every, and once

tonight
there's no specific color to the sunset,
other than the one you needed it to be.
she 
was no certain type of beautiful,
except the most
beautiful.

every,
and once
when her eyes met mine
i told her so,
deep down
thinking -
i hope she keeps me, 
because i know 
no 
way to say so to any other,
and mean it. 

Damien Jurado - 'Brothers and Sisters of the Eternal sun': three tracks

still have this guy on repeat, although a new set of tunes. today, his most recent album. played through each of the tracks, beginning to end, as i purchased tickets for a trip i've had on my mind for some while, one that will take me back to Canada, the land of my ancestors, for the first time in more than 10 years; all the way south to Los Angeles; via Seattle, Portland and San Francisco. 

"be sure to wake me when 
eternity begins" 

'Return to Maraqopa' 


'Jericho Road' 


'Silver Joy'

Damien Jurado - 'Maraqopa': three tracks

a few tracks from an artist that i've had on repeat all day. the first of two albums that, i read, more or less go hand in hand, the second released a few weeks ago. i figured it was better to start in order, so i bought this one today, and plan to get the next. his songs seem equally melody and poetry, and both flow in a way where you can't tell the difference, which is perhaps why i like the music so much. three favorites - the third perhaps most favorite.

"Working Titles"

"So on, Nevada"

"Museum of Flight" 

jan 25 there / march 23 here

one year ago, i was on the tail end of winter in north italy. down coat and scarf, i endured with my face covered, head to the wind and the promise of approaching spring. this afternoon, i'm all ears and watchtower to the rainy season rolling through the el sal hills. i don't have many words for everything and my throat is dry, but never have i been so ready to be drenched to the bone. 

i filled the last page of a journal the other night; so as i was scrambling out of the house to make it to church this morning, i grabbed a new one off my bedroom bookshelf. when i opened it, i found some ideas scribbled onto the second page, dated january 25, 2013. 

i don't usually try to adapt the words i've written so far in the past, to fit the things i'm feeling now; never really felt like it was honest, to either sets of ideas. then again to be dishonest to my thoughts would not rank anywhere near the top of my list of offenses, so what the hell, here it goes. 

-----

on an italain bus in the middle of winter / to a salvadoran cafe with the approaching rain

someone told me once 
that people are like flakes of snow.
no two are alike.
so i responded that i once loved a blizzard
and tonight i'd give any one of my limbs to be frost bitten.

this bus is crowded 
and my hands are cold. 
i'd give up my seat a thousand times to feel needed, 
and if i were honest - i'd confess to having given up a lot more. 

if life is navigation   
most days are spent righting where i got off course; 
and by evening , 
alcohol will make a prophet 
of even the most foolish cicerone.

but if rain is newness 
drench me to the bone;
and all my body  
will beat to the hope 
that even the compassless, 
can soon find the other edge of the woods. 

basho on the poet's trail, me on a hillside behind the burger king

"Each day is a journey, and the journey itself home," - Matsuo Basho

there was an article, 'On the Poet’s Trail'  written for national geographic some time ago - i don't know when exactly, but i came across it this morning. It is the story of a writer, Howard Norman, who follows the former trail of a 17th century Japanese poet, called Basho; traveling some 1,200 miles through Japan, and writing this article, about Basho and about himself along the way. 

i've always told myself that my goal in life was to gradually get smaller and smaller, acquire and carry less and less, so that by the end of the road i could be left and content with simply the people around me, the love in my soul and a pen - to tell the story of it all. so i try, often neglectfully or mediocrely, to write something in each place i visit or moment in time i'm experiencing, about the people met and the things they say; about the beauty seen and the want to see it next to someone. 

and the story of Basho brought all that back to my mind, and made me realize that the trail is not finished, that we have yet to make it home, or at least to the point that - makes the darkest of times behind us, part of that which - makes the light ahead all the brighter. 

there is hope in looking forward; and as bad as my writing can be most days, i step into the spaces that welcome even the fewest of words, even silence. the cafes, the kitchen tables, the friends'  livings rooms, the friends'  kitchen tables, park benches and hillsides behind the burger king overlooking the city. because i have enough i'm sorries in my pockets for all 2 million of the still lit kitchen windows down the valley; and it means everything to empty each one, at a time, and speak them onto paper - folding airplanes, hoping their honesty will find your window still opened just enough to peak through; just enough to believe you're still looking; just enough to keep trying, to get back home. 

Sylvan Esso - 'Coffee'

night on john's rock

when i started writing, i attempted to force meaning into my words; to fill my story with heavy statements, and try and give depth to what, in the end was simple. and perhaps that’s where i realized that a story didn’t need to be significant, to have significance, so long as it was told on that side of redemption that makes us all the more beautiful in the end, helps us to stand up taller, stronger, and better than we truly are - were folks to see beneath all the forgiveness we're wearing. and i couldn’t be more convinced, that the beauty in a story is not in how well it seems to unfold, but in how one chooses to see and tell it after all; and at the difficult end of most days, i must try to believe that my story can be better than my worst mistakes, can amount to more than my failures, and end with the sun rising. remembering this trip with my brother, helps me to believe that it really can be. 

- - - - - 

the best trip i have ever taken, was up to pisgah national forest with my brother alan. it was 2006, and the second semester of my freshman year of college. him being a senior, we had one year of overlap together at the same university. 

my oldest sister, janice, had given birth to our first nephew, Trey Alan the previous january, and our family had decided to spend the easter weekend up there in asheville where she and my brother in law were living. being stoked as ever to be back on the road, alan and i loaded backpacks into our mothers mini van, and took off that thursday morning, driving the 12 hours straight through until we hit asheville, where we met up with everyone else in our family, and hung out with our new nephew that night.

all of good friday was spent with family, taking turns getting spit up on, helping with projects around the house and competing in the ever present card and marble games my family is notorious for. but beneath it all, loomed something in my brothers eyes - something that longed for the outdoors, and as hard as it would be to set down our nephew and the card games, something in me knew he'd find it. 

the weekend Trey was born, alan and i had driven up for a week to see him; and despite having been the first week of february, and the middle of winter, we had spent two nights in the surrounding hills, in a national forest they called pisgah. and already by that second night of easter weekend, i knew alan was ready to get back into the mountains as soon as a break presented itself in the family plans; and so, while he paraded and mapped out our anticipation, i performed my younger brother responsibilities of delicately explaining to everyone in the family why we needed to go, and that we would indeed return.  

just one night we said, and we meant it, knowing that half of adventure is in the decision to set out; the other half in coming home. after all, we only wanted to remind ourselves of what those hills looked and felt like, and to be still for a moment. quantity of time has always been and always will be, an accessory. 

saturday afternoon, alan and i loaded up the car, and with a few instructions from a neighbor headed in the direction of pisgah national forest. i can’t remember if it was in our excitement then or when we left south florida, but somehow we managed to leave the tent behind; but besides a short and passionate session of alan’s expletives yelled into the steering wheel of my brother in law’s car, we were relatively unfazed; and made it to the park about an hour before sundown. 

our backpacks were light, holding only our sleeping bags, plus the food for dinner and breakfast the following morning. we told one another we’d hike long enough until we found a good spot, and call it a night. after a mile or two of walking, we came to john’s rock; a bare, rounded edged cliff that overlooked the valley. we dropped our packs. alan unloaded the camp stove and cooking supplies my family had gifted him the christmas prior, and starting warming a single can of soup we’d brought along for dinner. i withdrew a book and read a few pages by the fading sunlight, and built a fire. thirty minutes or so later, we sat by firelight and warmth, and spooned mouthfuls of sausage gumbo onto triscuit crackers, commenting that those crackers had been the purchase of the trip. never have a i eaten so little and never have i been so full. 

and so the evening passed, and i couldn’t even tell you what we talked about, how well we slept, or even how beautiful the sunrise was; and never have details mattered less to how happy we were on that rock face, by a fire, sleeping under stars, and waking up knowing the brother we loved most wasn’t too far away. few things went right that night. in fact, a great many of the important things went wrong, but we awoke to easter morning, and never has a day past since then that would make me tell that story any less than the greatest trip i have ever taken.

twenty six and vinyl

when i was five years old i learned what a record player was. on a sunday, my brother, sisters and i crowded into the spare bedroom of my grandma's house, to turn on the old player she had stored there in a wooden dresser. alan was first to locate the beach boys 'endless summer' album, and within seconds, had the speakers crackling a moment of silence - as we four - made 1993 pause with our anticipation. the voices, surfin’ safari, resonating against pale, dried out wall paper and the mural of sunset in a tropical paradise against the south wall, stirring heavens inside each of our swelling hearts. my sole instincts were to follow, hypnotized, the circular lines of the vinyl, spinning out sounds from a decade beyond us, sounds beyond itself; like the twirling of my ten year old sisters. 

on my seventeenth birthday, my first girlfriend and i decided to be honest with ourselves;
so we cried puddles into her front yard and washed our necks and cheeks of the hickeys and the lipstick. i drove home sad, and with more time on my hands, so i self proclaimed that i would listen to more music, but the only tunes beside the christian radio and punk band cd’s that my dad allowed in the house were ironically, his own collection of records, now aged and stored away below the fish tank on the brown, square book shelves framing our living room. i dug through them as my mother yelled about the mess i was making, records and 20 year old dust from between the covers showering the living room carpet and tile. i thumbed passed Johnny Cash, Crosby - Stills - and -Nash, and Wings albums, until Paul Simon struck me, with an upside down chair and mardi gras mask etched colorfully onto a white cover. the name appeared in my father’s collection more than any other, so i asked about it, and when he started with the stories of when and where he'd been while hearing those songs for the first time, i had no other thought than to listen to that album start to finish; but we had no record player in the house so, 'there goes rhymin simon' in hand, i ran down the street, to my grandmother’s house, to look for that old record player of my sunday afternoon childhood. a few minutes of searching, and i found and carefully lifted it out of that same wooden dresser,  only by this point the speakers had well worn with age, and no longer played. i was so determined to hear the album, that i found a place on the kitchen floor to plug the record player into, and set the needle down on the first track. i held my cheek as close as i could, cupping my ear to catch a fraction of raw sound. for me, to love something, means knowing that a person i love, loves something. so it went with the songs of Paul Simon. 

soon after, my mom bought me a record player as a christmas gift, (and my dad must be like me, because it didn’t take long for him, realizing my new interest in records, to rediscover his own; lecturing me often on how to handle and care for things with such delicacy). i started building a simple collection - buying old records wherever i could, plus claiming most of my dad’s and receiving gifts from friends on birthdays. 

eight or so odd years later, Paul Simon is still a favorite, as are collections of old music and albums made of vinyl; and saying to love or enjoy something is one thing, but allowing more than three years to pass without setting a needle down on any of those old tracks is another. and i always blame the change of scenery, but secretly i wonder if i’ll ever discover the place of contentment, strong enough to really believe that simply loving something is enough to make me happy; enough to make me slow down, and stay in one place or experience long enough to truly enjoy it, or at least fight for it to be a part of my day to day. and maybe i'm too hard on myself, but the more i live the more i grow tired of promising that i’ll love things once i get there, goddammit - if you love something, love it - not at the start of the next chapter, or the end of this one. now.  

i am twenty six years old, 
and it’s been far too long since i played my old records;
but i still remember what a broken one sounds like, 
so every time i feel 
the needle skipping over my own scratches and scars, 
i start to worry if i'll ever make it to the next track.

a heart is a strong and beautiful melody,  
and it’s delicate, 
so, 
play me - turn me - hear me - change me - 
and be, (as my dad always said) 
careful when handling the surfaces. 

i don’t have all the answers, 
so only ask me if i love you, 
because i do have that one.

nothing to do with st. patty's day

i awoke; 
to twenty-six year sunshine
rising up the valley
two pine trees
three empty beer cans,
six cigarettes,
both my dreams, 
and all my insecurities 

one - that i will never make it home 
two - the dogs will bite
three - i spoke too soon 
four - i said too much 
five - you’d rather be somewhere else and
six - things would be different if only i had kissed her

these are my inhale,
swallowed (and today no exception) every morning
as casually as cereal; 
like daily memorials
to the hope i'd have it all together, 
to the wish to dream away or dream forever, 
her - 
lovely i could only start to pen unfinished words to,
soul alive to spark a window wide enough to peak through, 
will so brave i soon became the one that needed rescue,

are you ready? 
because when i start to speak
she will see 
that the bridges in my love songs 
have lost all the safety they once promised, 
forever 
looks more 
like aged rope, tattered boards 
and the canyons of an indiana jones film, 
than a welcomed invitation to love me; 

yes, i do believe in romance 
i'm only frightened to admit it 
to anyone that knows i'm much too cowardly to get it 

but some days, 
one must inch out onto the limbs of his hopeful 
as if all things passed were now reflected off his fears into daylight,
as if the broken bones and the scars are again merely what’s to come;
only we can see them 
only we can hear them, and feel them
like a thumping in our chest 
and a voice out west 
saying i dare you: 
failure is an option, 
but she is beautiful 
and heartbreak is only my rough draft

today in mango trees

to borrow a page from t.s. eliot 
'i have measured my life 
(better, 
am measuring my minutes), 
in mango trees' 

in the rungs on the ladder, 
the ups and downs 
and the top;

both feet steady,
with a pool net reaching outward 
and two hands ready below; 

in catching, 
in missing, 
in picking up the pieces
and harvesting what remains whole; 

in a sunday afternoon, 
in the friend who stuck around,
in remembering 
and the joy it gives  

today

with lime and again

some nights are meant for being productive,
some are for doing perfectly nothing,
and others are for sitting 
in the general proximity of old friends,
having a beer 
with lime and again - 
feeling the excitement to be alive. 

Hike to the Boqueron & 'Volcano' by Damien Rice

I had the chance to take two Californians, Martin and Jerry of Kean Coffee, up to the El Boqueron - San Salvador. Took a few pictures and asked a lot of volcano questions, while Martin, a former archeologist, who shared extensively about the workings of volcanic eruptions and how they develop and form such a structure. Solid hike and lunch at Las Brumas, overlooking San Salvador. By days end all the talk of volcanos had me thinking of a favorite, plus another favorite, singing this tune. 

)

JM Barrie 'Peter Pan'

(In a sort of way he understands what he means by "Yes, I know," but in most sorts of ways he doesn't. It has something to do with the riddle of his being. If he could get the hang of the thing his cry might become "To live would be an awfully big adventure!" but he can never quite get the hang of it, and so no one is as gay as he. With rapturous face he produces his pipes, and the Never Birds and the Fairies gather closer till the roof of the little house is so thick with his admirers that some of them fall down the chimney. He plays on and on till we wake up).