Soothing coast scenes of
mild days in the waning summer with long walks by the placid bay and by the wild sea delightful plays of light and cloud egrets, herons, and gulls music of wind and waves beautifully always the waves...
Olympic Journal:
Fragments from a Perilous Journey Almost twelve miles and only two-thousand feet in elevation gained, but much more in elevation gained then lost then gained then lost. There is some lesson there but it eludes me now. The topography spiced the grueling effort with fragrant flowered hillsides, clear springs issuing from mossy rocks, changing vistas – the Bailey Range, Mt. Olympus, and the Hoh River valley. Our camp is scenic and mosquito infested. The lake shimmers in twilight. In the valley below, a black bear ambles, grazing the lush meadows as if in slow motion. Darkness, too, comes slowly in these northern skies. When my ashes are scattered to some distant red desert, It should be said of me, “We all knew he was crazy but Mosquitoes made him quite insane.” Billy-goat peers in the tent at dawn I holler and he is gone. Voices in neighboring camps voices Like mosquitoes nagging. But the sun is bright on the laughing creek The jovial lake invites us into the day Slowly we break camp slowly Trying to eat, hydrate, invigorate Slowly we shoulder the packs slowly We trudge on. A nanny and a kid are lying in a snowfield. Lupine meadows perfume the warming air. -- Late day scramble to camp above The Catwalk Fearfully exposed arête we must navigate Tomorrow Melting snow for water on a high dry ridge Ensconced in swirling fog at sunset with Salty winds from Puget Sound roaring up the valley. Peaks vanish, reappear ghostly in orange light Mt. Olympus glows in vaporous hues. The Hoh River far below, a silver snake Curls its way to the gleaming Pacific. But we never see the sun, only the tricks of its light, Then it’s gone. Wild bears and goats, wild mountains, The miraculous winds of the wild universe Laughing and weeping, blowing right through me. The wind howls through the night into the chill of dawn Keeps us focused and cool across The Catwalk Scrambling through twisted trees, over jagged rocks, Clumps of goat fur indicating the route, A long fall the price of a misstep and Say “hello” to the ghost of Boston Charley. -- More bushwhacking, There is always more bushwhacking. The prospect sits heavy on our minds In this forest that in this moment Feels imaginary. I hope to dream of a bear that will show us His trail through these thickets and black woods Down to the river we hear but seldom see. It plays tricks on the ear, Is that a voice, a clarinet, a train? I long to gaze on the ocean once more. -- In a cloud of mosquitoes, I spent almost two hours collecting water In tortuous drips from a wretched muddy spring. I could see the river but would have died Trying to reach it. Back at our forlorn camp, Jeff has fallen asleep on the ground, his head resting on a mossy log. My knee is swollen and there is blood On my clothes. We are bitten, broken, and malnourished But we have water for the night. I slide again into white noise dreams The inner vacation always possible. I crave the raven’s eyes so I can look down On me, on where I am, on where I need to go. I am a madman writing by flashlight In a stand of towering hemlocks, Wind in branches and water My only music. --Eric Walter (August 2012) Our time in Greece in 2010 was a luminous adventure in a land of great beauty and rich character. Of the many wonderful experiences we enjoyed there, one of the most memorable was the concert that my son, Jacob, and I played on 5 October in the village square in beautiful Kardamili (The Mani, Peloponissos). The performance was arranged by Mr. Elias Polimeneas of Kardamili who manages the apartments we inhabited during our stay. Elias is a soulful man with a deep mind and a gentle heart. He turned me on to the poetry of George Seferis and talked to me of Kardamili, of haunted monasteries hidden deep in Viros Gorge, of the nature of Greeks, art, politics, men and women. I found myself wanting to write down many of the lyrical sentences he conjured in English that was unconventional but never wanting for beauty or clarity. I would have liked to listen to him for many days more. Elias had prepared a flyer for the event. The concert was scheduled to take place at 18:45 in the main square in the center of Kardamili. There is a nice fountain there, some tables with umbrellas, trees, a large open area paved with stone, a periptero (kiosk), all adjacent to the main street that passes through town. We met with Elias at 15:30 to discuss arrangement of the chairs and lighting. He was very intent that everything was to our liking. I told him that my only concern was the wind, which can play havoc with my flutes. The wind, at the time, was blowing in strong from the west, from the shimmering blue waters of the Messenian Gulf. Elias assured me that in the evening the wind would be blowing in the opposite direction, off the Taigetos Mountains. We arranged the "stage" accordingly and then, battling the wind, ran through our version of Ellington's "C Jam Blues" by way of a sound check. Elias sat some distance away and said that, even with the wind and occasional truck or scooter, the music was clear. I had no idea what to expect in terms of an audience. I imagined a pretty sparsely attended affair. When we arrived 15 minutes before the show, we were surprised to see several couples and families already gathered in the seats. By the time the concert was in full swing, almost all the chairs and benches in the square were occupied. The traffic and the wind were, for the most part, cooperative. Only a few times did a loud truck or motorcycle invade the music, and the breeze off the mountains was gentle. The audience was a happy mix of locals, tourists, and seasonal residents. The response was very positive throughout the performance. Our set-list was a few songs shy of normal as I was carrying only two flutes, and Jacob had only his soprano ukulele. So we each played solo pieces to fill out the program and came in a just a minute or two under the agreed upon half-hour. Always leave them wanting more. Jacob was the star of the show and earned a great number of admirers. Some nice British ladies asked him if I was Greek. We gathered for pictures with Elias and his family. Elias told me that the concert was just as he'd imagined and that it was a great event for the community of Kardamili. With hugs and handshakes we parted for the evening and Jacob, Nikki, and I went off with our traveling companions to dine in a taverna on the water. I did not see Elias again before we left Kardamili the following day but he later sent me a beautiful message via email which read: We hope that one day, Kardamilis visitors will have again the opportunity, to enjoy your wonderful music. The small square belongs to both of you. That was a wonderful evening. So peaceful so truth. Thank you. Kindest regards to all. From Kardamili Elias Polimeneas Special thanks to Peter Charvat and Donna Van Winkle, who made this trip possible. ευχαριστώ πολύ San Francisco Scenes
In Golden Gate Park A man walks a tightrope Strung tree to tree Across a gusty field Maybe he’s flying In his other mind, his other body This ambitious angel of wobble Wannabe Icarus This prideful hipster Sisyphus Like all of us forever At odds with intransigent gravity \ In a sliver of sun vanishing In Chinatown’s winter shadows An old man saws the èrhú Stringing ancient notes Into a melody for here And right now A feverish dragon song That singes my ears Puts a torch to my shivering bones In this vanishing sliver of sun In Chinatown’s winter shadows \ On Haight Street the hordes Of the hairy unwashed Rehash their dreams and Scrounged-up memories Between smoke and toke Rap and whistle They argue and sing But never the same Song or argument twice They sleep like the dead With guitars and stained blankets In the doorways of closed shops They push ratty boxes on skateboards Clothes stuffed into garbage bags On rusted shopping carts Stopping to scoop up half-smoked butts Pocketing them for later When the moon is high The streets cold and crying They huddle in blue cloud conspiracies Feeding their imaginary dogs and Very real white rabbits Asking each other to recollect Incidents that never occurred They look you right in the eyes Then they look right through you As if you were the one forgotten \ On Strawberry Hill Gold light from the Pacific Oleander wind |