Flowin' with the flow

A funny thing happened after I did that I Ching reading the other day. First off, I let go of the whole 5th Friday thing and felt instant relief. That's not so amazing in itself. Letting go of any blocked energy generally has that effect. I had been at the cafe for a couple of hours by then but, except for a few minutes when I first arrived, June was too busy to talk. Free of it all, I started packing up my computer, preparing to leave. After all, I don't need a big event to read a little poetry. There's always Jen's open mic, or I can read in Reno or set something up for myself in Carson City and it doesn't have to be on a 5th Friday or any "special" day. I turned around and June was there saying, "I only have 5 minutes". We had a great talk, at least 15 minutes. She suggested I keep my mind and the night open. Scale it down. Maybe have more open mic spots. Just do a reading. Whatever. Cancel the day of the show if I don't think it's going well. After all, that's Comma Coffee. Do it and see what happens. Or don't.

I'm always one for starting small, working with what is, so I can get down with that. Pause in the jangled rush of the day. That's why I like Comma Coffee in the first place. So that's it. I'm hangin' with it. No decision at the moment. Goin' with the flow. But I did let Mr. Lee know that, as he makes camping plans for what's left of the summer, I've got my eye on that date.

Bird Park, Sunday morning

As I've mentioned before, Minerva and her companion are not the only old birds that frequent the Bird Park but I have been watching them the longest. Minerva was quite the champion last year when she drove off a Magpie hassling a flock of smaller birds trying to eat at the feeder. This spring, I was shocked to see how much she aged over the winter.

Another old bird showed up here this morning, a small black one. Even its legs were spindly and that's saying something as all bird's legs are spindly anyway. Like the other old birds that come here, she had the ragged feathers, tottering gate and was just generally the worse for wear. I like to think that any old bird that finds its way to the Bird Park must be especially delighted knowing what a hard place the desert can be. The young ones who come here right out the egg have no idea.

Minerva and her companion with the wild feather sticking out of one of her wings just left. I tried capturing a little video of them for your viewing pleasure but, although they don't mind me watching them from my window, the second I raised my camera, off they went. Birds.

Mirrors and oracles

I don't leave important decisions up to oracles anymore than I leave them to the face looking back at me from the mirror but I do use both to study what I already see. So, while sitting here at Comma Coffee, I consulted the I Ching about what is the correct path for me to take regarding 5th Friday at this time and got

Return: Not far and returning without respecting aversion. Good fortune.

changing to

Removal: Removing something. Before this is doine it is not practical to make plans.

All which is to say that letting it go at this time feels right. Like tossing a coin, it's how one feels about the toss, not the yes or no attached to a particular side, that one needs to pay attention to. Sometimes a timely retreat is the best way forward.

Poe's law

Sadly true. Poe's law from the Urban Dictionary:

"Without a winking smiley or other blatant display of humor, it is impossible to create a parody of Fundamentalism that SOMEONE won't mistake for the real thing."

5th Friday photos & slideshow

There was a good turnout for the 5th Friday event at Comma Coffee in Carson City. The evening included dance, drama, poetry, weird fiction, comedy, and an open mic.

Comma Coffee before the show

Four Ash Canyon poets read during the open mike segment and they were excellent. I mixed a track for my reading. It worked out pretty good so I may do more of that in the future.

Lucky Pierre

The biggest event for me was that a long time friend from the Ashland days, Barbara Bonomo showed up with her charming friend Pete the dog. It was great seeing them. She made a special point to drop in for the show on her way home to Arizona. They were at the Comma when I got there that night. Pete sat up and watched Scot Sarni's rendition of Hamlet but slept through most everything else.

Monsieur La Chance and Lucky Pierre

Rita Geil was Mistress of Ceremonies. Poet Susan Botich read. Dave Fritz performed original music. Ellen Hopkins, Lindsey Stoeberl, Roman Valenzuela, Zach Trippiedi read from Impulse. Susan Priest did a performance art piece as Palisades. Also, every time I turned around, Lucky Pierre was sitting somewhere else.

Ellen Hopkins and Haley Bennett reading from Crank.

Perhaps the biggest surprise was how much June Joplin, the proprietor of Comma Coffee, liked the show. Afterwards she emphatically encouraged us to go on but at this point, it doesn't look like we'll be doing another show. Too many personality clashes putting it together. I'm just not into that kind of thing. It got to be a big drag. Anyway, glad we did it. Glad it's done.

Barbara, Pete the dog, Lucky Pierre and Monsieur La Chance

Barbara posted photos and a slideshow from 5th Friday on her blog The First Chakra. Check it out.

Guest post - Brandon

Brandon has had several digital incarnations since I first started reading him, among them being One Child Left Behind. I grow dependent on favorite writers so I was dismayed and disoriented when he suddenly pulled the plug on his blog. It's a terrible thing to do to your readers. It's like going out one starry midnight to revel in the beauty and joy of the heavens and seeing that, since the night before, one of your favorite constellations has vanished ... poof! ... It's NOT RIGHT!!! Several fine writers who make up my cosmos have done that and I HATE IT!!! You know who you are.

We who are left behind to lament the emptiness have one consolation. Blogging is addicting and happily very hard to kick so I was delighted, but not entirely surprised, to see that eventually Brandon resurfaced at The Blog Formerly Known as One Child Left Behind, from which he ventures out to do guest posts.

As the muses would have it, today Brandon is my guest here at this lonely outpost along the language barrier. I am honored. Here is the piece he wrote exclusively for this world that does not yet exist. Thanks Brandon and happy Independence Day!

oh oh oh
I like fishing next to this mountain alder, 'cause he chose a pretty view over a hale and hearty existence, disregarded the hidden costs of prime real estate, and even now the bottom leaves are yellowed in the cherry of spring, the roots bared by rising waters, doing his best salty mangrove. He's like an old refugee, managed to elbow his way to the front of the breadline, only to be knocked down by the crowd, watch the sacks of grain go by overhead, rise with fists.

This shore is littered with the trunks of trees that peeked too far over the edge, peaked too soon after a few years, piqued the interest of too many birds now nipping at the buds that sprout too far into the lake. The uppermost branches, once home to tanagers and flickers now occupy basement apartments for sand shrimp and mosquito hawks. I like this stupid old tree, the choice he made, give him a playful shove with my shoulder, like when we were kids, and we'd play along the highway and we all knew someone would push another kid out into traffic, the throughway, thoroughfare, arteries, et cetera, but no one would ever get hurt. A car might blare a horn and a boy would get a taste of the kind of mortality this alder's got no interest in. Don't push the trees, I think.

I don't begrudge this tree his real estate, nor do I fear his short time. I fret over confinement, my need to perch atop a hill and see the remnants of friends from faraway, to bear the harsh weather, to crack beneath the growing sun, to battle the erosion of the dirt between my toes, to stretch my arms throughout my space and offer my hands to the shrikes, the wee hawks confined to their sparrow bodies, that they might rend lizards upon my thorns, long after the barbed wire fences have rusted away.

When I find my spot, the seed I will plant will be a hawthorn, crooked and pale, with a vista over all the space I cannot seem to live without. I think I could stack 1,000 of those days on top of me and I wouldn't notice the added weight, how lightly I flow through the atmosphere, and oh. oh. I can remember learning to float on my back in those moments, winning the equilibrium that keeps naught but your lips above the crest of water, so close to breaking its bonds with your skin, flowing into your mouth. The sun was so hot in those days. Your toes would dip just below the thermal layer, feel the cold retained by the milfoil, force you to suck in a bit more air and rise. And rise. And rise.

You would hardly miss a thing, and have all of 700 years not to do so.

- Brandon