance of the Park. There are no shuttles running to Mariposa Grove. There is the Washburn Trail that leads two miles to the old lot and mine is the only vehicle here this early. I lock the jeep and shoulder my pack. My good ole Jeep! Dusty, a bit scratched, 165,000 miles and a faded and chipped Steal Your Face sticker that I put on the rear driver’s side nineteen years ago this month. Who knew? 

  I start up the trail just as the sun appears above the trees. This part of my hike is new to me. I’ve never been on this trail. The last time I hiked from the old parking spot across the street was on a snowy winter afternoon with Pak. They say timing is everything. Pak and I pulled into the Park within minutes of each other on that day. Me five hours from Santa Barbara, Pak four hours from Antelope. We hadn’t seen each other in a while and had a cabin in Wawona for a few nights. We were going snowboarding at Badger Pass in the morning.  

  We had a while before check-in so decided to walk the road to get acclimated to being in the cold mountain air. In our excitement we just kept walking and talking, getting caught up with each other’s lives. We walked and walked on the closed unplowed road as it snowed and snowed. It was a heavy warm snow. Before we knew it we were at the lower grove and I looked at Pak, he had two inches of snow on top of his hat. And so did I! We enjoyed the silence of the sequoias for a moment before turning back and going to our small rustic cabin. I started a fire and Pak cooked us one of his amazing dinners. Fresh Maine lobster, believe it or not.

  I have the trail to myself this cool morning and I keep a quick, for me, pace. There are fresh deer tracks on the path and then I notice other tracks.  At first I wonder if they might be mountain lion. But I estimate that they are too small, more likely bobcat. I’m momentarily thrilled to think a lion was stalking a deer right here, and very recently. Mine are the only other prints heading in the same direction.  But it was, no doubt, a smaller cat just nosing around. That curiosity thing.  

 I take a turn and all of a sudden I’m at the lower grove. There are a few people walking about. Handicap plaques are allowed this far down the road and I think about Mide and Brez. Brez did make it here and our plan was to convince Mide to visit and we even made tentative plans until they both, my dear brother and my brave friend, became to ill to travel. Another clear case of the indifference of the universe to our meager and fragile intentions. I think about the two of them very often, days like this particularly. 

  I survey the damage done by the storm in the winter of 2019. The visitor center’s roof was crushed by a falling tree as was the small bridge and walkway near the Fallen Giant. Trees are down in every direction. I know it’s just another piece of the forrest’s evolution but it shifts my sense of stability, like an earthquake or an volcanic eruption. 

  I stop and look at the large map of the grove. A girl joins me. She looks like an add in Outside Magazine, blazing smile and all. Her gear is flashy new; a bright fleece, high tech backpack, walking stick, sexy cargo shorts and boots that would be appropriate for base camp on Everest. She studies the map with intensity. 

  I am aware of my own outfit. Old faded black shorts, a canvas rucksack with metal clips, a tattered and holy (tattered) tee shirt with the sleeves cut off, my ancient grey chamois shirt and a tie-dye bandana. My boots are expensive, but broken in, worn and filthy.  I look like a old Long Trail end-to-ender from the 70s. If nothing else, I am authentic. She smiles again and we hike off in different directions. 

  I take a loop trail that tops out at another new handicap lot just above the Grizzly Giant. I hear voices toward that and the Tunnel Tree so I continue on to the Upper Grove. I rest on a log and drink some water out of my old plastic jug. I bet the gear girl carried a Yeti. Good for her! 

  It’s pretty quiet at the fallen log except for the chattering squirrels, buzzing bees, singing birds and swarming insects. A very young deer hops through the trees. It’s so little but has lost it’s spots. It’s probably the first time it has been on it’s own. It’s not wary at all and frolics around the undergrowth. I stay still until it dances over a small hill and disappears into the woods. 

 At the Upper Grove I’ve been alone now for almost an hour. Ferdyn’s Theorem: Every half mile that you walk deeper into the woods decreases the number of people you will see by 50%.  I haven’t done any serious surveys but it seems about right. 

  I walk the path a few times from one end of the grove to the other. Humbled. At the replica of Galen Clark’s cabin there is a fenced area with a few small sequoias. A plaque asks, What do you think these trees will look like in the year 4000? I am not optimistic and fear the situation, not only here but for the entire planet, is more dire than we imagine. It’s painful to think that the scales have tipped too far toward devastation. I wonder what hope there is for my young friends, Ellie, Juliette, Roux, Marcus, Mae, Sebastian, Vince, and Annabella. 

 Sequoia groves are very specific. They only thrive on west facing slopes at an elevation between five and seven thousand feet, approximately. As the Sierras become warmer this will change. Will the trees migrate up hill over time to higher and cooler elevations? It’s hard to say. Certainly there won’t be any answers in my lifetime. These grim thoughts are not the ones that I was hoping for this morning. 

  As I sit near the cabin my heart shudders as I remember that these trees were cut down for grape-stakes, shingles and toothpicks. Imagine that! 

  I wonder what kind of dreams Galen Clark had when sleeping up here next to the earth’s biggest creatures? Maybe mine will be better tonight. Last night’s were about an acid trip. I slept poorly. Where my mind wanders is beyond my ability to understand. 

  In the silence of the grove I read the Japanese poet, wanderer, lapsed monk, Saigyo and write these notes. My attention drifts and I keep finding myself just staring at the redwoods. I take a few pictures but the results are unimpressive. You just have to be here. A pair of ravens slice through sky singing that never-ending story song of theirs. Black flashes through the blue sky, green canopy and rust trunks.  They are gone in a blink. 

 I regain, somewhat, my balance. The quiet helps. I’m treated to an hour of solitude. Then I hear voices and a couple come down the trail from the direction of Wawona Point. The guy is talking on his phone and my mood instantly sours. They see me but keep a safe distance. He gets off the phone and they sit and have a snack while talking in hushed tones. 

  One more poem and I pack up my water, cashews, salmon jerky and books.  Saigyo wrote over eight hundred years ago,  


Brief life

mere passing dew

fades, is gone

leaving this body

to lie lasting the wild field


 I walk to the trail passing by the couple. “Enjoy!” I say. They smile sincerely. Good people I’m sure. Like me, savoring this pristine spot away from society’s distractions and poisons. My desire to shove his cell phone up his ass fades.

  I take a water break at a dry drainage where one early Spring morning years ago I counted dozens of snow plants. 

 A bright green, sap laden, pinecone hits the ground at my feet with a solid thump. It would have hurt hard if it was a few inches closer and split my head open. I pick it up, it’s hefty and sticky, and toss it into the undergrowth. 

  I’m alone again on the trail until I come across a group at the Tunnel Tree. I see a long line of walkers coming up the trail from the bus parking lot. I contemplate fleeing into the woods and bushwhacking my way back to the Jeep. I’m sure it’s what Doug Peacock would do. He probably would have never taken the trail to begin with. I understand his aversion to crowds and people in general. I am getting worse myself as the years creep along. 

 I loop back up and around to the service road which is empty of walkers. A ranger drives by, she slows and smiles, we wave at each other and I almost flag her over, but think maybe I can catch her at the bus lot. Unfortunately she is not there when I make it down. 

  I wanted to ask my usual question that so far no one has been able to answer. When Ralph Waldo Emerson visited in 1871 he walked the grove with John Muir and Galen Clark. He named a tree in honor of the Native New England leader Samoset.  No ranger I have talked to has known which tree this was. I suspect that knowledge passed with Clark and Muir. But I will keep up my research. 

  Another note from that famous visit was Muir wanted Emerson to camp a night in Mariposa Grove but Emerson’s handlers forbade it. They worried that the old philosopher would catch cold and be unable to complete his lecture tour. Both men later wrote about their regret of a missed opportunity to further their conversations. Emerson believed Muir to be a modern day Thoreau. A high compliment for both men. Emerson was always generous with praise. 

  I hurry past the lower lot, which is crowded, and get back to the Washburn trail. Of course, the trail is busy with excited groups plodding up to the grand trees. I pass forty or fifty people on the two mile descent. I try to hold Emerson’s wit in my mind. He often struggled with balancing society and solitude. He even wrote to Muir saying too much solitude wasn’t perfect either. A good mistress, he said, but a terrible wife. I have always shared Emerson’s dilemma. Although today I’d prefer to have more quiet and less trail chatter. 

  Five hours ago my jeep was the only vehicle in the lot. A beat up, road weary, dusty, nineteen year old friend. It looked at home parked near the cedars and sugar pines. Now it is surrounded by a hundred SUVs.  I feel like a time traveler and perhaps I am. I wonder how many others today meditated on Clark, Muir and Emerson. And never mind Saigyo. I feel much closer to all of them than I am to the tourists with their titanium walking sticks, water bladders with neoprene mouthpieces, flashy packs that would feel more at home on Annapurna, and cell phones that are never out of their hands. It’s obscene, but I’m the anachronism. 

  There is an information table at the visitor center with a line of eight or ten people. I save my question about Samoset for another time and get away from the noise and bustle of the parking lot. Acclimatization after absorbing Nature’s gifts is always difficult for me. I’m tempted to reach for my flask, so far untouched this week, but drink more water instead. The rye can wait. 

  At the Fish Camp General Store I get a sandwich, more jerky and some ice. I notice a painting on the far wall as the guy at the deli counter prepares my order. It’s a cartoonish rendition of General Custer meeting a tribe of Native Americans. They are depicted as goofy and backwards as their chief holds out a peace pipe to Custer. Custer, with the Seventh Calvary behind him, is flipping off the chief. A note says the painting was done in 1970. Anyone with even a slight knowledge of American history knows what happened that day in 1876. The buffoon Custer attacked the largest concentration of warriors ever assembled on the continent with an unprepared band of scared soldiers. One could argue that he got what he deserved. The painting irritates me and it’s interesting to think that what was funny, to some, in 1970 is considered racist today. Progress of a kind I guess. 

  I go back to my room and have a cool shower then take my lunch, Saigyo, and my journal out to the front lawn and sit under one of the great pines. Yet another raven flaps to a branch just above me and spends fifteen minutes talking away. Revenge perhaps for the story I told his sister up at Taft Point yesterday? I wonder if ravens are becoming less wary or more abundant. Or maybe just, finally, they’ve become more fond of me and accept that I am a kindred opportunist and traveler. Who knows? I listen with amusement until off he strongly flies cutting through the afternoon light like a reverse comet. Dark against bright. 

 I read more Saigyo envying the life of the wanderer poet. One of my dreams deferred.  I think that if poets like him could spend a lifetime contemplating beauty, decay, desire, impermanence, loneliness, then I should be able to dedicate a few days month to the same pursuit. I add to my list a word that Saigyo would be unfamiliar with, entropy. 

 Before I’m lulled into an afternoon nap on the lawn, I bring my cooler back upstairs and then go for a short walk. I stop at the Wawona Market and buy some presents. The rest of the afternoon is spent reading and writing. Just before dark I take the rest of my sandwich back out to the lawn and wait for the first stars to fade into view. I am exhausted. I stop into the parlor just to make sure Thomas Bopp is not playing the piano. I’m told he’s off for the rest of the season. A thirty plus year tradition of mine is broken. The room seems sterile without his songs and guests are quietly reading, playing backgammon and staring at their laptops. There’s not a martini in sight. 

  I get in bed early, windows open to the breeze in the pines. I have brought my bluetooth speaker but have no desire to listen to music. The sounds of the woods are more than enough to calm any anxiety that might well up. Much later singing coyotes wake me! Before falling back asleep I think, it’s ok to be alone. 


  Thursday — I woke to a hawk calling from the top of a tree, or perhaps just flying by, it stayed out of sight. Sunrise is a few minutes away. The morning is hazier than yesterday. A shift in the winds. 

 I walk up to the swinging bridge as the air warms. It will be another hot day although at this early hour it is a perfect temperature for walking.  As I get closer to the river I hear people laughing and yelling. Doesn’t anyone, I wonder, crave the quiet of Nature? I know I’m at the extreme in my need for silence but for Zeus’s sake people should try to shut the fuck up every now and then. 

  I find a rock a half mile from the bridge and sit tight while waiting out the noise. I’m right in suspecting they will soon be bored after taking fifty pictures of each other showing off by getting the swinging bridge to actually swing. Loudly, like a circus procession leaving the fairgrounds, they stomp back toward the road. Mercifully, I’m alone with nothing but the flowing Merced River. Saigyo writes:


My thoughts keep

growing lusher

like summertime weeds,

though the sadness of autumn surfeit

I know lies ahead


And truly there is much to think about, too much no doubt. All the stuff that goes through my mind on a two hour walk. It’s really rather overwhelming. I contemplate while sitting on these old stones the fate of my weary bones before I trudge on down the other side of the river. This is a fine spot and I can’t be sure when I will be back. There are quite a lot of other places to visit. 

  I linger for a time near where a long dead cedar tree that I studied for years finally fell. I think back to the trip where I told Dad that it was against the law to pick the wildflowers in Yosemite. He was thrilled at all the different flowers he was unfamiliar with. That was a Summer after a very wet Spring and the meadows were glorious with color. An artist’s dream. A few times he just couldn’t resist and several nights we had a simple small bouquet on the picnic table at dinner. 

  Today it is dry and the beauty is more subtle. At my slow pace I am very aware of tiny red blossoms path-side, mountain misery, the river’s voice, a woodpecker that, unseen, breaks the silence. It is always possible on walks like this to come in contact with otherness and experience small satoris that temporarily help make my cafard tolerable. 

  It is bittersweet to leave the mountains. Wawona Dome, silvery-grey, looms behind me as I plod back toward my Jeep at the hotel where I’ve already checked out. I know the world awaits with her everyday traffic and noise and confusions. The bustle of teeming life in the crowded city is more unappetizing to me these days than it has ever been. Perhaps, like the mighty sequoias, it is time for me to shift my range to somewhere more conductive to healthy survival. Let the metaphorical bark beetles of Santa Barbara do their damage while I seek emotional refuge in a place where my claustrophobia can be combated with open summits, fresh wind, deep forests and wild rivers. Less people being a pivotal requirement as well. As I turn the Jeep toward home my future transition to a friendly and charming recluse inches along, glacier-like, into a foggy and uncertain future. 

Monday, September 27, 2021

TANGLEWOOD



  July, 2021 — I am thrilled to be back at Tanglewood. It’s been a long while, eight years, since the last time I was here. It is the scene of many wonderful memories and epic concerts. The grounds are sacred (bad word) to me. It’s a magical place in my life. Tonight Fran, Aunt Pat and I are here to see Yo Yo Ma, Leonidas Kavakos and Emanuel Ax. It is an all Beethoven program.  The Serge Koussevitzky Music Shed is only about half full because we are still playing it safe due to Covid-19. The great lawn, however, is packed. The closest thing to a sold out crowd allowable.  After several days of thunderstorms, tonight it has cleared and the air is cool and breezy. It is the first concert for me since pre-pandemic, 19 months ago. The sense of excitement as we enjoy a glass of wine before going to our seats tells me I’m not the only one who has missed live music. People are giddy with anticipation. The crowd is typically eclectic, as is usual for Tanglewood. Families with coolers and picnic baskets, couples with a bottle of champagne snuggled together wrapped in a blanket, music students in their BSO sweatshirts, elegant fans of these musicians dressed in New England summer attire complete with straw hats and bowties. 

 The house lights flash as we get to our seats near the back of the Shed. Five minutes to curtain. 

 The program informs me that Leonidas plays a Willemotte Stradivarius violin of 1734. It must be worth millions.

 Rapturous applause greets the three musicians as they walk on stage. Yo Yo, cello in one hand, raises his other to a fist. He is loved here and has played and taught at Tanglewood since the seventies. They are joined on stage by an assistant to Ax. She is there to turn the pages of his sheet music. When you are one of the greatest living interpreters of Beethoven you are allowed such indulgences.  The crowd hushes and they start with Piano Trio No. 3.  It is an astounding performance. Passionate, intense, lovely. They smile at each other often, especially after intense passages, acknowledging that they felt the spark of perfection. Joy flows from the stage and two hours fly by. For an encore we are treated to the first movement of Beethoven’s Fifth as arranged for a trio by the great composer himself. And, as I later read, so was the second part of the program, his Symphony No. 2. (They told Beethoven he would never amount to anything. But did he listen?)

  We disperse into the night and an hour later I’m standing on the shore of Pontoosuc Lake, music still filling my ears and heart, and wondering who left the porch light on at TW’s house.  

 I wake up in my comfortable old room at 16 Ridge Avenue with the window wide open to the morning breeze. It will rain soon and I was looking forward to another good thunderstorm. I am still fascinated by the sound that came off the stage last night. I knew how remarkable the musicians were together from a Brahms CD I have called The Piano Trios. What I didn’t expect was the sound of the violin. Kavakos played with such intensity. I looked up the Willemotte Stradivarius of 1743. The few articles I found said that Kavakos “acquired” the instrument a few years ago with the help of friends. No purchase price or value were given and there were hints of philanthropy. What a joy it would be to anonymously gift such an amazing instrument, putting it into the hands of Kavakos who would do justice to its beauty and appreciate its history. His playing it in public makes it an even a bigger treasure to the music world and to culture in general. 


  Tanglewood was given its name by a tenet who lived in a red country cottage on the grounds owned at the time by the Tappen family. He was a writer and never was particularly fond of the Berkshires. He spent less than two years here. He was a bit of a loner and craved his solitude. He made an exception for his neighbor who lived a few miles to the north. They enjoyed smoking cigars and drinking brandy while they discussed literary matters. He was, of course, Nathaniel Hawthorn and his friend was Herman Melville. It was here that Hawthorn gave his critique about Moby Dick that changed the scope of the novel and garnered him Melville’s deep admiration. Herman dedicated the book to him.  There is something in the Berkshires that kindles a desire to comprehend the grand themes of life and turn them into literature and art and music. 


 The last time I was here was 2013 for the Jerry Garcia tribute. Keith Lockhart conducted the Boston Pops wearing a beautiful loud tie-dye and Warren Haynes was dressed elegantly in a dark jacket. He played one of Jerry’s guitars, The Wolf.  Dark Star opened the evening and we Deadheads had a hoot of time dancing and singing along. The Ship of Fools for an encore was inspired and poignant. It was as close to the real thing as we were ever going to get, or so we thought. But that is another story.    

 I am usually in the Berkshires during Autumn. So the concert season is over for another year. That, however, does not stop me from paying a visit to the grounds. The main gate is usually open so let myself in and wander around the property.  The shed is boarded up for the year, the gift shop closed, a maintenance person or two is usually raking leaves and hauling away the bags in a golf cart. They ignore me as I walk to the overlook and take in the view of Stockbridge Bowl. It appears as an indigo jewel surrounded by the Fall colors, flame-like, of red, yellow and orange. A few more cold nights and a windy day is all that stands between the majesty of the vista and the barrenness of the fast approaching winter. I breathe in the crisp air. 


Summer 1979 — It is a balmy night and a beautiful friend and I have our blanket spread out on the lawn about twenty yards from the sold-out Shed. We are dead center with a good view of the stage and where the sound is said to be the best. We are, I think, in love and are enjoying our lives without a whit of worry about the future. 

  As the sun sets to our backs Renaissance, the band we are here to see, walks on to the stage. They are an art rock, or progressive rock, band from England. Their songs are orchestral and complicated. Two of the songs they did that night were over twenty-five minutes long. Jon Camp’s bass was as powerful and melodic as anything Chris Squire ever played. It was a lead instrument. Annie Haslem’s voice is unique in rock. She studied opera and her range is truly astounding. On the blanket we lie our backs and look at the stars letting the music flow over and around us. 

  They closed the show with an epic rendition of their masterpiece, Ashes Are Burning. The song moves through many changes with a wonderful jam before Annie, in her long gown, beautiful smile, and alluring stage presence, starts the last verse. She is very slow and serious, her voice luring us in and giving a sense of peace until she holds the last note of the word “way”. And holds it. And holds it. White lights fill the stage and like a million fireflies flashed out to the lawn and trees behind us.  It felt like an enchantment. To this day, all these years later, her voice makes me shiver with emotion. 


  Neil Young made Tanglewood a routine stop in the early 80s. I saw him several times from both out on the lawn and in the shed. For Neil’s concerts the lawn was a pretty wild scene. He draws an enthusiastic crowd. This was after he signed with Geffen records and released some uneven albums. Not that we ever thought so. In those days Neil usually opened his shows with an acoustic set. I remember a blistering Powderfinger played passionately on a twelve string.  And a haunting After The Gold Rush, Neil hunched over the organ, swaying like Count Orlock in Nosferatu.  

 Then he’d bring out what ever band he was touring with. 

    The Shocking Pinks were memorable, an evening of rockabilly in the Berkshires. There was a lot of dancing that night out there on the grass under the stars. 

   He toured supporting the Trans album too. People thought it was a bit too techno. The reason that you follow an artist that inspires you is to be surprised by trajectories in style. Neil never disappoint us. He did, although, disappoint David Geffen who sued Neil for not making more commercial records and not sounding like himself.  I believe that Geffen later apologized and dropped the un-winnable suit. Neil’s contract gave him complete control of his art. As it should always be. 

  I remember that night while he performed the songs from Trans that the lawn was especially raucous. I also remember that Hauge somehow ended up with a pile of tee shirts. For the rest of the summer I would run into people wearing them and they would say, “Yeah! Hauge gave it to me!”  I’m sure there’s more to this story. 

  The last Neil concert I saw from the lawn was the summer right before Harvest Moon came out. Hearing those songs before I knew them gave me a jolt. They are gems and I bought the CD a few months later, the day it came out.  

     

  In the summer of 1978 I had just turned seventeen. The world was coming at me so very fast. It would take me years to digest everything that happened before I started my senior year of high school. Life was rather substantial, not to mention great fun. 

  The first big concert I ever saw was that August, at Tanglewood. Peter, Paul and Mary. The ever resourceful McGee gave me sixth row center tickets. In what has become a tradition I walked around the grounds until the lights flashed signaling five minutes to showtime. The lawn was packed and it was my first experience of Tanglewood’s jovial and laidback atmosphere. Blankets were spread out, picnic baskets were overflowing, candles were burning, wine bottles were opened and people were laughing and telling stories. 

  There was a sense of history that night. The crowd, slightly older than me, knew the story well. The sixties hadn’t really been that long ago and the feeling that music could still change the world and the memory of the big protest concerts was still fresh. I sat next to actual hippies, a hint of marijuana smoke floated on the humid summer night air. I was reminded that the group sang at the Washington Mall the day of Martin Luther King’s famous Peace March and his I Have A Dream Speech, in 1963. This was indeed serious stuff.  

  The trio took the stage to tremendous applause, it was a reunion tour, they hadn’t performed together in over eight years. 

  And all of a sudden there she was, almost close enough for her to see my eyes, the beautiful Mary Travers. Her iconic long blonde hair and straight bangs even more resplendent in person than any photo could ever capture. Her smile sent a shiver of ecstasy through the Shed. And when she started to sing we collectively listened with reverence. The acoustics from the Tanglewood stage are famously pristine, and I had a lump in my chest as her voice sliced right into my heart. I was mesmerized. I could barely catch my breath. 

  Her voice; unique and instantly recognizable, as strong and distinctive as Joan’s and Judy’s.  

  The songs, of course, I knew by heart. I had been singing them for years around the fire at Camp Goodell Hollow. Some of them were the first Dylan songs that I ever heard; Don’t Think Twice, It’s Alright, I Shall Be Released, and Blowin’ in the Wind. Which started my young admiration for his poetic phrases. 

  Puff The Magic Dragon at first listen appears to be a simple children’s song. Good old Puff! To me, however, it was slightly darker. Dragons live forever, well sure, every kid knows that. What got me was “But not so little boys.” I interpreted that as little boys, like me, could die! Why else would Puff be so sad? And why on earth would Jackie Paper come no more? It was preposterous to me that he, on one day, would just forget about his best friend. Growing up couldn’t be so bad as to make a great dragon cry, could it? Perhaps, I pondered, my days were really numbered. It was an early, maybe one of my first, lessons in impermanence. 

  That night in the Shed we sang along with Peter, Paul and Mary with great passion. I saw tears in peoples’s eyes and I realized exactly how powerful live music can be. 

  Years later, on an uneventful night as I stood behind the bar at the Tee Off, my friend the gourmand Steve Acronico came in towards the end of my shift and handed me the front page of the New York Times. There was a black and white photo from the sixties of Mary singing. She was wearing a black dress that made her hair and skin stand out with with striking beauty. I stood there reading the obituary and cried. She had a long hard decline struggling with leukemia. The most recent pictures of her I had seen were heart wrenching. Her hair was gone from the effects of chemotherapy and she had an oxygen tank attached to her wheelchair. But her smile was the same, radiant, huge, full of life. She still projected a sense of beauty, and for that matter, strength.  Steve and I raised our whiskies in honor of Mary’s life, one that was dedicated to music and activism and the belief that love made a difference. She was 72 years old. 


  On my last morning in the Berkshires I listen the new Yo Yo Ma Emanuel Ax album as I pack my suitcase. It is wonderful music and the feeling of joy from the other night’s epic performance lingers with me. Great art has the ability to alter our dispositions long after we are removed from its intimacy. Whether it be the tone of Garcia’s guitar or Annie Haslem’s haunting voice or Mary’s commanding stage presence, I still carry in me the emotions I first felt on those summer nights. The feelings they stirred still ripple. They still carry me away.  

Thursday, April 22, 2021

Mount Dana --- From my journal -- 1999

    Mount Dana is the second highest peak in Yosemite. It is just over 13,000 feet and much more accessible than the higher Mount Lyell.  It's a last minute decision. I'm sitting near my tent at Bridalveil campgrounds reading guidebooks and maps by lamplight. Today I had strolled up Sentinel Dome and now I was itching for something more. Dana seemed like an easy enough hike for tomorrow.  I walked out to the edge of a nearby meadow and looked into the Milky Way for a good half hour, I’m always amazed at the majesty of the night sky at this altitude. The uncountable stars and the band of light that looks like a path to infinity mesmerizes me and before I get carried away I force myself back to my tent and a solid night of mountain sleep. Before sunrise I have the tent rolled up, my daypack organized and I'm driving toward Tuolumne Meadows. It's a beautiful morning and it warms up fast. Large fluffy clouds float above the Sierras. They look, so far, harmless enough. The weather report for the high country says that rain is not expected. 

  At this hour I have the road pretty much to myself and make good time. In less than two hours I'm at the parking lot at the trailhead. Mine is the only car. I feel good; my legs seem strong and my lungs breath deep the crisp alpine air. I look up and still see patches of snow on the nearby rocky peaks. Not at all unusual for July at 9000 feet. 

  I eat some leftovers from last night's dinner and a candy bar. I shoulder my pack and walk up the gently sloping trail through a patch of pines. 

   I feel the altitude. I'm slightly short of breath after fifteen minutes of exertion. It's not long before I'm out of the trees and making my way through an open field and soon I'm climbing the steep path that brings me to a wide plateau.  Already the views are spectacular. Nevada, flat as a table, stretches out to the east and in every other direction the peaks of the Park reach to the horizon. The summit looms above me. 

   The path turns to loose rock and footing is tricky. The delicate blue Sky Pilot pokes out of the talus along the trailside. It is a flower that only blooms above 10,000 feet and its tiny bright petals are a sharp contrast to the dusty grey rock. I sit for a while on a stone trying to get my second wind before slogging upwards. I feel I'm making steady, if a slow, progress. 

   After more than a half hour of thinking I'm minutes from the top I finally crest a few boulders and stand on the summit. I'm alone in the windy cool air. I pull on a fleece and soak up the vistas of snow capped peaks that abruptly give way to the dry desert past Mono Lake. This is the highest I've ever hiked, 13,061 feet. Not bad for a kid who lives at sea level. 

  My breathing gets back to normal as I pirouette, not quite sure which direction to look. It's all so magnificent and gorgeous. The sky is full of clouds but it's early enough in the day that they aren't quite thunderheads. They won't turn dark and dangerous until later in the afternoon. 

  The beauty is such that there is a lump in my throat. The grandeur of the the high Sierra moves me to tears. A healing power at work. The vistas of snow and rock, sky and forest, make my heart tremble. I couldn't climb all the mountains within my vision in two lifetimes. The immensity of my surroundings is truly astounding. The world will always be more than we know. 

   I shiver in the cold air and sit for a while against a pile of stones that have been piled into a windbreak. I try to take it all in and am filled with amazement and wonder. Having nowhere to be I rest and ponder the mountains from my elevated position. There is great comfort in solitude. 

   I lose track of time, that nebulous mystery that confounded even Einstien. 

  I hear voices on the trail below me and I'm soon joined by a group of retired women teachers from San Diego. They are cheerful and giddy with their success of making it to the top. We take pictures of each other and they share their grapes and chocolate with me. You meet the nicest people on mountain tops. We talk of other climbs and hikes and our appreciation of the wilds of windswept and barren summits. 

  A lone walker appears at the top of the trail and I do a double take. He is not outfitted for hiking. He wears dress shoes and slacks and a button down shirt under a light windbreaker. He has no pack or water. He grins broadly and is not even out of breath. He greets us with a thick German accent and explains that he is in Silicon Valley for work and had a day off. He wanted to see what our California mountains were like so he drove to Yosemite and randomly chose Dana from the basic map that is handed out at the Park entrance. He was thrilled with the beauty of the Sierras and happy that he was able to squeeze in a short easy hike before he had to drive back to Palo Alto for work in the morning. He said these mountains rivaled the ones in his backyard where he hiked regularly, the Alps. With a happy wave he was gone, trotting down the trail with grace and ease. A true mountaineer at home in the thin air. 

  The next visitor to the summit is a kid in his late twenties also full of enthusiasm at his accomplishment. His excitement rekindles ours and we point out other peaks and marvel at how close Mono Lake seems to be. 

 When he relaxes and clams down a bit he looks at one of the teachers incredulously and says "Mrs ......?" She answers "Yes". 

  "You were my kindergarten teacher!" 

  And there, on a blustery summer day at 13,061 feet above sea level, I witnessed a warm reunion. They hadn't seen each other in twenty years. Once again I'm perplexed by coincidence. Although I shouldn’t be.  They happen all the time if you pay attention. Hopefully, life will continue to offer up its random surprises to me.

   The wind picks up and the clouds grow larger and darker and they look ripe for a thunderstorm. It's common enough in summer to have afternoon showers and we all agree to get off the summit before the lightning starts bouncing off the peaks. I'm first to say my goodbyes and slowly pick my way down the steep incline of loose exfoliating rock. I take my time because I notice I'm slightly lightheaded and would prefer not to slide on my ass the remaining few miles to my red truck. Still high up there really isn't much of a trail and after some zigzagging I notice I'm not quite heading to where I think I should be. Ravens zip back and forth over my head making a crazy racket and I'm reminded of the Jane Hirshfield poem about the birds who alert the lions to the presence of prey. I'm momentarily aware of being part of the food chain. Not an entirely unpleasant sensation.  I realign my bearings and soon I'm back on the path making steady progress toward the road. 

 By the time I get to the truck I'm exhausted and my legs are shaking. But overall I feel good and remain exhilarated as I drive the Tioga Pass back to the Valley. As usual, I'm in no hurry. I have nowhere to be for days. A true dirtbag existence. 

 I stop at the base of Lembert Dome and almost decide to scramble to the top. But then I opt out. That might be pushing it for one day. 

   Lembert Dome was the first hike that I ever took in the Park way back in 1988. And I've returned many times since. It's an easy climb and the rewards are wonderful. The view looking across the meadow and at the beauty of the gently flowing Tuolumne River once gave me solace at a particularly vexing time.  I've spent hours on top of the Dome gazing at Yosemite's highest peaks. 

  Instead of climbing up I walk along the meadow trail to Soda Springs and take a sip of the bubbly water. It’s rumored to mix well with whiskey, but my flask is back in the truck. It's a bit bitter but no matter, it's nonetheless a treat. I look back and up at Lembert and don't second guess my decision not to climb it. I'm content to saunter near the river letting my leg muscles stretch and relax after the hard work on Dana.  

  My next stop is Tenaya Lake. I take the easy walk around to the far side. The water is calm and clear. A few years back Pak Wu and I spent an afternoon here kayaking. It was a pleasant day drifting on the alpine lake enjoying the perfect Sierra summer sunshine and marveling at the giant granite mountains that slope up from the shore. 

   Not sure where I'm going to stay tonight I head back toward the Valley. There are never any sites open at the big campgrounds on a summer night so I continue on to Wawona hoping to luck out at the campground there. No dice, it’s packed. I decide to have a beer at the hotel. I'm thirsty, hungry, sweaty and dusty. I'm thinking about parking at the end of Chilnuwalna Road near the trailhead to the upper falls and hiking a few hundred yards up and sleeping on a rock that I know of. But just as a joke I ask at the reception desk if there's a room to be had and, another fine coincidence, one just became available moments ago. Without hesitation I take it and a hour later, after a long hot bath, I am sitting in the airy dining room looking out the windows and enjoying dinner. The service, like always, is unhurried. 

    The old hotel is a comfortable and romantic place. Historic and rustic, a reminder of different times. The pace here is always slow and relaxed. It invites leisure. The big wide porch with its wicker furniture overlooking the fountain and peaceful grounds is the perfect spot to watch the sunset. Which I do. 

  Tonight, unfortunately, the great piano player, Thomas Bopp, is off. On most evenings in summer he can be found in the parlor off the main lobby sitting at the baby grand singing old show tunes and historic songs of Yosemite's early days. He is a national treasure and I'm disappointed to miss him. 

   I'm too restless to go to my room and it's still twilight so I walk up the trail by the river until it gets too dark to see. I cross the Merced at the swinging bridge and make my way back to the hotel with the help of my headlamp. Now I'm tired, really tired. But I need a few more minutes on the porch just to take in the night. The air cools slightly and smells of pine and manzanita. It's intoxicating to say the very least. 

   In my room I open wide the window facing the trees. The breeze high in the pines is the last sound I hear before falling into a deep and dreamless sleep. 


Monday, February 8, 2021

Jean Benjiman -- A Rememberence


 I met Jean in the lobby of the hotel on a Friday evening a few days after I started running the small lounge and restaurant on the property. It had been a hectic few days getting in the groove of the new job and when the general manager of the hotel, Steve, introduced us he assumed I knew who she was. Jean was elegantly dressed as if on her way to a New Year's Eve party or the opera. Her white hair was perfectly made up and she wore just a hint of red lipstick. A simple string of pearls was around her neck. She could have been anywhere from fifty to sixty years old. I later found out she was, in fact, seventy. She carried a notebook with a single musical note on its cover. She was so classy and charming that I wondered what she was doing staying at the Holiday Inn rather than one of the upscale resorts down along the Delaware River. 

We shook hands and she said she was truly delighted to meet me and her eyes sparkled with mischief. I left her and Steve chatting with each other in the lobby and went to the kitchen to review the specials for the weekend with the chef. Other minor tasks kept me running around for an hour or so and when I finally had time to walk through the dining room just before the seven o'clock rush there was Jean playing the old upright barroom piano near the dance floor that separated the lounge from the restaurant. I knew we had a piano player on Friday and Saturday nights but I figured it'd be some cheesy schmaltzy slick kid playing contemporary songs rendered unlistenable due to a general lack of talent that seems to be the hallmark of hotel bars. But this was something altogether different. What came from that beat up and aged piano was pure beauty. Jean gave me a quick wave as her hands gracefully moved with what was effortless passion. 

I watched her performance that night with a bit of awe. People stopped by to talk with her and make requests and drop large bills on to a silver tray that sat next to a candelabra holding three tall white candles that gave Jean's smile a glow that only added to her air of elegance. Something out of Renoir or perhaps Rembrandt. She never missed a note even when acknowledging her admirers or turning the page of her music book. 

She played straight for two and a half hours and when she finished both the bar and the dining room gave her a loud round of applause. I followed her out to the lobby to tell her how wonderful I thought her playing was and she thanked me for the compliment. Her husband, Fred, was waiting for her. Together they looked like a couple right out of the jazz age, artful and witty with a lust for life. They were on their way to a party and held hands on their way out to the car. 

I found out Jean was a musical fixture in Buck's County. She played somewhere almost every night. That the Holiday Inn managed to secure her talents for the weekend evenings was due to her friendship with one of the owners. And our simple dining room that on most nights resembled any one of thousands of similar dull and nondescript chain hotel lounges, nothing special, just a place to relax after a day of travel before hitting the road again in the morning, became when Jean sat at the piano a very special place. She had a following and her friends were a wonderful and eclectic group. On any particular night she would be visited by other local musicians and theater people. Often past students of hers would stop by from Philly or New York City to watch their friend and mentor. And then there were the jazz lovers who knew a fine thing when they heard it. You could close your eyes while you sipped your manhattan and listen to her play and pretend you were at a party with Jay Gatsby or Cole Porter. 

Her love was the great American songbook and her mastery of jazz standards was breathtaking. From her fingertips came the sounds of joy and love, melancholia and heartbreak, hope and peace. All of life's emotions flowing from this elegant lady's art, she was a treasure to watch perform. 

It became a habit for me to stop by the piano for a minute or two and listen to a few songs and Jean would tell me about them, who wrote them, where she first heard them, who performed them best. She was a deep well of musical knowledge and it delighted her to share it. One night she was playing Stardust with such grace and soul that the room became entranced. An old raconteur at the bar said to me, "Hoagy Carmichael, nobody plays him like Jean." 

Later I told Jean of the compliment and she laughed, "Hoagy certainly played it better than me." And then she told me she roomed with Carmichael's sister in college in Indiana and, in fact, it was Hoagy who taught her to play it. 

He was such a sweet man." She said with a gleam in her eyes.
It was then I took a look at the red music book and saw that it was just a list of songs, no music, just song title after song title written in Jean's immaculate handwriting. This whole time I thought she was reading music. "Heaven's no!" she said, "I don't like to repeat a song for a few days so I just go down the list when I'm not playing requests and that way I don't get stale. And it's fun to come across a song I haven't visited in a long time. It keeps me sharp." 

I was amazed, her list must have had three hundred songs on it, page after page. 

"Oh sit down here." She said to me one night as I stood next to the upright. "You look exhausted." And she slid over on the bench and made room for me. It became a favorite spot of mine to relax and listen to her play and occasionally I'd get a story or to be more precise, a confirmation of a story that I'd heard about her. 

"Yes," she said, she once played in an old movie theater in Philadelphia that only showed silent movies. She provided the soundtrack to old black and white films of all genres. Westerns were the hardest and she had to rely on some of her classical training to make the music fit. "And," She noted, "This was before Ennio Morrcione scored all those Italian westerns, I was ahead of the trend." 

  New Hope is a gay community. ”Gay clubs are so much fun." She once told me. "They love the old show tunes that are so cleverly crafted and even the young boys know their jazz. They comment on my clothes as much as the music and I so enjoy dressing up and playing for such a sophisticated crowd. Most of the men I know from these bars have lost so much in the last ten years that I'm surprised that they can still muster up a passion for living. Aids has scarred everyone I know over in New Hope. Yet the clubs are havens from a world that is bigoted against non conformity." 

She still played a few nights a month at a club in New Hope.
"While in college I played for a radio station that had a call in show. You called us and tried to come up with a song that I or another gifted musician, a handsome saxophone player named Phil, couldn't play. If you stumped us the radio station would send you a case of champagne. Can you imagine? A whole case of champagne if Phil and I didn't know a song. We played together for about a year and only cost the station one case! Listen to this." And Jean played a wandering melody letting her fingers command the keys as she softly hummed along. 

"Picasso by Colman Hawkins, isn't it pretty? That's the song that neither of us knew." She laughed as the notes faded and the crew at the bar clapped and raised their glasses, many of them knowing the story.
"It was new and rather obscure at the time. Phil moved to France a long time ago but he still calls every few years late at night and sets his phone down and plays it for me. His horn from so many miles away never fails to cheer me. 

At around the same time both of us found better paying jobs, Phil in a touring swing band and me at the Emerald Room at the Hilton Hotel in downtown Philadelphia. The radio station replaced us with a trumpet player and another pianist. They weren't up to the standard set by Phil and me. Every time Phil came through town he would stop by my apartment for a visit and drop off a case of champagne he'd won by calling the station and tricking the new musicians. "I just couldn't resist." he'd say. The program manager finally switched to an all request show and saved a lot of money." 

Jean invited me to Fred's birthday party that July. It was being thrown by and held at a friend of their's house that overlooked the Delaware River. The gentleman was a business partner of Fred's and his "River Cottage" was an old family property built in the style of the grand homes of the rich who would escape from the City for the summer. Cocktails were served at four on the lawn that sloped down to the river. It was a relaxed and perfect summer afternoon and to be included at this gathering of Fred’s and Jean's group of friends was a treat. Conversations flowed around art, music and poetry. And we were drinking the most sublime wine I had ever tasted, Chateau something-or-other from France. I tried to remember to write down the name but the evening just got away from me. 

After dinner we adjourned to the wide second floor veranda for chocolates and Armagnac as the last of the sunlight faded into the west and the summer constellations began to wink into the night sky. A few of the men lit cigars and I remember one charming older man telling a story about a bar he owned in San Francisco. He handed out cards and promised if any of us showed up there we would always drink for free. 

"He's telling the truth." Jean whispered to me. 

Then our host, who's name I've forgotten, asked Jean if she'd like to play for us. She tried to decline but was encouraged by everyone present including Fred. We were led, still clutching our armagnacs, to a large room with a fireplace and leather chairs and couches. Great glass doors opened to the croquette court and woods beyond. One wall was lined with books and the others with paintings in gilded frames that commanded attention. A jet black Steinway Grand sat off to the left of the fireplace and Fred lit the single candle that stood behind the piano in a tall silver holder. 

Jean sat down at that magnificent instrument and our host said, "Jean, you're the only person I know who deserves to play her." 

"For Fred." Said Jean. And then she played three songs that lasted about twenty-five minutes. She started with a soft intro that flirted around with and finally became When I Fall in Love. After a graceful interlude she held the room in awe with a rendition of Days of Wine and Roses that seemed to hold a special memory for Fred as he wiped a tear from his eye. She finished with the romantic ballad I Thought About You that had everyone in the room wiping a tear. We were all holding our breath as the final note faded and the candle flickered. 

It was the only time I ever heard Jean play on something other than that beat to shit honky tonk upright that had been pounded on for years by such lesser talents and should have been donated for firewood a long time ago. It was a singular grace to watch and listen to her that night, she seemed like an artist at the peak of her powers. When I later told her that, she laughed her infectious laugh and scoffed, "You should have heard me thirty years ago." I certainly wish I could have. 

The Holiday Inn and I parted company for a variety of interesting reasons and I moved away from Buck's County. I kept in touch with Jean though postcards and birthday notes. Now in her nineties she still plays the occasional party and still makes the pages of the New Hope paper's society pages. There are songs that when I hear them remind of Jean's command of her art and her devotion to her love of jazz. She has spent her life bringing beauty to her part of the world by sitting at a piano. To think of all the smiles she brought to so many faces and how many hearts were lightened by her magic is to contemplate something that touches us and makes our travels through the mundane more tolerable. Her gift to me was an appreciation of the possibility that there is more than just jobs and paychecks and daily distractions of every sort. That you can find something uplifting and sublime in the most unlikely of places. And that I did. 

 Coda: Several years later fate, that odd yet persistent illusion that whether you believe in it or not sometimes steers the course for you, found me driving through New Hope on a beautiful Fall evening. I had an hour before I had to get to a dinner party and took a chance at finding Jean at the hotel. It was no longer a Holiday Inn and it’s overall appearance was a little worse for wear. When I walked in the lobby I could hear music coming from the dining room. Jean’s unmistakable beauty. I snuck up behind her. She certainly did not reflect the creeping shabbiness of her surroundings. In fact, Jean was as radiant as ever. She wore an classy vintage dark dress. It was the same old battered upright and the white candle burned as always. She played with her eyes closed, a smile on her expressive face. It could have easily been 1940.  As the song wound down I said, “Do you take requests?” She about fell off her seat with surprise and glee. She made room for me on the bench and time disappeared. She remembered and played my favorites including, as a nod to the season, Autumn Leaves. I had just seen Keith Jarrett a few weeks earlier at Royce Hall and she wanted to hear all about it. I got caught up on some old friends and New Hope being a hub for gay culture there was some sad news as well. We both cried a little at the losses. Needless to say I was very late getting to my dinner but of all the things I remember from that weekend it is Jean’s charm and music that still reverberates with me. We celebrated a proper fare-thee-well and promised to keep the cards crisscrossing the country. And we did. 

  The last few notes I received from her were short and her handwriting had become almost unreadable. She wrote that her beloved Fred had passed away and she was moving to an assisted care home. She still was playing weekly and her love of life and music was as bright as ever. And then a year went by and I didn’t here from her. I sent my usual birthday and New Years cards with no reply.

 I checked the New Hope Gazette online and found out Jean had died about the time I sent my last letter. I was amazed to see that she was 102 years old. I was less amazed to read that she still played the organ every Sunday at her church.  

  I sat up late that night drinking an old favorite red wine and listening to Hoagy Carmichael and Cole Porter. Music has a power to not only bring back memories but also to heal a sick and wounded heart. If I am lucky enough to live to be 102 I will still think of Jean when I listen to those songs that she interpreted so poignantly. Every note she played for me still rings in my ear. 


Friday, January 8, 2021

Books 2020

 Sun Under Wood by Robert Hass

  In celebration of Hass’s new book coming out next week I reread this one to get his voice in my head. There are some serious poems in this collection. He writes from a deep well of emotion especially in the poems about his mother. His is also a California voice. He says, 

  “I didn’t know you could lie down in such swift, opposing currents.”

   Then,

  “And the days churned by,

   navigable sorrow.”


Flights by Olga Tokarczuk

 A complicated book full of semi connected vignettes and stories loosely connected by travel and escape. Tokarczuk is an original writer and in this book she interweaves short chapters on history, the study and preservation of corpses and human organs, disappearances, synchronicity, loners and travel psychology. This is a hard book to describe but it kept my attention. Her characters on the move really made me think about why I travel. And whether or not I could disappear. Tokarcuzk even claims Moby-Dick is one of the two greatest travel books ever written. With that I would have to agree. A character called Eryk reads it while in prison and it changes him. It gave him evidence that the world made sense. 

  Another character says, “It just happens that people disappear for a little while, you know?”

  A chapter called Whales, or: Drowning in Air is haunting. 

 Godzone is another heavy chapter that deals with euthanasia. 


To Begin Where I Am by Czeslaw Milosz

  A collection of essays spanning most of Milosz’s career. I’ve been carrying this book around with me for a couple of months dipping into its deep well of wisdom. Milosz is a poet foremost, but he is also a critic, memoirist, philosopher and teacher. This book is full of great observations and recollections. He writes about everything from his boyhood to his time in Paris and Berkeley as well as critiques of other poets and writers. He thinks a lot about religion and often questions his faith. He writes, “My piety would shame me if it meant that I possessed something others did not.”

  In the chapters on the deadly sins he calls acedia, “terror in the face of emptiness, apathy, depression.”

  At the same time I have been also reading his last poems which are a great companion to this splendid volume. 

  And maybe my favorite line, “Man rises above himself only in art.”


The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle by Haruki Murakami

  Ive been hooked on Murakami for a few years now. He flawlessly blends everyday life with surrealism in a way keeps me page turning. His characters are reflective and open to metaphysical waves in their lives. There are two, or more, worlds. This is a story of a runaway cat and a runaway wife. The search for the cat leads Toru Okada, aka Mr. Wind-Up Bird, on a series of other worldly adventures. Some he can almost figure out and some he can’t. Much is left unexplained. So I’ll probably have to read this one again someday. World War Two plays a part in Okada’s life as he tries to navigate the mystery of his missing wife. In a letter from an old solider, Lieutenant Mamiya, he writes, “Hell has no true bottom.” An idea that echos through the entire book. Murakami is a master of his own unique voice. 


Traveling Music by Neil Peart. 

  After the holidays my wanderlust was as acute as ever.  I reread his book Ghost Rider last summer and Peart’s voice was still bouncing around in my head/heart.  I pulled this book off the shelf and flipped through it getting a feel for Peart’s rhythm of the road. I read a few pages and thought about my next trip. 

  A few days later the news of Peart’s death from brain cancer hit all of us Rush fans pretty hard. I decided to read all of Traveling Music in his honor. (And play a lot of Rush albums.) It’s as good as I remember it. It is, on the surface, a story about a trip he took driving to Texas and the music he listened to on his drive. This time he wasn’t on his motorcycle but more comfortable in his BMW. 

  There are also chapters on his growing up in Canada and falling in love with music and drums, living in London, meeting Alex and Geddy, the touring life and his bicycle trips to Africa. Peart has endless and infectious curiosity. He loves solitude, birds, literature, cars, nature and so much more. He’s an adrenaline junkie who constantly is “Workin them angels.” 

  Twice Peart mentions T.C. Boyle.  I’ll have to tell him!

  He also has a wonderful take on schadenfreude. Instead of the usual interpretation of laughter and pleasure at the misfortunes of others he thinks of it more as “tarnished joy.”  A less spitefully definition without as much malice.  

  I am hoping that there may have been something that he was working on durning his illness. Because if he was it will be honest and enlightening if it ever sees publication. Peart was alway lyrical and sincere whether writing Rush songs, his travel books or giving interviews. 

  I consider myself lucky to have seen many Rush concerts starting in 1979 and ending up at the last show they ever played at the Fabulous Forum on 1 August, 2015.   


The Sirens of Titan by Kurt Vonnegut. 

  I’ve been meaning to get back to this one for years. It’s the first Vonnegut book I ever read. I’m guessing 1979. High school. All of his brilliance is on display in this book published in 1959. Vonnegut was already an agnostic and a humanist. His themes that everything is either good luck or bad luck with no rhyme or reason as to who gets what. It’s all a crap shoot. This is a kind of science fiction book but more importantly it’s about the foolishness of war and religion. Then he presents the great story that all of history’s human endeavors are for the sole purpose of contacting and reassuring an alien, Sola, who is stranded on Titan, one of Saturn’s moons, to tell him that help is on the way. 

  A book only Vonnegut could write. His characters are harsh, odd, selfish, brainwashed, (literally) compassionate and longing for love. The message that God doesn’t care seems to say that we have free will either to be unlucky or lucky. The protagonist, Malachi Constant says, “I was the victim of a series of accidents, as are we all.”  I’ve thought about that quote for forty years. 


Ahab’s Wife, or The Star-Gazer by Sena Jeter Naslund

  I stumbled across this book at the Ansel Addams Gallery in Yosemite Valley. At first I was suspect. It couldn’t be about that Ahab’s wife, could it? And if it was, how dare she mess with the great Herman Melville? But, of course, I was intrigued and read the first page standing there in the Gallery and instantly was hooked. And to say this is a book about Captain Ahab is, to use a well worn phrase, like saying Moby-Dick is about a whale.  Both books are so much more. Deeper and full of the world.

  This is a book about a strong and brave and independent woman, Una Spenser. She lives a life full of adventures both wonderful and painful. She is smart and bold and is comfortable in her own skin. In her travels from her birthplace in rural Kentucky to a whaling ship to Nantucket she meets characters real, like Margret Fuller and Maria Mitchell. Una has a brief moment with Emerson. And she meets a strange veiled preacher in the woods near Concord, possibly Hawthorne?  And in Nantucket she becomes friends with Mary Starbuck, the wife of the Pequod’s first mate. She knows of Stubbs and Queequeg, Tashtego and Daggoo. She is familiar with Bildad and Peleg.  But the characters of Naslund’s own creation are the most vivid and vital. 

  Wonderfully written and historically accurate Naslund is a joy to read. She touches on science and religion and the brutal consequences of slavery. She is a passionate writer and advocate for reason. I really appreciated this book. “We are kin to stars.” She writes, so true, so true. 


Selected and Last Poems 1931-2004 — Czeslaw Milosz

  Poems about everything. Milosz’s scope is magnificent. I read him over and over. He teaches us to question our faith and make your own peace with yourself. He has a long memory and much of his life is on display here. Milosz sees time for what it is, fleeting with the ability to eventually make things unimportant and forgotten. Even our mistakes. He writes,


  If only there were enough time.

  If only there were enough time.


Then in a later poem,

 Consolation

 Calm down. Both your sins and your good deeds will be lost in oblivion.


And I love this one:


Natural history has its museums,

But why should our children learn about monsters,

An earth of snakes and reptiles for millions of years?


Nature devouring, nature devoured,

Butchery day and night smoking with blood.

And who created it? Was it the good Lord?


Something Happened by Joseph Heller

 Another book I reread after more than thirty-five years. And it’s a bit different than I remember it. It’s still funny and full of Heller’s dark dark humor. But it’s more misogynistic, racist and homophobic than I thought. Maybe that kind of stuff was funnier in the sixties but, to me, it didn’t age well. Most of this long dense book isn’t like that. I still think Heller’s rambling neurosis and melancholy rants were meant to be more funny than serious. After all, how could anyone be as miserable, conniving, arrogant, frightened or selfish as Bob Solcum. 

  I remember reading a review all those years ago where the critic said that you could probably cut a hundred pages out of the center of the book and nobody would notice. Not even Heller.  A bit harsh perhaps, but the book seemed to drag more than I remembered. I still view Heller as a great writer and plan on rereading some of his other stuff to see if they still have the power to move me.

  And I must admit I’ve used his self deprecating humor for my own ends for a very long time now. And I still make myself laugh thinking about Heller’s view about the absurdities of everyday life. He was a master of his own style.  


Mile Marker Zero

The Moveable Feast of Key West by William McKeen

  A splendid look at Key West, mostly in the seventies when Tom McGuane, Jimmy Buffett, Russell Chatham, Guy de la Valdene, Jim Harrison and Hunter Thompson all hung out there. The book also touches on Hemingway and Tennessee Williams and the fascinating locals who did everything from selling tacos, bartending and drug running. How all these great artists ended up on the tip of Florida fishing and drinking is quite a story and McKeen tells it well. We see McGuane as the cynosure whose friends gather to be near the action. Harrison and Chatham are the ones who live the largest. Everyone is mostly, except Valdene, poor, but that doesn’t hamper their enthusiasms for excess in all categories; food, drink, drugs, women and art. A great window into those wild days that seem even more legendary as time goes by. 


A Summer with Montaigne

On the Art of Living Well by Antoine Compagnon 

Short chapters explaining snippets from Montaigne’s essays. Compagnon reflects on all manner of ideas and insights. I’ve been reading the  Montaigne’s Essays for well over a year now. I’m about half way through. I though this book might be a good companion but I find reading Montaigne to be much more interesting and my meditations at least as interesting as Compagnon’s, but it’s an easy read and a decent introduction if you are unfamiliar with Montaigne. 


The Man in the Red Coat by Julian Barnes

 A new book by Barnes is always a much anticipated treat. This one is about Samuel Pozzi a doctor and gynecologist in Paris at the end of the nineteenth century. Pozzi has many famous friends and is quite famous and influential himself. Barnes gives many sketches of other famous Parisians such as Montesquiou, Colette, Huysmans, Bernhardt, to mention just a few. You would think a story like this would either be a rehashed biography or just plain boring but Barnes is the rare writer who captures your attention because of his enthusiasm for his subject. With Barnes, for me, it doesn’t matter what he is writing about because his unique inquisitiveness fuels my own. And it doesn’t matter if I’m reading his fiction or non-fiction. I find his books hard to put down and then I think about them long after I do.   

  Early in the book Barnes tells us that time is on art’s side. (So perhaps there is hope for me.) He writes beautifully about art, dandyism, the good life, love, duels, and so much more. There are great stories within the stories and I’ve already been rereading some of the chapters. 

 

Pity The Reader

On Writing With Style by Kurt Vonnegut and Suzanne McConnell

Pretty much everything Vonnegut wrote or said about how to write. There’s no new material here, at least for me. And McConnell’s contribution doesn’t really add much. Although I give her credit for trying. It’s just hard to paraphrase or add to the master’s ideas. Vonnegut is always brilliant and original. And I felt it was bit much, or maybe arrogance, for McConnell to italicize so many of his great quotes as if we won’t understand the point being made. Maybe I’m just being picky but I think Vonnegut’s words speak for themselves just fine. But I guess if you’re a true fan you’ll prolly wanna read, or maybe scan through, this book. 


The Sense of an Ending by Julian Barnes

  This is a short novel about the vagaries of memory and time’s mysteries and how we look at history. Including our personal histories. 

  Tony Webster looks back an his first love with some small amount of nostalgia. Barnes asks if we can also be nostalgic about pain. It comes to pass that he was wrong about some of his memories. The navigating of young love is always tricky.  It’s also a book about being older and more reflective. And Barnes contemplates the difference between addition and increase. There is a lot to ponder in this short novel. 




Summer Snow by Robert Hass

  A new book of poems by Hass. All of his usual subjects are here. Nature, love, death, aging, fleeting happiness and simple daily life. 

  He writes wonderfully about the beauty of the Sierras as only one can who has looked hard at the trees and rocks and clouds.

 Paraphrasing, I believe, Stanley Kunitz he says,


“The more you loved and had been loved,

The worse you’re apt to hurt and be hurt.”


     So very very true. 



More Die off Heartbreak   Saul Bellow

  Of course, a reread. Benn Crader is a doctor of plant morphology. A true genius in his field. A scientist first and foremost. His story is told by his nephew, Kenneth. Kenneth worries that Benn is too much not of this world. All he really can focus on is plants. And, well, sex. He has a complicated sex life for a man his age but understands that Romeo and Juliette was written for the young. Somehow he muddles on but worries about real love and flees when things become to intricate. Like always with Bellow there are plots and subplots. Benn saves his true attentions for the science he loves. Kenneth has problems of his own and asks “What good is one thawed heart?”

  Bellow’s prose is everything; smart, poetic, illuminating, I could go on and on. He is always hard for me to put down once I start reading. Every few pages there is an idea that awakes my imagination. 



Ledger   Jane Hirshfield

 Her newest collection of wonderful and timely poems. She is passionate about life and all its little wonders. Jane looks at herself with amazement. She’s astounded that we don’t pay more attention to what we are doing to the planet. Her voice is deep and full of wisdom. I read, and reread her poems slowly. Some are dense and I need time to grasp different layers of her ideas. I savored this book treating myself to a few poems each morning. They made me go back to some of her essays from Nine Gates as well as from Ten Windows. Both superb books. My late friend Don French introduced me to Jane about fifteen years ago. So, naturally, I was thinking about Don this past week. 

  Jane writes;

  “I don’t know why I was surprised every time loved started or ended.”

 And,

  “Closing eyes to taste the char of ordinary sweetness.”

And,

  “Say:

  We were our own future,

  a furnace meant to burn itself up.”

   

Until The End Of Time by Brian Greene

  One of the most interesting science books I’ve ever read. It’s packed with fascinating ideas. Professor Greene also explains the Second Law of Thermodynamics and Entropy so beautifully that even I can almost understand the concepts. I’ve always been fascinated by entropy and this book gives as good of a lesson as you’ll find. Equaling the mastery of Peter Atkins. 

  The “end of time” Greene writes about is so far into the future that numbers used to describe the distance are almost meaningless. He tells us that to the best knowledge of our most brilliant cosmologists that the universe is one day going to be so expanded that light from other stars will be unable to reach our solar system and, provided that there is anything left of humanity, we will only look out to a cold and dark heaven. Eventually, again in a time span incomprehensible, all matter will eventually dissipate and single particles will be so far apart that they will never interact. Thus bringing on an end to time. 

  But, Greene lets us know, that just because it’s all going to come to an end is no reason not to find meaning in this wonderful, unimaginably rare and terribly short life.  The mere fact that we are here at all is a spectacularly magnificent piece of grand luck. Make the most of it!  I’m sure I’ll be gifting this book often. (Cheryl)

 

Erosion

Essays of Undoing by Terry Tempest Williams

  Terry Tempest Williams is a writer whose books burn with a passion for protecting the American West. Her’s is a giant voice. She is an activist and a teacher. Her words are wisdom. She has inherited the mantel of eminence elder and beacon of fierce defender of the wildness of public lands from Edward Abbey. She now owns the singular reputation as the country’s most vocal critic of the BLM. 

  These essays are sharp, full of truth and personal. She writes from a well of sincere experience. Every chapter in this book is a call to arms. Whether it be to protect the landscape or stand up for our rights or to love one another Tempest Williams writes boldly and precisely. As she says, with a name like Tempest she really had no other choice than to be a storm. 

  When I read her I’m embolden to act, to commit myself more to helping those in need. Both people and the natural world. Even if only in small ways. She is constantly looking into own soul to see what makes her stronger. And she is strong and her voice resonates with the power of a hero. Yes, a hero!

  She sees and feels the pain of how our world works. Yet still she is an optimist, a fighter for what she believes in. 

  When someone told her she was married to sorrow she said, “No, I’m not married to sorrow. I just refuse to look away.” That give me strength. 

 The story about her brother Dan moved me to tears and made me think about my own family and loved ones. 

  It’s time to commit acts of protection before everything erodes away. 


Doctor Jazz by Hayden Curruth

  Curruth’s last collection of poems before he died. They are the musings of an old man, an “old Yankee” as he called himself. However, there is hope and optimism in some of these verses, but there is much pain as well. The poem Dearest M— about his daughter and her death is crushing in its honesty and acknowledgment of open grief. 

  Other poems are more buoyant and even humorous. I first read this book when it came out and my favorite one is about Basho. 

  

   Basho, you made 

        a living writing haiku?

          Wow! Way to go, man.


And then he writes, “…even on the bad days good things happen.”


The Adirondacks by Paul Schneider 

  An older book that I read a long time ago. It’s a history of the Adirondack Park from when the first white missionaries crept in to convert the natives right up to the present. Or the present twenty years ago. It’s a very well researched and finely written work. I have a passion for my days hiking around the High Peaks Region of the park and this book reminds me of the beauty of that spot that holds such a big place in my heart. It’s full of characters of all stripes. Investors, priests, woodsmen, trappers and artists. Schneider has an eye for curiosities and the book has a quick pace. The Park is still an experiment in living close to true wilderness and will continue to suffer growing pains as more and more people want to call upstate New York their home. I wish Schneider would write an update. He’s the guy to do it.


Entries by Wendell Berry

  Another book I read close to twenty years ago when it first came out. In fact, I saw Berry read from at Campbell Hall. It was a moving and memorable evening of poetry. The poems in this book are about his usual subjects; the love of land, the love of community, faith and just plain old love. The poems about his father stir emotions. Sometimes Berry’s verse can seem simple but they certainly are not. He’s a poet who feels the seriousness of life’s deepest mysteries. I keep copies of his books on both coasts because they make beautiful and encouraging reading in the morning. A enlightening start to the day. In a poem called One of Us he writes;


Must another poor body, brought

to its rest at last, be made the occasion

of yet another sermon? Have we nothing 

to say to the dead that is not

a dull mortal lesson to the living,


Orkney by Amy Sackville

 A really remarkable and poetic novel. I read it when it was first published (2013) and it has been kind of haunting me ever sense. It’s a story of an older man and a much younger student of his. (Imagine that) They fall in love and marry. They take their honeymoon to a rugged Scottish island. They stay in a humble cabin by the sea. The wife, unnamed, is mesmerized by the wild ocean and spends her days staring out at the water as the professor watches her and muses about his luck and his love. They are living a strange myth. And subconsciously they both know this, almost. And how the story plays out is indeed mythic. 

  Sackville has a keen feel for the nuances of the old professor’s heart. How could she know?, I asked as I turned the pages.  And Amy Sackville has a great vocabulary. I learned some new words. Like aestivate and vicissitude and desideratum.

 Beautiful writing


How To Paint Sunlight by Lawrence Ferlinghetti 

  City Lights has been in the news lately. They are having a hard time getting by during the quarantine crisis. It pains the heart, as so much of the news does lately. That place should be a world heritage site. I’ve made so many pilgrimages there over the years. 

  Ferlinghetti himself is a national treasure. He just turned one hundred and one. And still writing. I had the amazing chance to say hello to him at a reading in Ojai. I thanked him for his work and he seemed genuinely grateful for my praise. I felt his humility. 

He writes,


Love passed slowly long ago

   When life was slow

Now time and love are swift

  Upon the plane

Time and love go by and I remain


Aslo,


I eat well and drink well

and dream of great epics


Chronicles Volume One by Bob Dylan

 Just like his best songs, this book makes you want to move, to discover yourself, to run off and find the world or join a circus. Also to drink wine and read poetry, to meet the most interesting people and to follow your own trail. To grasp every accident that befalls you.  To be wide-eyed and humble. Emulate your heroes and dismiss your detractors. Breath as deep as you can.

 When he writes, “I could see that the type of songs I was leaning towards singing didn’t exist and I began playing with the form, trying to grasp it—“ is to me pure genius.

  The world is still waiting for Volume Two.


A Good Day To Die by Jim Harrison

 A book to clear the cobwebs brought on by quarantine and put my wanderlust in perspective. A story of an ill-conceived plan to blow up a dam in the west. Our antiheroes start off in Key West, pick up a girl (of course) get ripped up on booze and drugs and drive across the country. Speeding, both kinds, and balancing an odd love triangle hampers the caper somewhat.  Harrison is his usual outrageous self full of lust, wonder, and madness. His energies are boundless. A bit, perhaps, overdone on the macho, but times were different forty years ago. Even as a young man Harrison is already a master of his own style. 



Last Night In Twisted River by John Irving

  Irving always makes me feel like it’s ok to be as open and honest as you can be. That you should understand as best you can other people’s situations, being as accepting as you can.  And not to ever be afraid of or fail to reveal your true emotions. This has long been my favorite Irving book even though his themes are similar to his other novels. It's a world of accidents and we can’t but help to worry about things that might happen. Like all his work once I start page one I can’t put the book down. I read all 500 plus pages in three days and hated when it ended. I wish it went on for another 500. I’m always fascinated by his characters and their reasonings. Irving understand humanity’s foibles. When I read a book ten years apart I come away with many different impressions. And I’d say some of the parts I remembered vividly were overshadowed by passages I barely digested the first time. The first time I read it the character of Danny Angel was the voice that spoke to me. This time it was Ketchum. Maybe it’s because I’m older and I know more people like him (John Sheerin) than I know like Danny. 

  Anyway, reading Irving is always an emotional experience and I suspect I’ll be doing some rereading this summer. I haven’t read Garp since high school.  High time…


Prime Green: Remembering the Sixties by Robert Stone

  A memoir, mostly sketches and reflections of different episodes that Stone was a participant.  Vietnam plays a great roll and his time there brings the book to a powerful close. He writes about Kesey, Cassidy,  and the Merry Pranksters as an insider. So there are some interesting confirmations of tall tales. His insights to society are pretty sharp. Stone can be slightly sober when relating the outrageous. But he’s never boring. The book has a quick pace and I wish there was a bit more. Those were wild times and I couldn’t help thinking perhaps there are stories Stone left untold. 


If It Bleeds by Stephen King

 I have not read a new King book in years. And for no good reason. I have been a King fan since junior high school. I would devour his books. Growing up in New England he is revered as much as Melville, Frost and Emerson. I guess Emily, too. He is the master of noticing the everyday goings on of small town life. His small towns simply have a darker underbelly than most. The stories in this collection are no exception. I am happy to report that King’s ability to make me squirm remains powerful. Each story is a gem. I’ve always loved his shorter stories and novellas. He packs a lot in to a hundred pages. For two days I immersed myself in his strange world where rats talk and cell phones answer from the grave.  The last story even made me laugh out loud at the final sentence. I fear I may go out this week and buy a pile of his books.



Let My People Go Surfing by Yvon Chouinard

  The owner and founder of Patagonia expounds on his business philosophies. Its a great success story and a reminder of all the work that still needs to be done if we are going to, not save the planet,  

but save humanity. Ultimately the planet will take care of itself. Chouinard is a true dirtbag and a visionary. His company is the templet for how to be both profitable and still be a steward for the earth. The book came out in 2005 and, sadly, we are still fighting the same battles. I am, like Chouinard, a pessimist when it comes to humanity’s sense of urgency when it comes to protecting the environment. There are flashes of hope but science is now telling us that in all probability it is too late to reverse climate change. The best we can do is try to keep CO2 levels at where they are now. But even that might not be good enough, or possible. 

  Still, reading this book does offer some solace knowing how hard people like Chouinard and his employees work to leave a slice of the planet better off than the way they found it. And that makes life worth the while. I occasionally reread this book to stir me to activism and it always works. 


~~~ Poetry Interlude ~~


 I always though that I should edit a book of poetry for my friends. Today I picked some and read what might be a good start. 


Snow Geese

I know Someone

Morning Poem

When Death Comes

I have Just Said

By Mary Oliver

 

Natural Music 

Inscription For A Gravestone

Fire On The Hills

By Robinson Jeffers


In Interims: Outlyer

Dancing

By Jim Harrison


Another Spring

The Great Nebula Andromeda

A Sword In A Cloud Of Light 

By Kenneth Rexroth 

  

A Patch Of Old Snow

A Time To Talk

Dust Of Snow

By Robert Frost

 

Two days Alone

Otherwise

At The Town Dump

Things 

By Jane Kenyon


  All very refreshing during this time of quarantine. 


Riprap and Cold Mountain Poems by Gary Snyder. 

Verses of the Sierras and then some about zen study in Japan. Also a few poems written about a freight ship on which Snyder worked in the 50s. And then a collection of translations from the Chinese poet/hermit named Cold Mountain or Han-Shan. The poems of the mountains have inspired me for years to sneak off to the backcountry alone whenever I can. And it’s been too long now. 

  Snyder turned 90 the other day and I was thinking about the time he signed a book for me. It was No Nature. He was very charming and seem to be full of both mischief and curiosity. On the cover page he spelled out No Nature in Japanese characters. And then gave me a koan of sorts. That which I’m still mulling over some fifteen years later. 

  I forgot that a CD of Snyder reading the poems came with the book and I promptly put them on the iPod in my jeep!  



In The Sierra

Mountain Writings by Kenneth Rexroth

  A collection of poetry and prose. I carried this book around for a while reading it with attention. I brought it to Yosemite twice this year including the trip when I flung some of Mide’s ashes near the south fork of the Merced. The poems I had read before but they are even more beautiful and meaningful when recited out loud on the top of Sentinel Dome or on a trail five miles away from the nearest human. Rexroth’s verse invites solitude. 

  The prose pieces are about Rexroth’s back country pack trips. They are also reflections on the correct way to live in nature without doing damage. He was ahead of his time with his insights.  In the fifties and sixties he was fighting the exact same environmental battle that we are fighting today. And he felt if we didn’t protect our resources we would eventually disappear from the scene. And, “The cockroaches and the octopuses are waiting.”  Said like a true poet!

 He writes. 


“The holiness of the real

Is always accessible

In total immanence. The nodes

Of transcendence coagulates

In you, the experiencer,

And in the other, the lover.”


I discovered Rexroth after moving to California and his love of the Sierras inspired my own infatuation with the high country. His poems resonate with me as if they were written yesterday. In other words there is a timelessness to his best lines. I get a greater appreciation of my time spent in Yosemite while contemplating his verse. I usually bring his Collected Shorter Poems. It elevates my experience. And as he says, “It is not everybody whose life can sometimes match the most perfect expressions of art.” And “sometimes” is good enough for me!


A Widow For One Year by John Irving. 

  Rereading any Irving novel brings back so much. I’ve told people you can spend a lifetime studying his work. Every read adds to the enjoyment of the story. Or stories, his books are almost sagas that span a life. This book is (mostly) about Ruth Cole, a novelist whose mother abandoned her and her father when she was four years old. It’s also a story about her father, her lovers, her husbands, and her best friend. It’s also about her mother’s lover, Eddie O’Hare, and his life of missing his one true love, Marion Cole. 

 Irving knows his territory and that includes grief, tragedy, love, chance and a compassion and understanding of people’s quirks and differences. As in most of his books there are bit characters who capture your attention with their uniqueness. Often times these characters occupy the fringes of society. Or at least polite society. 

A side note, Irving quotes two poems by Yeats. I went to his Collected Poems to reread them and found, to my surprise, I had highlighted both. 

 

Wanderlust

A History if Walking by Rebecca Solnit

Solnit is a passionate writer. You can find her work in many magazines including the Patagonia catalog. She is an activist for woman, the environment, health and so much more. Her other books (I’ve only read two) are full of hard, it seems to me, won wisdom. She is a seeker and a teacher and her prose is accessible and she keeps even her digressions lively. This book is about so much more than walking. It’s about modern society, freedom, solitude, poetry and the empowerment of woman and the disfranchised. 

She quotes William Hazlitt on why you need to walk alone in solitude.  “I want to see my vague notions float like the down of the thistle and not to have them entangled in the briars and thorns of controversy.” 

 Here are a few other memorable lines to ponder. 


 “In small doses melancholy, alienation, and introspection are among life’s most refined pleasures.”


 “Walking returns the body to its original limits again, to something supple, sensitive, and vulnerable.”


“It’s the unpredictable incidents between official events that add up to a life, the incalculable that gives it value.”


 The other book by her that I found wonderful was The Nearby Faraway


Felicity by Mary Oliver

I’ve lost track of how many times I’ve read this book. I can finish it in an hour. And then think about it for days afterward. What a beautiful word felicity is. A one word poem full of expectation!


There is nothing more pathetic than caution

when headlong might save a life,

even, possibly, your own.  


Conjuring the Universe by Peter Atkins

 I wanted to reread this book as soon I as finished it when in first came out. I knew that there was a lot to absorb and I didn’t get it all the first time. Atkins argues that the laws that govern the universe are much simpler than we think. Chaos and indolence being the guiding forces of creation. It makes nature sound so simple and his explanations of how we came to be are fascinating. His chapter on entropy is brilliant. He loves writing about the second law of thermodynamics. And nobody does it better. I’m still a bit foggy on some of the finer points of Atkins’ teachings and realize I’ll be reading this book again. Atkins is endlessly quotable and his sly sense of humor only adds to his brilliant erudition. 


After by Jane Hirshfield

Poems 


Whatever direction the fates of my life might travel, I trusted

Even the greedy direction, even the grieving, trusted.

There was nothing left to be saved from, bliss nor danger.


Tool Use in Animals

For a long time it was thought

the birds were warning: Panther! Panther!

Then someone understood. The birds were scavengers.

The cry was: Human! Human!



Goddesses

Mysteries of the Feminine Divine by Joseph Campbell

 Pretty much everything Campbell ever wrote or lectured on had to deal with trying to understand our place in the universe. How the mysteries of existence and wonders of Nature are all inside of us if we only stopped to pay attention. This book of lectures examines the powers of the goddesses that are available to us all to tap into so we can better find our place in the world of today.  I can’t go very long without reading him. Campbell nourishes the heart. 

He says, 


“People often think of the Goddess as a fertility deity only. Not at all—she’s the muse. She’s the inspirer of poetry. She’s the inspirer of the spirit.”


“Those who seek their worship out there do not understand at all. Turn inward, and there you will find the footprints of the mystery of being.”


“Of course, trouble comes with life; as soon as you have movement in time, you have sorrows and disasters. Where there is bounty, there is suffering.” 


Hunter’s Moon  Phillip Caputo

 Interconnected stories set the Upper Peninsula of Michigan. The chapters have reoccurring characters but it’s not really a novel. Hunting is a starting point for some of the stories but this isn’t a book about hunting. It’s a look at the people who live in the unpopulated UP and the complications of their normal lives. There’s a bar owner turned PTSD counselor, some old buddies who get together once a year, a widow who buys a B&B and has a yearly affair. This is, believe it or not, the first book of Caputo’s that I’ve read. He has searing descriptive powers that capture the nuances of nature as well as the foibles and travails of human nature.  His characters are complex and believable. They seem like people that I know. This book gives much to think about; friendship, evil, pain, love and death. A splendid read. 



Sick Souls, Healthy Minds

How William James Can Save Your Life by John Kaag

  Shorter than his previous books but no less intense. Kaag, like me, a sufferer of depression and melancholy, turns to the philosophy of William James to confirm that even through the struggles of life there are avenues available for joy and peace. We are more in charge of our existence or the extinguishment of it than we are sometimes aware. This knowledge can give us great strength and the power to look for the zest in life. Despite having a sick soul one can not only endure but flourish. It’s imperative that we don’t let our dreams, or our descriptions of experiences or our thoughts take the place of true experience. Kaag quotes James;

 “There is nothing to make one indignant in the mere fact that life is hard, that men should toil and suffer pain. The planetary conditions once for all are such, and we can stand it.”


The Ecstasy of Being

Mythology and Dance by Joseph Campbell

 Articles that Campbell wrote over the years about modern dance. Of course, as with everything Campbell writes about, he looks deeply in to how art infuses our desire to see deeper into our unconscious. I was, although I guess I shouldn’t have been, amazed at his knowledge of dance. Of course being married to one of the greatest dancers, Jean Erdman, must have helped him to understand the nuances of the art. The final chapters that are about Erdman’s contribution to dance are fantastic. Campbell is not only passionate about the performances but equally passionate about the amazing talent of his beautiful wife. Like all of his writings, these essays are a pleasure to read. 


In My Mind’s Eye by Jan Morris

 Dispatches from the grand ninety year old travel writer. But she rarely strays far from home these days. She teases herself about her mind not being as sharp as it once was. (Whose is?) She, however, is as eloquent as ever. I even learned a few new words. Morris still looks at life with some wonder and curiosity. She is an agnostic optimist and her mantra of “Be Kind” resonates through most of the short, one or two page, chapters. She has an eye for life’s silly daily episodes as well as for its beauty. She stills enjoys books, love, writing and the occasional martini. I appreciate how she can see both sides of issues and somehow reason through her final decisions of where she stands on a particular situation.  Her little doses of wisdom make for cheerful reading. I’m passing this one along to Aidan. 

 

Robinson Jeffers Poet and Prophet by James Karman

  An excellent companion to Karman’s Poet of California. The former also explains the times and is more a commentary on the poems. The latter is more biographical. The two books taken together form a wonderful introduction to the life and work of one of the great poets of his time and beyond. Kaman has done his research and has a passion and an understanding of Jeffers' work. Both books are a pleasure to read and provide a great resource when contemplating the longer and more complex poems. Kaman notices Jeffers' ability to see and reflect on the wild beauty of scenes that at first glance may appear more frighting or depressing than they truly are. The beauty of the poet’s ideas about inhumanism are a major theme through much of the Collected Poems. And Kaman adds to both the joy and the comprehension when reading that amazing body of work. 


Poetry For Young People 

Langston Hughes 

  I bought this book for my friend Juliette and figured I should read it. I haven’t read Hughes in a while and his voice is more important than ever these days. I love his verse. This collection of poems seem simple at first but they are very thought provoking. They are also full of little joys like laughing, dancing and drumming. Reading them out loud, which I did to myself, adds rhythm to the day. 


Smokey The Bear Sutra by Gary Snyder

  Always a good refresher to Snyder’s particular blend of environmentalism, Buddhism, humor and passion for life. I read it ever so often and it always cheers me up. 


The English Major by Jim Harrison

  I was looking for a quote for a lovely muse of mine and ended up rereading the entire book. Joyfully, I might add. As always Harrison provides a timely swerve. We were getting complacent around here. Now that’s over.  

  Cliff is the English Major driving around the western states and attempting to rename them. His other project is renaming birds. He was a teacher then a farmer and is now divorced and wanting his wife back. A former student joins him for part of his trip and she’s a touch crazy. He works on a deal with his shrewd ex to purchase his grandfather’s old farm. Traveling and fishing are soothing. 

He renames California Chumash and Massachusetts becomes Paugusett

  

“I thought about how things get confused with desire.”

“Desire isn’t subject to logic.”

“Everything in our culture seems to be marinating in the same plastic sack and the ingredients are deeply suspect.”


Jim Harrison

The Essential Poems

 I’ve read every poem in this book before and bought it as a gift. But once I opened it I had to read them all again. 

  “It’s very hard to look at the World and in to your heart at the same time.”

  “..knowing the world says no in ten thousand ways and yes in only a few.”


House of Day, House of Night by Olga Tokarczuk

  Stories about the strange people who live or had lived in the rural border town of Nowa Ruda in Poland. The book is about lives and dreams, struggles, saints and wolves. Oh, and mushrooms that just might have an effect on everybody without their awareness. But maybe not, it’s only vaguely implied. But the area is populated by an odd mix of thinkers, drunks, wanderers and a wise enigmatic old woman, Marta. So much goes on and some characters are so tenuously connected I found myself going back and rereading chapters to try to figure out the thread and if it was meaningful or just a random encounter. Or if they balance something out or explain a train of thought. 

  The unnamed narrator ponders, “The fact that I have experienced something doesn’t mean I have understood it.” 

  Tokarczuk’s books are packed with images and ideas that drift from character to character in subtle ways that sometimes remain unexplained. She is an expansive writer and captures so much in short visceral chapters. Trying to explain her books is like trying to explain all of nature. It’s so much to grasp. She has a style so unique that I find myself wondering how she pulls everything together. Her stories rattle my mind for days after I read them. Intriguingly so. 


Monkey Girl by Edward Humes

 An account of the Kitzmiller v. Dover court case that pitted evolution and science against Intelligent Design.  The Dover school board questioned the theory of evolution and wanted the “controversy” to be taught in school. There is truly no controversy between real scientists about natural selection or the evolutionary process. I followed this case when it was happing. Humes does an excellent job of explaining what both intelligent design is and what it pretends to be. It’s simply a way to teach religion instead of science to junior and high school students. Humes’s research is thorough and he gives the reader a good amount of  background on the ID movement as well as in-depth explanations of how evolution works and the science behind it. 

  There are many instances were Humes exposes the underhanded ways and outright lies perpetrated by the religious right. I’m no stranger to the odd ways that evangelicals will bend the truth to suit their purposes. But it’s alway nice to be reminded that the battle with ignorance is not over. Perhaps it never will be. This is a good book full of ammunition to combat the fallacies that organized religion feeds the public. It’s a very accessible and readable account of the proceedings. I’d also encourage the reading of Judge Jones’ verdict.  It’s long, but brilliant and worth the time.  


Danger On Peaks by Gary Snyder

  Wonderful poems about Mount St. Helens, the Sierras and The Bamiyan Buddhas, among others about simple daily life. Snyder’s voice and vision are unique. To hear him read is a special treat and once you do you can hear his cadence and inflections in your head as you turn the pages. 

  He writes;


  HOW

  small birds    flit

  from bough 

  to bough to bough


  to bough to bough to bough


                 *


            Things spread out

rolling and unrolling, packing and unpacking,

  — this painful impermanent world.


Coyotes and Town Dogs by Susan Zakin

  A history of the radical environmental group Earth First!  The biographical sketches of all the founders as well as other players are painstakingly well researched. Zakin makes every event and wilderness struggle jump out of the page. Characters like Dave Forman, Pete Roselle, Edward Abbey and David Brower (and many others) are treated honestly and their personalities stand out. At times this book reads like a novel and I found myself caught up in the suspense of what might happen next even thought I’m pretty familiar with many of the episodes because I followed the news at the time. Zakin writes clearly and has a good understanding of the environmental laws she describes as well as the workings of the other big groups involved in the struggle to save parts of our planet. She has a great eye for nuance and her description of places, from the deserts to the Rockies to the old growth forests, are sharp and focused. It was extra fun reading for me because I’ve seen Forman and Brower speak and even met Brower once. I ran into him in the aisles of the old Earthling Bookstore. A true hero. 


Myths & Texts by Gary Snyder

 A short beautiful book full of wildness and raw everyday life. The master poet is always at his best. 

  “—Truth being the sweetest of flavor.”—


In Condor Country by David Darlington 

  An older book with timeless reflections about nature and the environment. The condor country referred to is the vast Carrizo Plain and surrounding mountains that is prime condor habitat. But this is less a book about the beginning of the condor trapping program and more about the rancher Eben McMillan and his lifelong lessons he learned living in the arid part of San Luis Obispo Country. It’s about his his encounters with the wild, both flora and fauna. His wisdom is immense from eighty years of living and interacting closely with the land. Eben and his brother Ian are, or were, a vanishing breed. Their way of life now seems even more remote than ever. My rereading reminded me of some things that truly are important. Like how much better the world would be if we all had a closer relationship to the land. A far off dream, I know.


The Hero With A Thousand Faces by Joseph Campbell

  A book I should read once a year but I’m lucky if I get to it every five. It’s considered his masterpiece and that’s understandable. It certainly changed my (already developing) perspective on organized religion when I first read it thirty-five years ago. Almost every word Campbell wrote directs us to look at the messages in the symbols and figure out how they relate to our lives today. We are a part of something that we share with all of humankind and whether we realize or understand it doesn’t make much difference. We are all living some form of myth. And they have nothing to do with historic events. They  have to do with our own personal journeys through this one life we have. Campbell explains the universality of our struggles and victories, our passions and loves. 

  And in this book I first encountered the idea that the world is in need of a new myth because science for the last four hundred or so years has shown us that our old stories could not possibly be historically accurate. Campbell states that it is only the messages hidden away in the heroic tales that are what we need to help us navigate modern life. Often times we have to dig into the stories for the clues to where our personal place in the cosmos is to be found. But the guides are there. Campbell has been my own guide to understanding the inner journey. A journey to where? The here and now! 


The Last Season by Eric Blehm

  The story of National Park Ranger Randy Morgenson, his interesting life and the complicated search and rescue mission after he disappeared in July of 1996 after growing up in Yosemite and then being a back country ranger in Kings Canyon and Sequoia for twenty-five years.

  I remember at the time seeing the missing posters when I was in Yosemite that summer. It was all over the California news. 

  Blehm has a really good knowledge of the Sierras and this book is very well researched. He talked to and interviewed everybody involved in the search. You get to understand exactly what goes on in the backcountry. Morgenson’s love of the mountains defines his life. He comes across as a deeply passionate defender of wildness. He is artistic and poetic as well as respected as the inheritor of John Muir’s spirit. It is a sad ending to an amazing career dedicated to the preservation of Kings and Sequoia by someone who probably cared for those parks more than anyone. A great book! 


Melville in Love by Michael Sheldon

   From Mom. A wonderful book about Herman Melville’s love affair with Sarah Morewood. It’s a side of Melville that is rarely, if ever, seen. But it had to be there. I agree with Sheldon that nothing else, not even encouragement from Nathaniel Hawthorn, could explain the passion behind Moby-Dick. And later the confusing and depressing Pierre. Sheldon shows quite convincingly that it was the illicit romance that burned Melville’s heart toward greatness. It’s a sad story, too. In those times and under the circumstances it was a love that remained discrete until the beautiful and alluring Sarah passed away from tuberculosis. A great tragedy in Melville’s life. He never forgot her. It’s an excellent companion to any Melville biography. And I will never look at The Pittsfield Country Club, Broadhall, in quite the same way. 


The Lemon Table by Julian Barnes

  Stories about aging and death. Barnes’ forte. Maybe it’s my mood or maybe I’m getting old but I found these stories somewhat depressing. That didn’t diminish my appreciation for Barnes’ colossal talent. I enjoy his insights and outlooks. He has an eye for our realities and he makes the mundane and indignities of growing old seem, at times, tolerable. The afterlife, when brought up at all, is dismissed. I am tempted to be cremated with a lemon in my hand. 



 Nightmares and Dreamscapes by Stephen King

 Over the course of my quarantine I read a story or two a week from this massive collection. Spooky, surreal, sinister, gruesome, it’s all in there. King is brilliant in the shorter form. He packs so much into ten pages. His small town characters are believable as you follow them around. When the real world outside is scary enough King gives you more reasons for staying awake nights. There are monsters out there! 


Poetry Interlude Part II

More poems for the book I hope to compile for my friends. 


Stella Blue by Robert Hunter


And You And I by Jon Anderson


All These Stories 

The Neurons Who Watch Birds

     By Robert Bly


Ghazal 

Desire 

  By Faiz Ahmed Faiz


# 118 

  By Petrarch


A Lover’s Quarrel 

Requiem for Kenneth Rexroth

 By Sam Hamill


On Raglan Road

  By Patrick Kavanagh


Something I Keep Upstairs by Phillip Crawford

 A murder mystery set in a small New England town. Coleman Cooper is a patient at a private psychiatric hospital. He is making progress on his many insecurities. People affiliated with the hospital start dying gruesomely. An already nervous bunch become even more so. Coleman is busy, he has a job bartending at a swanky hotel. There is a girl who pretends she is interested in him. He slowly makes new friends, including his therapist, Dr. Haynes, who he respects and admires. Crawford is a journalist, a musician and a bon vivant and he writes beautifully about the life of an insular town. He knows bar life pretty well, too. His prose brought back many memories of my own misspent youth frequenting the taverns of Berkshire County. 

  To say this is simply a murder caper would be doing the book a disservice. The growth and inner struggles of Coleman also play a major part of the story. And it’s that struggle which elevates the narrative. It’s so hard to write about personal and private pain. Crawford does it effortlessly. You squirm along with Coleman as he lives through his anxieties. 

  I read this book quickly because the story flowed perfectly. Crawford packs a lot into each chapter.  A thoroughly enjoyable book. 


Selected Journals 

1841 - 1877 — Ralph Waldo Emerson

 I feel like I’ve climbed Mount Everest. I have carried this book around for years. At least ten. I’ve read it in Yosemite, Sea Ranch, Mammoth Hot Springs, Pittsfield, Big Sur, Vegas, Avila, San Diego and on numerous other trips. I read a few pages a month just to keep Emerson’s voice in my head. His wisdom is boundless. He is America’s first, and most important, philosopher. In his journals he is every bit as passionate and brilliant as he is in his essays. And at times he is more thoughtful and humorous. He has a remarkable curiosity and seems to take everything in as well as learn from his brilliant friends; the Channings, Bronson Alcott, Thoreau and many many more including his revered aunt, Mary Moody Emerson. 

  In his musings and thoughts to himself we see the nascent sparks that become his profound essays. His sketches of his neighbors are often worthy of a smile. His big view is one of optimism. He looks to the future with a great confidence that America will soon be the intellectual center of the world. He often comments that he lives in a time of wondrous change. 

  His interests are almost endless. So much gives him pause for reflection. He is the original transcendentalist worthy of the admiration he instilled, first in his friends and neighbors, and then the world. 

 What to do now when I look at my night table and no longer see the familiar green hardbound book? I am seriously thinking about just starting over again from page one. Emerson has a thought for every situation. In 1866 he writes; 

 “I find it a great & fatal difference whether I court the Muse, or the Muse courts me: That is the ugly disparity between age & youth.”


The Abstract Wild by Jack Turner

  A collection of essays about what it means to understand the difference between wild and wilderness. It’s about how we look at the natural world and what our part in it may or my not be. Turner is an Exum guide and he spends most of his time in the mountains of the world. He is a sharp and focused writer and his ideas are honed by his time spent in nature contemplating what he experiences. He is terribly passionate in his devotion to wildness. There are wonderful chapters on White Pelicans, youthful treks to the desert and Doug Peacock. This is an extremely important book for anyone who desires a closer relationship to what is wild not only out in the wilderness but also in our own hearts. 


Back On The Fire: Essays by Gary Snyder

  An eclectic collection of meditations on living with natural fire, poetry, book reviews and journal style reflections. As always, Snyder’s voice is that of the wise thinker/buddhist scholar/trickster. His interests are wide ranging and he is at home reviewing a book about chickens as he is instructing us on how to better live life in the right direction. There’s a soulful essay about Allen Ginsburg’s last days and a heart touching story about he and his son searching for his grandmother’s grave in Kansas. 

  Snyder’s precise use of words always inspires me to slow down my own thoughts and make sure when I say something important that I say it correctly so that there is no misunderstanding about what I mean. 

  He has a fine sense of etiquette about how we should treat not only each other but the natural world as well. Nobody thinks or writes like Snyder does. To many he is truly a world treasure and certainly we would be in much better shape physically and spiritually if we paid more attention to his genius. His voice, although calm and reasonable, roars! 


Wild Ways

Zen Poems of Ikkyū translated by John Stevens

 Ikkyu was a self proclaimed Crazy Cloud. He studied zen but with his own unique vision. He was a monk who occasionally took a drink and was extremely fond of sex. A late in life affair turned in to a beautiful, and famous, love story. His themes were impermanence, love and desire and the great poem Skeletons touches on all of them. In an early poem he writes;


 “Memories and deep thoughts of love pain my breast;

Poetry and prose all forgotten, not a word left.

There is a path to enlightenment but I’ve lost heart for it.

Today, I’m still drowning in samsara.”


And from Skeletons, 

 “The vagaries of life,

Though painful,

Teach us

Not to cling

To this floating world.” 


Summer by Ali Smith

The fourth installment of her seasonal quartet. Smith tries to write as close to the present as possible. So we are in the world of Brexit and Trump and Covid-19. Her characters are passionate and thoughtful. There are flashbacks to earlier times that Smith connects to today with an absolute command of her narrative. After reading the previous three books in this series I knew just to wait patiently when I couldn’t follow some chapters or see how they related to the entire story. Series may be the wrong word to describe all four of her last books; Autumn, Winter, Spring and now Summer. The books are not connected by the characters. Each book stands on it’s own. It’s the ideas that reverberate through the narratives that made me see how time flows. Smith writes sparsely but has a wonderful clarity of thought. All her books are searing contemporary views of a specific period of time. And that time is right now.


Of Mice and Men by John Steinbeck. 

 Ellie Wu had to read this for school so I read along with her. I think I was sixteen when I had to read it, maybe even seventeen. Ellie is fourteen. Heavy stuff. So for the past few days I have been thinking about poor Lennie. And gruff George who at heart is a good man. He took on a responsibility and stuck with it. Even Lennie could see that. George could have been off on his own whoring and drinking and shooting pool. But he’s a bigger man than that. Rereading Steinbeck always offers new insights. The only real bad guy in the story is Curley. He’s an unhappy man who never really grew up. He’ll never be self assured and confident like Slim, or for that matter, George. Even Curley’s wife is not a bad person or as she’s called, a tart.  She just made a mistake and is now unhappy. And even worse than that, lonely. 

  And ultimately it’s Lennie who really does give George a belief in his dream of owning a little place of their own. And that hope is contagious. Candy catches it. And even Crooks catches it. But, as Robert Burns wrote, “The best laid schemes o’ Mice an’ Men Gang aft agley.”  George commits the ultimate act of compassion keeping his vow to always take care of Lennie. Slim is the only one who catches it. 

 I was also thinking that in these recent hard times there will be a resurgence in the importance of Steinbeck. Time to read again The Grapes of Wrath


The Smallest Lights in the Universe by Sara Seager. 

  I saw an interview with Seager about six months ago and she was fascinating so I preordered her book. It wasn’t what I expected. This is more of a memoir than a chronicle of her search for extraterrestrial life and exoplanets. And it’s a very sad story about her losing her husband to cancer. The first chapter starts with her explaining about rogue planets and I found out that like this brilliant scientist I too have often felt like a rogue planet. After the first few pages I could see what a great writer Seager is so I decided to read of her terrible ordeal. There are fascinating chapters on her work but the book is mostly her struggles with coping with life after her love died. It is a brutally honest book and you feel her despair. She is very emotional but full of more strength than she often gave herself credit for. She also had a pretty good support group and she realizes how lucky she was in that regard. But some pains are untreatable. I was shook to tears several times. The chapter on her receiving the MacArthur Genius grant was so uplifting that I got choked up for a different reason. Seager also shares her joys with humility. And I’m glad to say that the book ends with a happy story. I raise my glass to Sara Seager. 


The Grapes Of Wrath by John Steinbeck. 

  The more things change the more they stay the same. To me this book gets more and more brutal and heartbreaking with each new reading. And in these days of tremendous uncertainty Steinbeck’s message is every bit as searing and important as it was seventy-five years ago. The poor, the struggling and the displaced are still here trying to make better lives for themselves. They are still met with prejudice and racism. It still takes a monumental effort to escape poverty.  Sometimes I feel we have not come as far as we say we have. Steinbeck quite simply will always be relevant. 


Bellow’s People by David Mikics.

 Interesting essays on the real people behind Saul Bellow’s stories. Mikics knows his stuff and is an insightful writer and obviously a Bellow fan. I enjoyed the short bios of Bellow’s friends and family. 

 Very well written and not just for scholars. 


Fridays at Enrico’s by Dan Carpenter.

  Carpenter’s last novel was unfinished when he died and Jonathan Lethem added a few finishing touches. It reads smoothly. He did a fine job. It’s a story of writers and their husbands and wives and friends. They work in San Francisco, Portland and Los Angeles. There are successes and failures and almost successes. Carpenter knows his characters and their situations. He lived it himself. There is the usual drinking and screwing around. The writer’s lifestyle. (Bartender’s too!)

Carpenter’s characters are, for me, easy to relate to.   


Stephen Hawking

A Memoir of Friendship and Physics by Leonard Mlodinow 

  Mlodinow and Hawking wrote several books together that are masterpieces of blending popular science with deeper ideas. I’ve learned much from their work as well as Mlodinow’s solo books. I reread them all the time. Here Mlodinow reflects on his time spent with Professor Hawking. We see the human side of his genius and are amazed at Hawking’s stamina and determination not to live at the mercy of his handicap. His bravery is astounding. I am reminded of my friend Bobby Brez and my brother Mide. Some people have what it takes to overcome any obstacle. And I walk around in admiration thinking about their strength. 

  Hawking can be angry and humorous, joyful and a trickster, loving and heartbroken. His humanity, humility and understanding of his dependence is beautiful. This is a great companion to Hawking’s short autobiography. 


Collected Ghazals — Jim Harrison 

  A new edition with all his ghazals in one book. These are Harrison’s most obscure and challenging poems. From couplet to couplet you have make your own connections because the form is purposely vague as to direction. They are more like a series of mind blasts and scattered images. But there is no mistaking Harrison’s original voice. I had to read most of them twice to catch a thread of the ideas that flow with speedy brevity. Thoughts fly at you faster than you can think. I found myself reading a page or two and then trying to put together all the disparate ingots of information. 


These losses are final — you walked out of the grape arbor

and are never to be seen again and you aren’t aware of it.


Those poems you wrote won’t raise the dead or stir the

living or open the young girl’s lips to jubilance.


Haruki Murakami goes to meet Hayao Kawai

 Conversations about art and Jungian therapy, work and marriage, writing and nature by two of Japan’s cultural icons. Both men are fascinating thinkers and dive deep into their own reasons for their practices and work. Some questions remain just out of grasp. The most interesting dialogue for me was when they talked about coincidences. They happen all the time and probably mean nothing. But maybe we just don’t know enough yet to see the entire picture. Murakami says that he writes novels so he can understand his own thoughts. I can’t think of a better reason for writing everyday. 


Red Stilts by Ted Kooser

  Kooser’s poems are about everyday things; a road, a grave, a fence, a vulture, time.  But he looks deep into those things that most people pass right by without noticing. He uses simple words and his descriptions are sharp. Sometimes nothing happens in his poems, things just are, and I find myself reflecting on how basic and ordinary life can be. Our meditations on beauty or death or love can spring up at any moment if we are paying attention. Because these poems appear so easy they require several slow readings and then small lessons will appear. 


Milosz 

A Biography by Andrzej Franaszek

 A fascinating look at the life of the great poet. I’ve always been moved by Milosz’s poems. This book is weighted on his early life, childhood, the war and exile. There is less on his last years which was when I was reading him heavily. Mostly this book talks about Milosz’s work and quotes liberally from his writings. His personal life is not delved into as deeply. But it’s an overall good portrait of his career. I felt though that there could have been more. It’s still an important book for Milosz admirers. 


Mad At The World

The Life of John Steinbeck by William Souder

 Mad At The World refers to Steinbeck’s rage at the world’s inequalities and the tendency of the well-off to ignore those less fortunate. Souder looks at all his books through this lens. I see a slightly different John Steinbeck here than I remember from the Benson or Parini books. Steinbeck is angrier and more prone to depression than I remember. Although it was a very long time ago I read those other books. It’s always the right time to consider Steinbeck and I rarely go half a year without reading him. His voice has resonated with me since I read Flight in, I think, seventh grade. Souder does a commendable job looking into what made Steinbeck such a great artist. I always found his last years sad and feel there should have more books. This biography is a fine addition to any Steinbeck fan’s library. 


Inside Story — Martin Amis

 Part novel, part biography, part memoir and it’s incredible how he blends one form into the others and then back again. He also throws in writing advice which I found valuable. Every time I read Amis I learn something about the craft. He’s endlessly erudite and has a monster vocabulary. He keeps me running to the dictionary. So I added a few words to my own vocabulary. I have already used cafard twice this week.  

  There are reminisces of Saul Bellow, Phillip Larkin and Christopher Hitchens and they make up the majority of the book. I admire all three of these writers and Amis portrays them with frank honesty. This is also a book infused with sex; its problems, successes, desires, quirks, wives, girlfriends, mistresses. There’s a lot to absorb. Amis’ style is to me so unique as to be, at least in this book, almost a genre of its own. He mostly calls this book a novel but to anyone with even a glancing knowledge of the subjects knows that it is only rarely light fiction. Mostly it is memoir.  He writes compassionately about the death of his three friends. Larkin is more of a uncle and friend of Kingsley, Martin’s father.  Kingsley is also a presence in the pages. 

  Amis crams so much into these stories that I know I’ll be rereading it soon or at least, as he recommends, random passages. Like his last collection of nonfiction he advises not to go at the book all at once. But I did anyway, with both books, and feel the rewards are worth it. This is probably the best book I’ve read all year. I’m in awe of Amis’ talent. 


Nothing Serious — Daniel Klein

  A novel about Digby Maxwell, a floundering popular writer hired to edit a college philosophy magazine and the mishaps and monkey wrenches that keep him occupied with pondering his own life often with laugh-out-loud consequences. Klein, a philosopher himself, knows his territory. He can skewer both the big famous New York writers and their publications as well as insular small town college life. Maxwell is not a philosopher but a commentator on pop culture and social trends. But he’s losing his mojo when he moves to Vermont. The reason given for his hiring is not quite honest. And it backfires splendidly. We see the advice of the great thinkers sometimes put to use and not always successfully. But life’s random doses of good luck hold long enough to end the story on a positive and feel good note. 



More Fool Me — Stephen Fry

 While waiting for Fry’s newest book, Troy, to be released I picked up this memoir just to get ready and have his voice in my head. Fry is charming, witty, brilliant, lovable, honest, and so much more.  His talent is apparent on every page. Part of this book is excerpts from his journals circa 1993. He was a wild one. And he doesn’t recommend his high performance lifestyle for just anyone. He has a tolerance for booze and cocaine that would be dangerous for one with a less hearty constitution. Still, I find his ramblings and honest reflection inspirational. He’s frank about his addictions as well as his depressions. Like everything else that I’ve read of his this book is a joy.  


The Volcano And After — Alicia Suskin Ostriker

  These are serious poems that carve into life. They are also infused with NYC’s rhythms.  Ostriker has a delicate eye for moments that linger. I was swept up in this collection and felt like I, too, was moving through the city with life’s answers just beyond my grasp. Ostriker is now in her eighth decade and wisdom flows through her. She writes;


He too might have loved beauty but whatever you miss in this life you miss forever.


&


and now shall I make a prediction?


someday one of us

will begin to die

to lean on the other


with horrible need

and passion, passion

will flow again



Bridge Of Sighs — Richard Russo

  The story of Lou C. Lynch, nicknamed Lucy, as he looks back on his seemingly simple life. But no life is all that simple.  Our past follows us right up to this very moment.  Lucy has lived his life in a small town and as I’ve said elsewhere nobody understands the ways of small New England and upstate New York life like Russo. He makes the everyday goings on come alive with importance and feeling. He sees and understands the rhythms of common folk and their struggles against life’s foibles. His characters do this with touching grace. They try to do their best often with results unforeseen. 

  Lucy is troubled, at times, by the thought that he should do more than just own a corner market that he inherited from his father. But his father, Big Lou, was a happy man, an optimistic man.  Grateful for what he had. Lucy usually feels the same way. As Russo writes,

 “But this is what happens when we turn sixty. Random stars form constellations full of personal meaning.”

 We look back and wonder what could have been different. Often times our choices reverberate for a lifetime. How do we get where we are? Russo says, “Blame love.”

 This book builds slowly but is easily as powerful as anything he has ever written. The huge underlying theme of the ugliness of racism struck me hard. We must confront it as best we can. We are better because of our tolerance, limited as it can be at times. 


A Place on Earth — Wendell Berry

 A story of Port William, Berry’s fictional Kentucky town. The reoccurring characters from his other novels confront the effects on their lives of World War Two and how it touches even the rural parts of the country. Port William is a farming community and things have been pretty unchanged for many generations. Work takes up most of their time. Hard, but satisfying work. Life comes with struggles, floods, births, suicides, moonshine, companionship and the simple act of looking out for each other. Berry’s people are full of compassion and care a great deal about their community. In the course of the town’s stories Mat Feltner loses a son to the war and a brother to suicide and he bears these pains with powerful dignity. A sense of kinship and knowing his piece of land, A Place on Earth, keeps him tethered and able to cope. This book is full of gentle wisdom. 

 

Ethan Frome - Edith Wharton 

  I finally read this classic novella set in the Berkshires. It was scandalous for it’s time. Poor Ethan, in love with his wife’s cousin. Of course no good comes of it and sadly everyone suffers. I wished, somehow, for a happier ending. Wharton is alway entertaining. She made me homesick for winter in Massachusetts. There is a line in there that compares Ethan and Mattie’s joy at being alone together as being like finding a butterfly in the middle of winter. 


Home Town — Tracy Kidder

  A snapshot of Northampton, Massachusetts in the late 80s early 90s. All the nuances of of a picturesque New England small town as seen through the eyes of a few of it’s citizens. I worked in Northampton for about a year and certainly have fond memories of its eclectic community. Of course being such a short timer there I learned a lot from Kidder. It’s also a wonderful portrait of Officer Tommy O’Connor. He’s everything you would want in your city’s cops. Not surprisingly he moved on the the FBI. Kidder has a fabulous eye for everyday goings on and he makes them interesting. 


The End of Everything — Katie Mack

  A popular science book about the several ways that the universe may end. And yes, end it someday will. But I’m not stressing about it. It’s so far in the future that even our solar system will be long long gone first. Mack is a fun writer and lets her sense of humor shadow her shining intelligence. Despite the existential dread of everything; me, you, earth, planets, stars, galaxies, galaxy clusters one day being no more this is a fun and enlightening book to read. I hope Mack can find time to write more. 


Notes of a Native Son — James Baldwin

  I haven’t read Baldwin since college. Now is a good time. He was a force in civil rights with his simmering anger and fierce intelligence. He writes with considerable grace and honesty about not only the struggles of his race but his personal ones as well. I had forgotten how brilliant he was at his craft. I’m hooked and plan on rereading his other essays. I feel he should be more popular than he is these days. 


The Darkening Age — Catherine Nixey

  Very informative.  The story of exactly how horrible the early christians were when they had the power. And also how ruthless their climb to power was.  Quite simply their goal was the destruction of every piece of art, book, statue, shrine, alter, and school of anything before Christ. How could, they ridiculously reasoned, there be any morality before the birth of the savior? This attitude set back science and literature hundreds of years. It was the beginning of the Dark Ages where intelligence and empiricism were shunned. 

  Nixey has done her research and writes concisely and clearly. This book belongs on the shelf with Hitchens, Grayling, et al. It’s a fascinating read and I learned a lot. It’s always interesting to know that my disdain for organized religion is tame compared to what it could be. I vow to increase my loathing. 



Becoming Myself — Irvin D. Yalom

  Another wonderful book by Dr. Yalom. This one is much more autobiographical. He is a passionate writer and his stories are honest and sincere. He has lived an amazing life dedicated to helping others understand and find meaning in their own.  And from these encounters he learns about his own meanings and strengths, pains, loves and anxieties. And just by reading a book like this my eyes are opened to some of the mysteries I’ve come across while on my own journey. 


Troy — Stephen Fry

  Fry tells the story of the Trojan War with all the wit and charm that he brings to everything he does. This is history made easy.  Fry shows us his knowledge and love of Greek mythology. His insights about the lives of heroes and gods makes us see the same graces and foibles that are easily found in our own selves. 


Bear 

The Life and Times of Augustus Owsley Stanley III — Robert Greenwood

  All the craziness of the wild ride Owsley took in he sixties. Every Deadhead knows most of the story about this very private man who turned on the world. And you are no true hippie unless you’ve sampled the famous product. Owesly’s mind was wild and unique. He played his game his way. Without him the sixties would have been much tamer and defiantly more boring. Alice D. Millionaire for sure! 


Zorba The Greek — Nikos Kazantzakis

  A magnificent classic that Ive been meaning to read since I pretended to read it for college English. A wonderful look at how to live purely day by day. Zorba is the wise innocent. He takes it all, the good and the bad, in stride. All we need to navigate life is already inside us. We should all have a life so well lived as Zorba!