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.