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Revel
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Sidewalks fresh quilted with fallen leaves
Streets embroidered slick with light
Branches woven loose scrape canvas sky
Vaporous thread pierces cumulus pillows
Blanketing the lake with a remnant of warmth-
Hints of cold drizzle stitch naked cheeks
In the air a starch chill knits our breath together.
This Tree Is A Widow Maker
The people of the valley lie in silent mounds.
In death their repose is feline, their form pantheric
But these are not graves
Rather a campground of eternity, a view of infinite sunrise
The shushing trees have bestowed upon them the offerings
Which their descendants cannot.
This tree is a widow maker, fool killer
These leaves, stained glass dreams.
Let us fill this hollow
So our hopes do not freeze with winter.
Let us fold our disappointments into a beautiful crane
Whose graceful neck shall never bow.
Let us wrap today’s joy into a gift
That we may open again tomorrow.
How I Remember
This is how I will remember you:
Sitting on the roof of your island cottage
Drink in hand, a story on your smiling lips, mischief in your twinkling eyes.
While the women were away on some important business in town,
We sat on the roof and listened to Pink Floyd.
You told me a tale of reckless and beautiful youth
You told me of college, of parties, of listening to “Dark Side” complete
With darkened room lit-cigarette drum pantomime accompaniment
I didn’t understand anything at all but I laughed and nodded as though I understood all too well
Your shrug told me that someday, I might, if I was lucky.
Your smirk said you knew I was bullshitting, but that was all right too,
That I was all right.
Even then I knew you were a part of me and
Yes, that truth was a little scary to contemplate.
Smoke curled from your cigarette into the night, ice cubes clinked together saying, “all empty.”
This is how I will remember you:
Not for the often bad or the sometime good
But by refusing to pretend that you were anything but exactly
What you were.
It is with great pride that I present to you my inaugural attempt at producing a "field recording." This set features a sampling of the many styles of music we encountered on our recent trip to Oaxaca, Mexico: everything from raucous street parade brass bands fueled by oompah bass and rumbling tubas, to performers in the zocalo playing rustic, buzzy marimbas, to large ensembles of high school kids as well as solo street performers...and the soothing sounds of the crashing surf at Mazunte for good measure.
I won't pretend to be an expert in musica Oaxaquena- all I know is that the music was great and I want to share it with you (and don't even get me started on the food....ay, mole!). I regret that I was not able to get the names of the tunes or the musicians- a humbling reminder that I have plenty to learn as a budding field recordologist :) . I hope they would be pleased to find their music reaching new audiences (and it's not as though I'm making money off this recording) so I have forgiven myself of the oversight. I blame it on the mezcal. :)
For now, I can simply say "MUCHAS GRACIAS!" to the wonderful, beautiful and warm people of Oaxaca. And to you, dear reader, as always: thanks for listening.
Field Recordings Volume 1: Music & Sounds of Oaxaca, Mexico
COMING SOON!
For now, a poem:
OAXACA
Oaxaca-
You cling to the great mother hip of the mountain
You are the child held high to receive the blessings of the Sun
You are time and its passage
You are copal curling towards the gilded ceiling
You are perfume of wood smoke and diesel, Oaxaca,
Your mezcal bears my mother’s name.
We are Nomads
We meet but once a year
On hallowed ground
In sacred time
And yet
In all our wanderings
Through life’s balance
We are never alone.
We transit the Sun without resting
We feel its pull
But we will never reach it.
We live in its warmth
And yet, we will never touch it.
It sustains us
As friends sustain one another:
With love which can cross any distance.
Bounded
I saw the city deer again today.
As I was driving back from lunch.
A trio at the side of the road
One was about to cross
Right in front of me
I leaned on my horn
(A rude reply to such a lovely sight, I know)
I noticed that one was
Cut off from his two friends
By the intrusion of
A chain link fence.
Their distress was real, palpable and terrifying
I felt it in my hands, in the wheel:
Innocence, confusion, panic
So clearly written across the furrowed brow and
In fear-lit eyes.
Please don’t cross in front of me, I beg you.
And thankfully, the deer did not.
Whipping a graceful head around
Turned, bounded away
Seeking the end of the fence
And the embrace of friends.
"Song To The Morning"
I posted this to Facebook a coupla weeks back but totally forgot to post it here (yet more evidence that FB is taking over...my brain)...so here it is, for posterity.
...and I enjoyed doing and posting the "work in progress" so much that I asked Bobby Love to come over last night and help me do another. This one is called "Heading To Chicago." Enjoy! (Yeah, I blew the ending but that's why it's a "WIP!")
