a little shack down by Putah Creek
above all, kindness
I drew my outline in the ashes left from someone else's fire. the large asymmetrical ears. the round tummy. impossibly gigantic feet. squiggly line for the beard. the trail ahead bends to the right and out of sight. following the ridge top above the Yuba River. who had built this fire here. and when. there is no easy way in or out of here. rattlesnakes. lots of deer droppings. raccoon. but also bear shit if you look hard enough. I don't. I also don't follow the ridge top any farther. I erased my artwork with the same stick I used to draw it. stand up and move back down the trail the same way I came up. a beautiful summer sun. the slight sound of my own feet walking.
jobe
In dreams begins responsibility.
William Butler Yeats
Georg Trakl (sic) was an Austrian poet who served in World War One, and saw the atrocities one would expect. He became a pharmacist, a cocaine addict, and died of an overdose at 27.
ALWAYS DARKER
The wind, which moves purple treetops,
Is God's breath that comes and goes.
The black village rises before the forest;
Three shadows are laid over the field.
Meagerly the valley dusks
Below and silent for the humble.
A seriousness greets in garden and hall,
That wants to finish the day,
Piously and darkly an organ-sound.
Marie is enthroned there in blue vestment
And cradles her babe in hand.
The night is starlit and long.
GEORG TRAKL, 1887-1914
DILIGENCE and patience wisdom above all, kindness and generosity and though I am not perfect may I seek out ways to practice these every day and be thankful that I can
jobe
IF these black sleeves
Of my priestly robe
Were ample enough,
Oh, how I would envelop
All the people in need!
LIKE the sky at dawn silent and vast let my being merge with the timeless immensity of being alive I am the universe the universe is me
jobe
MACBETH doesn’t live in Scotland; he has a little shack down by Putah Creek, California, where there is no king to kill. Macbeth spends his days hunting for reeds to weave into baskets, doing a little fishing. The sun, the moon, and the stars do what they do.
jobe
Anyone can make the simple complicated. Creativity is making the complicated simple.
Charles Mingus
MY father claimed that fish bite better at night. He had a system. Dad would get a healthy campfire going, some really strong coffee brewed, and he would add a healthy slug of Jack Daniels to each cupful. He would set a trotline for catfish, and fish for crappie and bass from the shore. Every so often he would paddle out and check the trot-line. After midnight we would have a fish-fry. We would eat, drink, turn up the country music on this big, ancient portable radio he had. Sometimes we could get WSM radio out of Nashville all the way there in Rains County, Texas. And we would swap stories all night long. Sometimes one of Dad’s brothers would come along, maybe a cousin or two, and sometimes other fishermen would smell the coffee or the fish cooking and come over. All were welcomed. My father said that the fish bite better at night, but the truth was, he could catch fish anytime; he just liked being out there at night. Coffee. Jack Daniels. big old sky. Men laughing around a fire all night. Campfire biscuits in the morning.
jobe
Thanks for reading this, Campers!
Although I can only afford the free version, your messages are a balm to the wounds of this soul. Thank you. 🙏🏼