Elizabethtown

There are very few movies that persuade me the way Elizabethtown has done. In my collection of movies to watch on a rainy day, I own Dead Poets Society, Good Will Hunting, Bridges of Madison County, and now, soon to own, Elizabethtown.

The movies that touch me most have some relational aspect of them to either my experiences, loves, interests, or desires. Such as, I need that road trip taken out of Elizabethtown. We lose too much in our haste to attain some destination that we lose, or forget, or maybe overlook, that the journey tends to be more powerful and impactful than the destination.

In fact, I have done things similar to that final destination, though less grandiose, as that in this movie.

I remember bringing my future wife (now current wife) across the state, providing directions for her, and noting landmarks she would see along the country route. There are small things I remember, like the word “Creamery” in cement, on a brick building in Carson City, Michigan (which was covered up by some senseless individual). Or the farm with several tractors, believe they were John Deere’s, on the corner of Barry and Washington Road in central Michigan.

But, what Elizabethtown has given to me is the quote on failure. I have failed at many things, many times, even today, but I continue to press on and look for new ways of doing things, new ways of experiencing life, new ways of understanding this world we live within.

Failure is a non-achievement the conformists and the mundane love to force upon the non-traditionalist, with admiration. Whereas, we, the artists, love to see failure validate our non-conformist ways. Why? Because we know failures are merely steps to success.

In the corporate world, perfection without failure equals mediocrity and attainment of the status quo. Outside of that, those challenging the norm, who eventually succeed, see success greater than that imagined. Those who fail, either pick up and move on, settle for the security of the mundane and the mediocre, or pass silently away to obscurity through their own madness.

I may be close to the madness, at least my wrinkles prove this could be close, but I think one more road trip will bring out the true greatness that is present in all of us. One more trip to discover America, my soul, our essences, or just to discover life. And I wrote “life” without thinking about Elizabethtown, seriously, but that is how the movie ended. Discovering life. Let’s discover life!

Let’s run as fast we can down the road, any road, or path, to discover something new.

The rest can wait until later…

EjG

================================

From Elizabethtown...

Claire: So, you failed.

Drew: No, you don't get it.

Claire: All right, you really failed. You failed, you failed, you failed. You failed, you failed, you failed, you failed, you failed, you failed, you failed, you failed, you failed, you failed, you failed, you failed, you failed….

You think I care about that?

I do understand.

You're an artist, man. Your job is to break through barriers.

Not accept blame and bow and say: "Thank you, I'm a loser, I'll go away now."

Oh "Phil's mean to me, wah, wah, wah..." So what?

Drew: I don't cry.

Claire: You want to be really great?

Then have the courage to fail big and stick around. Make ‘em wonder why you're still smiling.

That's true greatness to me.

Dungarees...

The other day I washed my favorite pair of jeans, by hand, so I could wear them, as they had already been well worn this week. It was just like some dungaree commercial, one you would think makes for a good commercial on TV, but may not really happen.

And I laughed, while no one was home, as the soap suds spilled over the sink, and from there being too much material to easily engage in this endeavor. But, life has become so mundane that wearing jeans last Friday was one way I could get at my simplicity, wanderings and creativity.

They represent the many miles traveled. They represent me not wanting to fully conform to the system. They represent some odd sense of individuality. They represent my country roots and love. Most of all, they represent freedom.

I’ve been listening to a CD called Grandfather’s Hat by, believe it or not, Jeff Daniels, and it is not what you would expect. It somehow speaks to the wanderer in me. His song Mile 416, talks of travels, across Highway 2, but more importantly about what a wanderer sees, remembers and forgets along the way.

And, that’s how it is; what you see, what you remember and what you forget.

The song reminds me of traveling up M-32 in Michigan, with a barn off in the distance, as I travel north to Charlevoix. It is red, as red as barns are supposed to be, with white trim and Celtic markings on it.

It reminds me of driving along I-80, in August, through Iowa. The miles and miles of sunflowers, in full bloom. Their brilliance accentuated by the sun and a cloudless, blue sky.

I think of Highway 34 in Colorado, smelling the pine as they whistle with the mountain winds, eventually reaching the point they end to make way for the tundra. The air as clear as it will ever become.

And, it reminds me of KY 80, out to Hazard, Kentucky, where the trees and small homes dot the landscape reminding me there are poor here in this country, too. Coal is one man’s gold and another’s subsistence.

The song also reminds me of Hancock County Road 6, in north central Ohio, where a graying barn leaned with the wind and a vagrant, with two canes, walked the lonely miles. His skin, tarnished by the years, was wrinkled and brown from the sun. I am sure he had a name.

Yes, this song reminded me of all this. But, I also mark my maps with a blue pen so I know where I have been. Partially because I know I will forget, but also to ensure I continue to explore every inch, acre and mile I can.

Looking down the road that passes in front of my house, just a small place in America, I realize it’s the beginning for any journey.

My truck, my dungarees, my guitar, my pad of paper and the endless black top.

EjG

Photographs

I've been taking photographs in order to understand life. Each representing some reality I know, experience, or dream about. It is an attempt to find beauty and art in a place that stifles them both, stifling it with an ultra conservative exuberance for it's not what the mundane can have nor understand. Once I was able to dream, but those dreams keep getting fainter as time moves along. Therefore, I take these pictures, began drawing, and began writing again. I'm recapturing these dreams.

There is no life without art and beauty...

EjG

medial

medial

over half way through life
and the lines upon our faces,
illustrate,
illuminate,
trivialities
of our senselessness during youth;
to which we now pacify
ourselves to contentment
passing off
the realities of:
divorce,
re-love,
resentful offspring,
downsizing,
and mental constipation.
pacifying ourselves
to the point where
a cognitive roadblock
prevents some viable beginning
or ending.
yet we are caught between a
left brain / right brain
dichotomous process of thinking
between the corporate professional
and the striving academician;
between the philosopher
and the poet;
between the artist
and the engineer.
giving up our youth
for prosperity.
the moon means nothing more
than the incandescence we apply to it.

EjG

Solomon looked at the Scribe and asked, "Do you feel like you have accomplished that which you had intended to accomplish in life?"

And the scribe shook his head back and forth to indicate he had not.

"So then what should we do?" asked Solomon.

And the Scribe said, "We should look back at the premise and the philosophy of the Crossroad. Its time is more prevalent than ever."

Both stood contemplating the Crossroad and where it will lead life. Both stood looking at the mountain for its guidance.

souls of san francisco

souls of san francisco

the souls of Ginsberg, Kerouac, and Garcia
can be felt
standing at the corner
of Haight and Ashbury…

cars move by
seemingly motionless…

mid-morning grey clouds
shroud the reality
of transgressors on market street
raping us in some way,
whether or not we realize it,
or believe it…

and the people,
all the f-ing people,
walked by exerting
no emotion for today’s toils…

tribulations relegated to triteness
while legs extending from some roof
overstate the litter-ridden avenue
here…

my god, here
the establishment kills us
as much as we perpetuate
its existence through rebellion…

here, as much as any place else,
but more so here
because the hippies have succumbed
to the bmw dealers,
and the artist sells their soul
for some gold…

critics comment on trivialities
of perceptive cognizance…

a godless interpretation of the arts,
of the crossroads,
with senseless machinations
of right brain,
left brain
dichotomies of existence…

neither one of us understands
our perceived enemies
and none of us understands
our perceived lovers…

the dichotomy
of the conservative and the liberal,
the rich and the poor,
and you and i…
yes, you and i…
we are one in soul…

and we are separate…

a thunderous roar of silence

a thunderous roar of silence

tonight,
a sunset illuminated the cloud-laden sky;
as thunder rumbled in the distance,
generating illusions of grandeur.

the soul yearns for another place and time,
as birds dance amongst the clouds with purpose.

the here is nothing but a bad reality.

time is the cruel master of our existence,
yet we fear death,
all the while,
anticipating its inevitability.

but, we continue to argue over triteness,
fixating our being on today’s irrationalities
so the powerful can seek out the humble
in a sadistic ritual of dehumanization.

spring turns into fall;
and sometimes there is no time left
for the middle aged
to seek their dreams.

yet at the end,
at the end of our time,
our dreams, passions, and actions
are all we own.

our secular possessions are divided
amongst the living,
our souls placed in the hands
of the spiritual,
and our memory is locked into the evermore
of infinity.

the elders know this,
the middle aged are learning this,
and the youth have no f-cking concept.

the wind breathes silence.

we know not where we’re going;
nor where we have been…

silence
silence
silence
silence

my head is filled with the thunderous roar of silence.
it is both deafening and maddening.

EjG

Mistress

May the strength of three be in your journey.
Irish Toast

---------------------

Mistress

Sweet mistress
of my secular desire;
the black sarcophagus
envelopes your soul.
Your dreams
of narcoleptic madness
intercede
the complexities
of sensuality;
placidness returns
to my soul.
And yet
we still cry
amongst our demons,
angels,
and desires;
there is no sweet silence
to our end,
as trees whisper
their poetry
within the vernal winds,
filling the chasm
of winter’s silence,
as the everlasting silence,
encompasses the void
of an erotic soul,
throughout the evermore.
The unforgiven
curse infinity.
Time becomes
a redundancy of existence.
Dance, my mistress, dance…I taste your sensualities
Dance, my mistress, dance…I taste your sensualities
Dance, my mistress, dance…I taste your sensualities
Time is finite,
Heaven is theoretical,
And desire
is nothing more
than a wanton machination
of flesh
At some future point in time
yet to been defined…

EjG

--------------

And the Scribe said to Solomon, “What is your interpretation of this?”
To which Solomon replied, “The literal is misleading, the philosophical is deceiving, and the mythological is ideological.”
“Who’s your mistress, Solomon?”
“Hope,” said Solomon, looking at the sunset. “And yours?”
“Desire,” the Scribe said, reflectively. “Desire.”
Icarus said nothing.

The world was once flat…

The world was once flat…

Within infinity we find
the limitlessness of time.
My angel breathes my life
through another day in the time of man,
of which the trees,
still barren from winter,
encapsulate the moon, stars, and sun.
And so we search for God;
the sunset and sunrise offer no answers to the soul
while the iniquities of our souls
hold us hostage to our beliefs,
and the road takes us no where,
but where we need to go.

EjG
---------------

This past lent I decided to take the Lenten tenets of the Catholic Church (“the Church”) to the fullest extent, and then some. I gave up all hard drink, no meat on Fridays, fasted on the high holy days, read the Bible cover-to-cover, and attended the Triduum (Mass on Holy Thursday, Good Friday, Easter Vigil and Easter Sunday; the three holy days when examined from a time period that looks at sun up to sun down).

It was a spiritual experience in search of meaning of the soul, not the Church, and an examination of the crossroad between the divine and the secular. And, most of all, I am glad I did what I did for this was about personal spiritual understanding and cleansing.

I am not in good standing with the Church because of my divorce. It cannot be more blatant and simple than that. So, let this color and jade my opinion.

Though the only acceptable reason for divorce listed in the Bible is for infidelity, it does not matter to the Church that she left after dating other men while married to me. In the Church’s eyes I still need atonement through annulment for this sin (a concept I vehemently disagree, and one they will charge for the privilege of conducting).

My two youngest children have not been baptized due to my situation (divorce, atheistic/agnostic spouse, re-married outside of the church). As it is stated, children suffer for the sins of their fathers. It matters not to the Church my quest for spiritual understanding and redemption; along with my attendance and observances. I’m a black sheep due to my ex-wife’s infidelity. It’s that simple.

However, my personal beliefs stem outside of the mainstream beliefs of the Catholic religion, obviously, and outside of Christianity, in many aspects. I look at Muslim, Judaism, and Christianity as intersections of religious philosophy, not as separate gods, demons, or canons.

Though I have not made the connection, there is probably connections with Eastern religions, as well. The Gnostic Gospels may fall into this realm, but will discuss later when I have read them. Initial text my eyes have viewed suggest they will follow this premise.

Why my beliefs? Though classic theology may poke holes into my ramblings, here is what I think based on my readings of the Bible, selected philosophical texts, limited review of the Koran, initial readings on the Gospels of Judas and Thomas, and various texts on religious interpretation (from the apocalypse to man’s religion and beliefs).

There is one deity, whatever you call the one deity (God, Lord, Yahweh, Allah, etc.), there is only one. Just like how we call Santa Claus by the names of St. Nick and Father Christmas. Same entity, different name. For the purpose of this essay, I’ll refer to deity as God, not as a superior reference to other deity names, but as a source of familiarity.

The religious texts, whether it is the Bible, Koran, Torah, or other texts, is written by man as an interpretation of divine experience. Man has an agenda, or at least a limited understanding and remembrance of experiences. So, to negate one’s beliefs over another to justify existence and superiority is an exercise in ignorance. Especially as similarities are found; though differences abound. The Crusades are no more justified than are the Middle East struggles today.

We cannot fully know and understand the vastness of God, nor can one person understand the vastness of science. Looking solely at the Bible, there are contradictions and interpretations; which become even more vast when comparisons are made between the Old and New Testaments. There is hope, despair, hate, and love within the text.

How can any one of us pretend to hold the ultimate knowledge of God, heaven, and infinity? Examining the field of science, scientists reference other’s research work that form the foundation of their own theories; as do philosophers. If this is the case, then why can’t religious leaders do the same?

Furthermore, the existence of the Bible, as we know it today, has gone through translations and iterations of Rulers and Kings (I’m willing to bet the Koran has, as well). To not continue the study based on one interpretation or religion (Judaism, Muslim, or Christianity) is like accepting that when a tree that falls in the wood with no one around it does not make a sound. Examine and study the alternative beliefs.

My father and I debated, quite briefly, my reading the Bible in 46 days (40 days of Lent; plus the six Sundays within the Lenten timeframe that do not count as Lent in the Church), whereas he is reading about two pages per day; and my look at the Gospel of Judas and the Gospel of Thomas (not to mention that I read The Da Vinci Code and wonder what a search on the “true” aspects of the story will reveal later). He is concerned at my haste with Biblical reading and my focus beyond the accepted text of the mainstream Church.

He is also troubled that two of my children are not baptized, and my questioning of the Church and religion. Questioning, not disbelief; there is a strong distinction. He is uncomfortable and unsupportive of my endeavors and quests.

I’m at a crossroad. I want my other two children baptized, but face being further ostracized through imminent, upcoming discussions of belief with the priest. But, I also want support, and to support, a religion with similar ideologies. I have thought of leaving to Lutheran or Methodist (a real and viable potential). Not to alleviate perceived and real transgressions, but to find a support of beliefs.

The more I read, the more I question. Knowledge is both good and dangerous; but it is a systemic element of change and revolution.

As I continue to study I may change my views above. But then again, we see what want to see, don’t we? I’m a man, most likely with an agenda (though I strive for impartiality), and I question the mainstream.

We have to question and debate the authoritative view. After all, the world once was flat.

EjG

If

If

If we lose our sense of being
will the gods remind us of our insignificance?
If we lose our thoughts
will the gods remind us of our iniquities?
If we lose our love
will the gods remind us of our passions?
If we lose our words
Will the gods remind us of our thoughts?
And if we dance
in the midst of moonlight
to experience our silence
will we discover our sense of being,
thoughts,
and passions?

EjG

---------------------------

Yesterday I was reminded of my silence. And so today, for the first time in many days, I stared out my front window. I noticed the woods across the street. Looking through the trees, the sun became apparent as it reflected off the snow amongst the birch, maples and pines. I had not felt this feeling of simplicity and renewal since I stood amongst the graves and the snow at the time of the winter solstice. My soul continues to search for its purpose. Thanks for pushing me beyond my silence through the reminder…

solstice

snow covered the trees and headstones
in an old cemetery where time
became both present and past;
the winds whispered through pines
as souls of the dead passed by
unnoticed.
they are amongst the winds;
the heavens escape our moment.

it was the day of the year's renewal
where silence of long winter’s nights
breaks only momentarily
allowing dreams to subside
into the few waking hours
where we enter into the search
for an understanding of the circle
of the life-death continuum.

candles illuminate the night,
the wood of the floor reflecting
flames, flickering and dancing
in hope for a quick ending
to winter’s long night.
the flute and guitar
warm the soul with each note;
death holds the illusion
and life presents the solemnity.

but, the graveyard holds only silence
in this day of renewal.
in the midst of the headstones and graves,
where the snows blanket
the iniquities of the land,
and our souls chase those within the winds
searching for tomorrow. 

the evergreens outside
and inside the house
give us hope in the renewal of time.

-- EjG / 2005

------------------------------------

And both Solomon and the Scribe walked among the graves days before the winter’s solstice.

“Do you see the beauty of the graveyard?” asked Solomon.

“I do

“Where?”

“I see it in the trees, the snow, the clouds, the scurrying animals and the gravestones. When you cannot see the beauty in these things then life is at its end”

“Merry Christmas and warm solstice to you,” said Solomon. “May you find warmth and understanding upon this day of renewal.

“And to you, as well,” stated the Scribe.

A man by the name of Icarus introduced himself to them, he was the keeper of the dead, the sexton. The three of them prayed for silence solemnity, and peace in the coming time. Winter’s passage is nothing more than a sexton letting the souls be free, which is all Solomon and the Scribe searched for.

“Come with us, Icarus,” asked the Solomon.

Icarus hugged both Solomon and the Scribe, placed his responsibilities upon the ground, and left with the two. 

Life cannot be found within the headstones; nor can death be found within life.

One Lane Through Trees

The poet must decide if bird cries are cries of ecstasy or cries of despair. - Lawrence Ferlinghetti

-----------------------------------------

One Lane Through Trees

Sometimes the road is silent,
trees lining its perimeter.
And I look in my rear view mirror,
for her,
for where tomorrow has gone,
but imagining she is here.

Sometimes the road is silent,
bringing forth only dust,
and this truck carries me on.

There is an abyss to life
we do not know,
comprehend,
nor understand.

And I have lost my reality...

EjG

Untitled

Sometimes all of our thoughts are misgiven. Stairway to Heaven; Led Zeppelin

Untitled…

…there are twists to time,
she’s gone,
the essence of love
fades into twilight…

…this generation knows not
the love it has lost,
yet it seeks
the paths to heaven…

…the forevermore
offers little hope
to the damned
and the paranoid…

…yet her silence says everything,
while a chasm separates
the unity once existing,
echoes persist…

..there are twists to time,
this generation knows not
the forevermore,
yet her silence says everything…

…our souls are high.
the silent, the faithful,
and the cherished
know this…

EjG

Raw

There's a silence surrounding me
I can't seem to think straight
I'll sit in the corner
No one can bother me
I think I should speak now
I can't speak now
My words won't come out right...Keep Talking; Pink Floyd

-----------------------------------

Raw

Tonight I thought I would try to just place thoughts upon the page without major editing. So here goes...

My poetry seems to have taken over recently. I am trying to paint a picture, but not sure what that picture should be in the end. This is dangerous. You are always lost if you never know your destination, but sometimes being lost is the only way to find out who you are.

I ponder each word in my poems, to see if they are what belong on the page. As does the painter, as she drips color onto a canvas to show the world what she sees, even if it is skewed from the way most see reality. Art makes you question what we know.

Poetry makes you question what you know. I know I said poetry is my way of painting a picture. But, that may not be the entire story. Poetry is really my exploration into the intersection of language and thought. It is an exploration into the psyche for an attempt at drawing the reality I see and perceive.

That's it, I think, the reality I see and perceive. Because each of our realities are different, who is to say that my poetic explanation does not do some justification to what I think, feel, and experience. The mind is not simplistic thought; at least not mine. There is a complex machination of thoughts that intertwine to make a logical picture of abstract concepts.

For example, I cannot simply state that I love her. Rather, I have to explain the myriad of thoughts and feelings that surround my being as I tell her I love her. She sleeps among the night songs, to which I seek her sensuality. She is my soul. My existence. My song. My being.

And, the roses I give her are not just red. They are silky petals that offer a sensuous perfume within the vaginal bud, as the thorns remind us that there is a hurt that underlies the sustenance of this beauty. This flower offers no forgiveness nor emptiness.

That, my dear friends, is reality.

Furthermore, I cannot simply state that my generation wasted its existence on frivolous crap. It got high on materialism. But, to state it bluntly foregoes the complexity how this materialistic high caused many to overlook what is important; the generation focused solely on the triteness of a secular existence. It also takes away the imagination you bring to the poem as you read. Shape your own thoughts from the ideas spawned through the abstractness of a piece; it's all right to do so.

So, I may not have utilized this medium for the manner it was designed. It may have not been designed for poetry. I may push out too many poems. I may actually be too abstract at points.

At the end of the day, however, poetry is one way I can express what I perceive our world and existence to be. A complex machination of thought that places this generation into a deficit of attention.

The wind rustled the leaves and I picked roses. They can be red, pink, yellow, and white. You already had a color in mind when I mentioned them. Let your imagination tell you which color it was, not me.

Dream and explore...EjG

Continuum

The sweet smell of a great sorrow lies over the land
Plumes of smoke rise and merge into the leaden sky
A man lies and dreams of green fields and rivers
But awakens to a morning with no reason for waking. Sorrow; Pink Floyd

-----------------------------------------

Continuum
My generation got high
to experience elements
of the continuum.

It was both beautiful
and serene.

But, our minds
became a wasteland
for the triteness of reality.

So, into the forevermore
we stared,
searching
for the magnitude
of understanding,
only to realize
the latitude
of our awareness
was stifled
by limits of space,
mythology,
and thought.

But we stumbled
upon our own feet
while pondering
the greatness of nothing;
intelligence
sometimes opens a door
to an abyss.

Silence,
echoes,
and laughter
haunt the soul
in the presence
of solemnity.

The damned
cry out in fear,
and my generation
gnashed its teeth
in sorrow
as it circled dreams
into a brothel
of misnomers.

The Celtic circle
spins its desire
onto our peasants.

Yet, we blew our brains
onto the streets;
only to allow the vagrants
a chance to supersede
our misfortunes.

The circle has no end.
Infinity has no beginning.
Reality has no dreams.

And my generation
is no longer high.

We can no longer breathe,
nor can we contemplate
the philosophies
of yesterday.

A madness and an echo persists…

She knows only her generation;
the symbiotic understanding
between our souls
is lost in a reality
of the here and now.

Blessed are the damned;
the forevermore offers a hope
and an understanding
only the simple minded
can comprehend.

We define our existence by heaven
and the fear of hell…

The damned, stand in silence. – EjG

------------------------

Solomon asked the scribe, “If a picture is worth a thousand words, what are a thousand words worth?”

To which the Scribe replied, “A thousand words are worth a nanosecond of heaven. The musician, the poet, and the philosopher know this all too well.”

And Solomon replied, “I have written a thousand words, have I yet drawn a picture?”

To which the Scribe noted, “You have drawn what needs to be drawn. The mind comprehends nothing more than the reality it perceives in the here and now.”

“And that is knowledge, a picture?” asked Solomon.

“No, that’s understanding. Many have knowledge; few have understanding.” noted the Scribe.

With that said, the heavens opened and we cleansed ourselves within the early fall rains.

“Where will we be in the time of the rapture?” I asked.

Neither the Scribe nor Solomon knew the answer.

And at that we wept.

I think it was closing in on midnight about then.

Sunday Silence

There was a great silence and a sadness that covered the land.

And though I never knew anyone there, nor had I ever seen the Twin Towers in-person, I still hid the tears from my family as I silently wept while the family members read the names of those who died. A loss we all must remember, even if we never personally knew nor experienced the vibrance of these people and these structures.

May God give this world peace one day, and bless the souls and the families suffering from this tragedy.

As for today, September 11, I treasure my family even more.EjG

seductress dance

"Mythology, philosophy, and theology all intertwine to define our dreams and our reality." Solomon
---------------------------------------------

seductress dance

time is only a measurement
between the vastness of dimensions,
there are no deviations
nor derivations
from the parallels
of our universe.

the expanse of constellations
places madness
within the minds of philosophers;
and the nakedness
of autumn trees
lends credibility
to the finiteness of time.

the seductress dances
amongst her gods (a fire burns),
and the exquisiteness of life
becomes lost between the here
and the forever.

her sensuality leads us
to the sins of adam
and a realization
that the soul and the flesh
have no symbiosis.

nor does heaven and earth.

her seductiveness is nothing more
than a partition of souls;

a dyad of then and now… EjG

Fresh Blueberries

Find the answers, ask the questions
Find the roots of an ancient tree
Take me dancing, take me singing
I'll ride on till the moon meets the sea
Loreena McKennitt; Night Ride Across the Caucasus

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

Fresh Blueberries

In amongst the blueberry bushes
philosophies dance within the mind;
as birds sing to their mates
and the winds make the leaves dance.
Our existence is defined only
by that which our hands can make;
and our lovers comfort us in silence
as we cry in fear from society.
The light dances in the flames
and our souls chase the sunset
only to discover that what is real
tends to be the imagination beyond
our philosophies,
and religion appears as a dream to the masses
while understanding illuminates
the few that choose to look
beyond the limitations of our presence.

EjG
--------------------------

There stands a row of blueberry bushes beyond my barn. In their midst I stand and pick the fruits while contemplating various thoughts within the silence of the countryside.

Thoughts of two unique experiences this week fill my mind as I quietly place the berries within my basket tonight: biking with a good friend and lunch with another long-time friend.

Biking took my friend and I into the State lands of Michigan; someplace outside of reality and society. She and I traveled in parallel amongst the trail. We spoke of life, trivialities, philosophies, and wonderment. And, sometimes, we spoke of nothing.

There is a symbiosis in our understanding that friendship and life are short and fragile; we both treat it in different degrees of respect and appreciation.

We are both looking for something more; something beyond here. There is much more beyond the limitations of central Michigan; and we both inherently know this, as we have both lived beyond the stifling confinement of the present.

She knows this. My wife knows this, And, I know this.

So she speaks eloquently of her travels; her experiences within the Canadian Rockies; the people she meets along the way. Her knowledge and love for life transcends beyond any limitations. That, in itself, deserves respect.

And I? Well, I can speak on the southern hills of Kentucky and Tennessee, my travels to the American Rockies, and my desires to take my family beyond the limits of Michigan. But, my depth is superseded by my fears. The crossroads are taking me beyond.

Now, today, I spoke with another friend over lunch—amongst body order ridden hip-bees of Freeland in a half-assed Italian restaurant—about literature, bikes, life, work, religion, and philosophies. He took my thoughts further beyond my bike trip.

A computer geek by trade, he told me today that he wished he could rid himself of technology and become a furniture maker. I think he will rid himself of technology and chase what is important in life; the satiation of the soul. There is something to be said about the fruits of labor of the hands.

You take away from those you meet and know that which would like to incorporate within your soul. Both of these acquaintances have traits and knowledge I wish to possess, not covet, but possess.

But there is something beyond all this. As I pick these berries, I realize there is a pure simplicity to life that transcends all the non-essential crap we deal with. Within my hand I hold blueberries, they feed you and treat your palate with nature’s sweetness.

My garden, just beyond, shows where the truth in existence may lie. A man without a home and land to grow fruits and vegetables is a man that relies on another. There is no sense in wrapping your being and soul in something that offers you nothing more than short-term successes and praise.

The mountains offer majesty and sustenance to the eco-system. Its glory is in its simplicity, as are the fruits on my blueberry bushes and the vegetables within my garden.

“Ashes to ashes and dust to dust.”

Dudley Dee

Morning Fog

“We live in a world with wars, oil spills, pollution and rapid deforestation. Our generation is feeling the effects of global warming. And here in Kamloops, a handful of kids are building a few jumps and catching rides uphill. Is that really so bad?” Bike magazine; May 2005.

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My words are sporadic. My thoughts, scattered. Sometimes it is hard to step outside my front door. Life is a circle; day into night. Year into year. The rain drops make circles within the puddles, they are simple. And yet I bury my head in my hands when I try to comprehend infinity. Dudley Dee

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Morning Fog

It was that moment in time
when a tranquility
passed over the earth
stilling the madness
into silence.

Apocalyptic winds
sent us to the hills.
But, it was in these very hills
we all discovered
the trivialities of the beast
and the madness
our souls generated
from greed and hatred.

We were all wrong.

And our separate gods came together,
as we all held a piece of knowledge,
to an understanding
of who our God is;
and we once fought wars
over the derivations of our understanding.

In the end the truth becomes known.
The silences passes
between the ubiquity of night
and day.

The poet,
the artist,
the dreamer,
the farmer,
and the blacksmith,
all knew the answer.
The others
did not,
and they cried into the night.

Simplicity,
the Celtic dance offers nothing more
than tranquility
in the midst of the morning fog
of summer. EjG

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And Solomon asked the scribe, “What do you say is beautiful?”

To which the Scribe replied, “A mother’s love, a father’s guidance, a summer rain, and all that comes forth from the earth. That is what is beautiful.”

So Solomon further asked, “What do you say is necessity?”

And the Scribe answered, “Air, water, food, art, and God. Our body is sustained on air, water, and food. Our soul is sustained on God and art.”

And at that they prayed over their meal.

The mountains outside the window stood in a majestic silence.

montani semper liberi

-----------

Dudley Dee

Requiem

We go out in the world and take our chances
Fate is just the weight of circumstances
That’s the way that lady luck dances
Roll the bones.
Neil Peart; taken from Roll the Bones

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Requiem

Tonight I tried to write, but nothing came.
The silence of madness plagues the soul
as it continues to search for tomorrow.

And these words,
written here,
are not what I wanted on the page.

Why can’t I pour my soul
upon the page?
Is the soul’s complexity so great
the simplicity of words
cannot explain it?
I think not,
yet I cannot express
my inner most thoughts.

So I think of her,
of you
of them,
of me,
of us,
of today,
of yesterday,
of what was,
of what could have been,
and of what is not.

Solomon tells me nothing.

Are these pains in my chest fear
or the precursor of death?
Is this numbness in my mind insanity
or the instability of madness?
Is this sweat upon my face fear
or just a rendition of my insanity?

I think I am afraid to truly open
the door to my soul.

The fire dances among the logs tonight;
as the night air penetrates my senses.

My soul dances amongst the demons;
of which my grandfather once knew.
His photograph haunts me.

Our souls can no longer escape this existence.
And our souls are mixed with our grandparent’s;
their demons haunt us all.

Tonight’s damnation is nothing more
than the simplicity of the forevermore.

Requiem. – EjG

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This past weekend I realized I am not who I pretend to be; anxiety demeans the soul. I am not a worldly man; nor am I an overly educated, sophisticated man. I am of simple mind; of simple pleasures.

I can speak on the love of a guitar, the intrigue of language, the simplicity of the garden, and the beauty of the trail. I can even speak somewhat on poetry. But, I relegate myself to insignificance and focus on the triteness of my imperfections when in the presence of others. No more.

My crossroads.

I want to be a farmer, a poet, and writer of songs. A simple man; a respected man.

My crossroads, they’re taking me back to simplicity. – EjG

-------------------

Dudley Dee

The beautiful and the cherished

Sing and dance together and be joyous,
but let each one of you be alone,
Even as the strings of the lute are alone
though they quiver with the same music.
Kahlil Gibran, The Prophet

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The beautiful and the cherished

What is beautiful;
and what is not.

What is cherished;
and what is not.

She sleeps.

It is dawn of night,
when soft rains
cleanse the earth,
the trees,
and the soul.

Breathe, my dear maiden
breathe.

There is no difference
between the beautiful
and the cherished
when grandeur of night
is celebrated
among terms
of sexuality,
sensuality,
and endearment.

Her breast becomes my life.
Succulence.

Her body becomes my passion
Serendipity.

Thunder echoes,
once more,
through the forest,
as I breathe in the night air.
It is midnight.

She sleeps
among the night songs
to which I seek
her sensuality.
She is my soul.
My existence.
My song.
My being.

And her body lies
in sweet state
of my endless
desire.

A poet expresses this within written word.
A musician expresses this within music.
And a dreamer expresses this within thought.

And, in my soul
I am a poet,
a musician,
and a dreamer.

But, the night only offers silence,
soothing rains,
And a solemnity of her existence.

Kiss me, my dear,
the moon offers no consolation,
and the night
offers no repentance,
if the lovers dance no more
in the midst of the thunder
and rain.

Listen…

there is a soliloquy
playing among the
saints,
gods,
and the blessed.

See us no more,
lest we laugh in the face
of the moon,
stars,
and sun.

She is my silence.

My silence.

Our souls dance in the midst
of night winds.

Yes,
the night winds,
my dear,
the night winds,
they call us…

silence -- EjG

-----------------------------------------

our voices echo in silence
our souls dance in unison
and our heads are filled with the madness
of infinity
may we dance to infinity. Solomon

--------------------

My wife is both beautiful and cherished. EjG

----------

Dudley Dee