Prayer Among Friends
“Among other wonders of our lives, we are alive with one another, we walk here in the light of this unlikely world that isn’t ours for long.” — John Daniel, “A Prayer Among Friends”
Desert Dreams
My feelings about the desert can be summed up in these pictures. The heat coming off the sandstone. The cool shade of the canyons. The dead and live pinions twisted by the wind. At sunset, a soft ponderous silence settles over everything and you can sit there on the edge of the esplanade, awash in light holding every color of the spectrum.
Around about November, I can't help thinking about the desert now and then—wishin it was a little closer, maybe an eight-hour drive away? If it were, I'd be there right now, typing this from a picnic table on the rim of a rincon. However, such places are many days traveling away, so I'll settle for the kind of pictures (and dreams!) that—on a deeply soggy morning like this one—give tired men hope.
Favorites 11.4.13
Winter cats: Different than summertime cats, lord knows. Less preoccupied with the hunt, more down for curling into a closed donut on your lap or sleeping the night in the crook of your knees—where you can use them for warmth just like the hot-water bottles of old.
Spaghetti squash: I'm entirely on this bandwagon. A lengthwise slice of the knife, a quick scrape of the spoon to abolish seeds, and a half hour in the oven roasting into oblivion. Such a minuscule amount of effort for a shitload of delicately perfumed vegetable matter.
Falling back: A triangle of morning light on my wall at 7:30 a.m. instead of darkest night—it's okay to want this, right?
David Bowie's List of Top 100 Books: How do you get the titles you read? Why wouldn't you get them from Bowie? I've already read seven: The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao, White Noise, A Confederacy of Dunces, On The Road, Mystery Train, Lolita, and Herzog. Ninety-three more to go I guess.
Searching For Sugar Man
Watched this rock doc about a guy named Rodriguez the other night. It's been out for a minute, you've probably even seen it—I apologize for my tardiness on this matter.
Anyhow, it's totes compelling! A movie about a different time—when a fellow could weave this strange poetic music that no one ends up listening to, but like a little lost gull, one of his records could find its way across the ocean to a foreign land and make him famous there (the prophet to a social revolution, in fact!). And he'd never, ever know about it, you see? He'd just humbly live out his days in the crumbling city of Detroit—breaking his back smashing bricks and mowing other people's lawns.
Although it isn't the point of the movie, I like thinking about this time—back when mysteries still existed.
On Dog Mountain
Hi from Portland, friends. Yesterday morning was all dark and gloomy, but still, Tricia, Lisa and I met at the base of Dog Mountain and hiked straight up into the spooky billows of fog. We passed through dark, quiet woods that may have been haunted. We plodded up windy scree meadows that fell steeply away into thin air. We sweated. We wheezed. The trail was very steep. Rain commingled with perspiration to soak our jeans and shirts entirely. And the wind blew fiercely then, sending icy shivers to our very core. But! The view! As we neared the top, the clouds split open and we found ourselves staring straight into the vacuum of space—dark purple faraway mountains cut by silver river waters, the promise of a golden sunset off to the west. These are the kinda gifts you get from nature sometimes, ya know?
