“The day started rainy, but dried off as I drove, skipping over a mountain gap, past the ranger station & down along the magnificent White River valley. Remnants or dream fragments of my life lie everywhere, littering the river banks & cliffs. How could this be the very same road that fell in on itself, disabling all its now smooth routes, during a hurricane? Did we really drive this at 2 am, post-gig, in the middle of a blizzard, perhaps a bit inebriated, unsure if or when the roads had last been plowed? Or maybe it was summer. Driving into a field, onto the festival grounds, meeting a friend acting as security guard, and wondering if I could ever be adopted by such a well established scene, one vastly cooler & more relevant than my own. The scripts of youth can be cruel. And the striving? It washes downstream, I can tell you that much, now. All the furtive trips to rendezvous, our shots at being loved, still echoing from one side of the sketchy canyon, to the other. Like gunshots; like coyote song. I will never forget this watershed. Writing songs like “Flowing West”, only to find much later, that the river flows east. And the backroads that soothed me, when I wept, and the cassettes, that powered the motion, again and again. Up, and down, and back, and around, possibly a circuit, or a circle, of life experience, never the same, but none-the-less, repetitious. So many stones, like hearts, thrown into one raging flow, that seemed to go somewhere, I might never reach. I glance to the left, as the road goes right, watching the ivy crawl and overtake an old restaurant; another one condemned to slide off the precipice and be taken. I’ve loved more people than will ever know I did. It’s a relief, I guess, walking into the same dusty store from off a slanted side porch, past one of the last true bulletin boards, that have entertained me as I stood with a hot coffee, during many a season, before, during, or after, tourists. Idly gazing at hand-printed posters, slickly over-produced fliers, and jumbled business cards, for brush cutters, and fishing guides, yoga teachers, barn dismantlers, and junk collectors. I’ve left home without any food, but the solace of work will take away most of my hunger. I’ve learned how to go without, for long periods of time. Living my days much as a bear might, in hibernation, or knocking down feeders, in some kind of clumsy action, to hoard on seeds. Holy, or unholy, we seek the highest ground. I crave freedom, in my routine, which grounds me to the closest allies I have. The pine trees gangly limbs I must cut, and shape, the geraniums I primp, removing last year’s dead matter,: the lost arms of rose bushes, hidden beneath snow. The sharp prickles of the raspberry, that fight with me, and pretend to be uninvolved, as I crouch on decaying wood chips; the tender shoots of foam flower, trout lily and foxglove I must side step, or comb out with a miniature rake. Each spring, they return like friends, to humor me, and cushion me, and tell me about how their roots have survived. I position my thermos of nettle tea on the tailgate, nearby rakes, and shovels. By the end of the work day, my hands remove the stuck dirt, from my edger, and I pat myself down, to locate pruners, files and pens. In the case that I have dropped something, I will have to walk back up the hill, and look for it. There will always be things left behind, and a few things lost for good. The jury isn’t in yet, what’s truly gone. A few more rounds of the garden, will perhaps educate me. That’s why I keep doing it, and making every trip, the most important one of all.”
