Oh, To Be Out On The Water

Or, the texture of bliss. (Kayaking will push those blues away.)

Two more images from my kayaking jaunt on Labor Day. I headed out from Rodeo Beach and moved to the south and round about. Glorious sun and sea, though the surfers were less happy with conditions that day. Pretty flat at the beach itself; enough texture here, though, which made me happy enough and that my kayak--Sofia!--yearns for.

Duck-Diving

Or, Bad Joke #49?

Even without a surfboard, I always duck-dive.

A viable strategy, yes? Time-tested and true? Using bad jokes to shake the blues?

I'm not quite sure why, but I've been duck-diving wave after wave after wave in my mind today.

The pool-session didn't shake it, work hasn't shaken it, so I'll try with the humor that's not quite funny. And then I'll try some more work. And swim more, further, beyond the reach of the blues tomorrow. That's the plan, anyway.

What did the mermaid say to the mollusk? Oh, you've heard that one?

Well, what's a duck worth? (About a hen-weigh, I always say.)

Mermaid Misses the Wild Sea

As I've admitted to a few friends, I make goofy mermaids without even trying.

Or, I was aiming at odd, and--hey--bulls-eye!

P.S. If you'd like a better look at that jellyfish photo that the mermaid is mooning over, just click on the "Jellyfish" in the Labels, and then scroll down that new page you'll get to "Postcard: Saltwater Reflection." It's worth a look, I swear, and not goofy at all.

Passages: From Fangs to Feet

Here's a favorite passage from one of Barry Lopez's early works: Of Wolves and Men.

"Before a wolf was brought into their classroom, a group of grade-school children were asked to draw pictures of wolves. The wolves in the pictures all had enormous fangs. The wolf was brought in, and the person with him began speaking about wolves. The children were awed by the animal. When the wolf left, the teacher asked the children to do another drawing. The new drawings had no large fangs. They all had enormous feet."

Not Losing My Marbles

The Walnut Hatches

For those of us that didn't know.

Mermaid: Pisces In Pieces

Rough draft.

Broken mermaid.

Clumsy maker; broken piece.

Should I fear a curse?

I'd meant well, meant better, meant best . . . but couldn't quite pull that off.

I felt regret; I feel regret.

Nick Drake plays in my head.

If you don't know, well, check out Nick Drake's "Five Leaves Left" and Sinead Lohan's "No Mermaid." Both albums, both CDs, should astound you.

Old rhyme:

"The head understands

What the heart won't.

Which is wiser?"

(Actually, I made that up in 2008, but it feels old, feels like an echo, feels dependent on my own antecedents, my own past reading.)

Older rhyme (and this is truly old, no rhetorical trick):

"Mind must be the firmer, heart the more fierce,

courage the greater, as our strength diminishes."

--"The Battle of Maldon" . . .

The Anglo-Saxon heroic poem, Crossley-Holland translating.

And, yes, I connect such a passage, such a poem, to efforts in clay, to efforts in the studio, to efforts in the classroom, to efforts in life, life itself. And, like the doomed warriors of the poem, I have my faith in perseverance.

So far, I've never quite succeeded at conveying or in capturing the beauty before me, in holding such beauty firmly enough to present it to you, or to anyone, at least not in clay, and that saddens me.

And so, in a melancholy mood, I replay Drake's "Five Leaves Left," and I try harder, the next time clay is at hand.

Passages: W. B. Yeats' Mythic Yearning

Here are two of my favorite poems by William Butler Yeats, early and particularly Celtic poems. The Irish poet strums the mythic harpstrings here, his melodies bright and piercing. I've always felt a bit haunted by Fergus' chariot and Niamh's calling.

WHO GOES WITH FERGUS?

Who will go drive with Fergus now,

And pierce the deep wood's woven shade,

And dance upon the level shore?

Young man, lift up your russet brow,

And lift your tender eyelids, maid,

And brood on hopes and fear no more.

And no more turn aside and brood

Upon love's bitter mystery;

For Fergus rules the brazen cars,

And rules the shadows of the wood,

And the white breast of the dim sea,

And all dishevelled wandering stars.

THE HOSTING OF THE SIDHE

The host is riding from Knocknarea

And over the grave of Clooth-na-bare;

Caoilte tossing his burning hair,

And Niamh calling Away, come away;

Empty your heart of its mortal dream.

The winds awaken, the leaves whirl round,

Our cheeks are pale, our hair is unbound,

Our breasts are heaving, our eyes are agleam,

Our arms are waving, our lips are apart;

And if any gaze on our rushing band,

We come between him and the deed of his hand,

We come between him and the hope of his heart.

The host is rushing 'twixt night and day,

And where is there hope or deed as fair?

Caoilte tossing his burning hair,

And Niamh calling Away, come away.

P.S. If you feel you need more, well, Yeats' poetry, prose, and dramas are easy to find. "The Stolen Child" is your best next step.

The Blood Tells

"One of the most shocking characteristics of the Celts for Classical commentators was that they were--at least in battle--head-hunters. The warrior who decapitated his enemy had more than proof of victory: he was also possessing himself of the sacred and protective powers supposed to reside within the human head. Skulls were frequently positioned at the doors of Celtic temples to act as spiritual guardians. Gods were depicted with over-large heads, while especial importance was attached to the janiform head, because of its ability to look in both directions at once. A famous example from Roquepertuse in the south of France shows the human and the divine, the warrior and the war-god, gripped in the bill of a goose."

--A passage from The Celts: Sacred Symbols. Thames & Hudson, Ltd., London: 1975; reprinted 1996.

That's Fergus above, watching over the birdstand, a horned tripod, that I cobbled together recently. "Who will go with Fergus now?" Many birds, I hope, and may the spirits of all fly freely, here and hereafter.

Today would have been my father's 77th birthday, so I'm thinking of flights of fancy, of Otherworlds and other worlds (like one in which he would still be alive, and I could tell him about new frontage roads and shortcuts). I'll toast you, Dad, with a bit of Irish, though Mom would hardly approve. Here and hereafter.

P.S. Here's a shot of my father as a young man, maybe 30 or so. It's a photo of part of my favorite photo of the man; despite the age and condition of the photo itself, his spirit is clearly visible here.

Take A Gander

Cross-step; lunge!

Forward lunge! Note the blur of the beak.

One watches, and one feeds.

Mild August day at Lover's Point on the Monterey Peninsula.

Literature Club: Poems as Prompts

Carl Rakosi’s “The Experiment with a Rat”:

The Experiment with a Rat

Every time I nudge that spring

a bell rings

and a man walks out of a cage

assiduous and sharp like one of us

and brings me cheese.

How did he fall

Into my power?

Selections from Jim Harrison & Ted Kooser’s “Braided Creek.” This volume of poetry began as pieces included with letters or simply mailed to each other and subsequently gathered together without noting who wrote which.

On every topographic map

the fingerprints of God.

As a boy, when desperate I’d pray with bare knees

on the cold floor. I still do,

but from the window I look like an old man.

Mouse nest in the toe of my boot,

have I been gone that long?

The pigeon

has swallowed a fountain!

Listen!

With her brush, the artist

touches one part of her life

with another.

When a hammer sings

its head is loose.

Mirrors have always given the wrong

impression of me. So do other people.

So do I. Let’s stop this right now.

The face you look out of

is never the face

your lover looks into.

“What I would do for wisdom,”

I cried out as a young man.

Evidently not much. Or so it seems.

Even on walks I follow the dog.

What if everyone you’ve loved

were still alive? That’s the province

of the young, who don’t know it.

It’s nice to think that when

we’re fossils we’ll all be in the same

thin layer of rock.

I hope there’s time

for this and that,

and not just this.

I prefer the skyline

of a shelf of books.

Today a pink rose in a vase

on the table.

Tomorrow, petals.

The pastures grow up

With red cedars

Once the horses are gone.

[This slim volume finishes with the last two pieces.]

From Wallace Stevens’ “Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird”:

I do not know which to prefer,

The beauty of inflections

Or the beauty of innuendos,

The blackbird whistling

Or just after.

(Thanks, Jerome McGann for bringing this quotation to my attention.)

The Whelming Sea and Strand

This shot strands me in the midst of at least three literary moments: Cuchulain's defeat by the sea; Oedipus' self-mutilation; Jason's being struck down by the spar from the Argo's mast. I also hear echoes of poems by John Montague, Seamus Heaney, Robert Graves, W.B. Yeats, Homer, and Vergil. Not that my photograph compares with such verbal visions, but that's how the mind works, at least mine, paying heed to the scene at hand, yet allowing the echoes to sound and play in the mind's ear. (Sometimes, such echoing may be a cacaphony, so beware what you wish for.)

The shot also sets me there on the beach up north, just south of Mendocino, at Van Damme State Park. Look at how well that sand and shingle drains, appearing almost dry, grains fairly distinct, even as this next wave slides upward from the cove. I can feel the water and sand in my shoes as I look at this shot. The heavy, wet legs of my jeans. Think again how I didn't change into the wetsuit boots or the wetsuit up in the truck since I was just going to take a few pictures. And that's alright. Later, the faint squish and grit as I walked the streets of Mendocino, looking for used books and hot coffee, recalled the fun of this session, the salt air, the vigorous stench of rotting kelp, the bright light, and cooling breezes. It was late November, but lovely, lovely weather. Seas too rough for the class dive, but fine for kayaking and beachcombing.

And that foam.

Action Figure

Just call me Joe. You never know what will turn up in the garage. A piece of my childhood surfaced recently, though I am not sure how he survived the various moves and purges.

This fellow goes way way way back. He's outfitted in a jumpsuit, float vest, stocking cap, boots, and equipped with mask, fins, camera, pistol, flaregun, flashlight, maybe a knife. He has an inflatable raft too. This guy has been ready for some water adventure for about four full decades. I call that good training.

Passages: Heaney's Practical Magic

Seamus Heaney is one of my favorite poets, and his "The Diviner" is my second-favorite of his poems.

THE DIVINER

Cut from the green hedge a forked hazel stick

That he held tight by the arms of the V:

Circling the terrain, hunting the pluck

Of water, nervous, but professionally

Unfussed. The pluck came sharp as a sting.

The rod jerked with precise convulsions,

Spring water suddenly broadcasting

Through a green hazel its secret stations.

The bystanders would ask to have a try.

He handed them the rod without a word.

It lay dead in their grasp till, nonchalantly,

He gripped expectant wrists. The hazel stirred.

--Seamus Heaney

The mask: Hermes. Sculpture mix, raku-fired. The mask doesn't quite fit the poem--no y-shaped branches, no water springing forth--but there's a congruence of wood and magic in my choice of the illustration. And, Hermes and Heaney are both worthy guides.

I Must Have Been A Fish

Swam today at the pool and, as usual, wore my trusty fins. And, as usual, I just didn't want to take them off.

In some other life, I must have been a fish.

Though, having been or going to be an otter appeals too. I love how otters will just hang out in the surf zone--usually eating, of course--completely unfazed and staying in place amidst the rocky, kelpy, aquatic cauldrons without much visible effort at all.

Photo: Not a pool shot, but free diving off Cannery Row.

Postcard: Flow Chart

The Drowned Man. Rodeo Beach.

Sculpture mix; copper carbonate and matte white splatters.

Postcard: Sea-Caves

Postcard: Morning Shade

Another view from the kayak heading south from Rodeo Beach toward Point Bonita.

Here, I've just moved south of Rodeo Cove into the passage between the cliffs and the rocks. Once I pass the point just ahead, I'll be able to see the Point Bonita in the distance a bit to the left. Note how calm the water is here. If you check yesterday's Postcard, you'll see more surge and energy as I move out of the shelter of the passage. A rather calm day, but still movement among the rocks and sea-caves. (My kayak does better in rougher water anyway.)

Marin morning: Labor Day, 2010.

Postcard: Marin Morning, Labor Day

The view from a kayak, heading south from Rodeo Beach toward Point Bonita.

The Pict

Here's my tribute to the ancient Picts . . . in fantasy and fact.

Robert E. Howard's Bran Mak Morn is a heroic figure, the last king of the vanishing Pictish race, beset on all sides by Romans, Norse, Britons, and even Irish reivers there in the lands of Caledonia and the Scottish--Pictish!--isles north of the Roman Wall, Hadrian's boundary and the mark of Pax Romana like the mark, the brand, burned into the skin of Britannia. How the ancient goddesses of land and sea must have howled and keened.

Of course, Howard got the history quite wrong--as even he admitted--but the mythic outlines hold, have branded my mind. Frazetta's cover for the Ace paperback Bran Mak Morn helped hold this tale, these characters, this tribe or race of human creatures in my mind.

Despite Howard, I link the Pictish tribes to the Celtic in my veins, to the ink in my skin, but that's fantasy and wayward at that. Still. Bran Mak Morn is a name of portent and import to me. "Worms of the Earth" is a favorite tale. Caledonia a land in the mists. (Listen to Dougie Maclean's "Caledonia," and you can travel there on the wings of song.)

This fellow is a rough gestural piece, shaped in a 20-minute session with a model, a mere exercise, that I later pit-fired. The beaten copper ornaments seem fitting, as does the stone and ivy/weed setting.

The Sea Anemone, with Help from Neruda

Anemona

La flor del penasco salado

abre y cancela su corona

por la voluntad de la sal,

por el apitito de aqua.

O corola de carne fria

y de pistilos vibradores

anemona viuda, intestino.

--Pablo Neruda
The Sea Anemone

The Flower of the salty boulder

open and cancels its crown

by the will of salt

with water's appetite.

Oh corolla of cold flesh

and vibrating pistils,

widow-anenome, intestine.

-Pablo Neruda

--from Neruda at Isla Negra: Poems by Pablo Neruda, edited by Dennis Maloney, translations by Maria Jacketti, Dennis Maloney, and Clark Zlotchew. White Pine Press: Freedonia, New York. 1998.

My photographs of Anthopleura xanthogrammica, or the Giant Green Anemone, were taken in the surge channels off the actual point at Lover's Point, Pacific Grove, CA.

Story: Compassion and the Labyrinth

I've said this before:

stories instruct us, entertain us, tease us, lead us.

Without story, what do we have?

The present moment, sure, but even this present only makes sense once you fit it into the fabric of your life, of your world, of your story?

Didn't one of Eugene O'Neill's characters claim, "The past is the present, isn't it? And the future too?" But only if you know the story, I claim, and you want to know the story. Don't you?

Here are two passages regarding story that resonate with me.

May they resonate with you too.

Everything is held together with stories. That is all that is holding us together, stories and compassion.

--Barry Lopez, from an interview in Poets and Writers, vol. 22, issue 2 (March/April 1994).

I found this quotation from Lopez in Charles de Lint's Someplace to Be Flying.

I hold with Barry Lopez--stories, compassion--but Rebecca Solnit, too, offers a real thread through the labyrinth of life.

‎A story can be a gift like Ariadne's thread, or the labyrinth, or the labyrinth's ravening Minotaur; we navigate by stories, but sometimes we only escape by abandoning them.

--Rebecca Solnit, A Field Guide for Getting Lost