End of summer hikes and highlights.
First week of classes before Labor Day.
We drove up to Garrison.
And hiked out to Arden Point
Past an old church
And Patti Hurst’s House.
Past Ham Fish’s.
Taking a left at the train tracks.
Retraced our well worn path.
Where Caroline and I walked,
the Cannibal Girls formed.
On the back trail
Along the magic Hudson.
Past crumbling ruins, reclaimed by the vines.
Not quite Angkor Wat.
A pause for a second.
Before we made our way
back to the city.
Talking Bowie with the teenager.
Back to Grand Central and Princeton on our way to
Sunday morning at 10 AM,
No one is in town.
The city is quiet.
Alive but empty.
Looking at us looking at it.
Like my first summer here.
Leather folks and women in white t shirts walking the streets.
The city looking at us as we look at it.
Looking back at it.
Back in 1998.
Riding past the murals.
And a Lennon Wall.
Struggles for democracy everywhere.
Against Hong Kong
Names flying to and from.
Life on Mars.
Teargas in Hong Kong.
Hopes here from Brooklyn.
Fighting in the dance hall.
Babs at the beach.
I’m on my way.
Back to Judson.
Beach or Church.
Which church to attend?
Where to break bread?
God is unknowable
Or maybe she’s left town?
Still I miss her.
Wondering what happens
When the Roll is Called Up Yonder.
Are we heading towards peace?
Meeting the teenager at First Street Garden.
Keith and Leslie on the Street back in Brooklyn.
It all fades
In front of our eyes.
Fall Classes starting.
Later that night,
The Ditchdigger returned for another go of it.
From Falmouth to Brooklyn.
Back into the breach.
Are we heading towards peace?
Writing and arriving.
By way of England,
Back up to Poughkeepsie.
Back in the USA.
Eating at the Empire Dinner.
A feeling of foreboding.
Up to college.
Back to the scene of the crime.
where we sat in grass all those years ago.
Housing in the woods.
Varieties of religious experience even if we don’t know what we believe.
God is unknowable.
God is unknowable.
But we are still looking and hoping.
Reflecting on the unconscious.
Or the unknowable.
History of life.
On ideas of who we are.
On the space between poetry and the sublime?
What do fictions of faith have to teach us?
When the roll, is called up yon-der,When the roll is called up yonder I?ll be there
That’s when I feel it.
Looking for a coffee.
Flipping through Gordon’s book absurdist adventure
From Amsterdam with Love.
With a chuckle and a smile.
Mind breaths and beat hotels.
An old master teaching.
But I’m still not sure I understand the nature of poetry.
Walking by the cemetery on campus.
Its like I'm half in already,
Says the Ditchdigger.
in Poughkeepsie, like death.
Talking John Cheever.
The Ovid Ossining.
Full of deceits, secret lives.
Looking around campus,
Raymond into the gloom.
It could be quiet.
The trees are abundant.
What’s there to learn about a person from the worst thing that ever happened to them?
Its a way to see things,
says the Ditchdigger.
"Perhaps we only exist because of alternate narratives,"
posits his alterego Rob, words and ideas floating,
from Henry and the Moonbaby.
"The chatter of drinkers on the peninsula..."
"We search the stars for gods..."
We're looking for the classroom.
Somewhere between Rockefeller Hall and the cemetery.
"A page of prose is where one hears the rain and the noise of battle,
grief for universality,"
penned Cheever in his journal.
Wondering about the fictions of faith.
"To write well,
to wrote passionately,
to be warmer
to be more self-critical,
to recognize the power as well
as the force of lust, to write love,"
"Read the journals advised the Ditchdigger.
and "Goodbye My Brother."
"In middle age there is my story,
there is mystification...
a kind of loneliness...
Even the beauty seems to crumble,
Some miscarriages some wrong turning...
Writes the Ditchdigger.
Watching the US Open at the Hurricane,
On our way to the Beech Tree...
Back by the cemetery.
On our way back.
Its a beautiful night out.
A beautiful night out.
Lots of stars.
Not really sure I understand what exactly is the nature of poetry.
If you have an idea, do let me know.
I'll keep up the cut up method as long as I can,
Looking at the city on the way back home.
Making it through the night.
Lights emerging from the depths,
Home by 515 am.
Dreaming, sending the little one off to first day of school.
Talking with C for hours,
Walking to the brink and back.
Fight, forgive and yoga.
May the circle be unbroken.
Whew. That was a wild day.
kids from China in my policy class.
Discussing Hong Kong and Brexit,
Trade wars and immigration battles.
Burning rage at difference.
Lam pulls the extradition bill.
Wins for the activists.
ok, enjoy the day.
I'll look out for the glasses in the car.
I liked the Hurricane.
The climate strike is coming.
Paul’s sister perished.
Mowed down in motion.
But can we stop the plastics?
“From the karma circuit that joins us, divides us.
From the ebbtide, the flow, the lone mind, the sea surge”
That Harold saw at the Hotel Nirvana.
Rearranged texts that shook up lives.
Can we help transform them from solid to fluid space,
When the Roll Is Called Up Yonder