Most writers keep journals. I am no different. I use my journals (analog and digital) to draft poems, make notes, jot down random thoughts and quotes I like, and just to play with language and ideas.
Some Random thoughts from my journals:
Looking back over the years of my blog, I see that every fall my mind turns toward Nature. In death it seems, we naturally seek signs of life.
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It takes more imagination to live in Minnesota than it does in Montana. In Montana, all you have to do is step out the door and everything looks pretty much the same as it did when Lewis and Clark first visited there.
In Minnesota, the great prairies have been plowed under. The big woods logged off.
But sometimes, in surprising places, you can find something that reminds you of the way Minnesota once was.
Those moments are magical.
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The demonic is rooted in contextual literalism. What I mean by that is that the demonic uses the very human tendency to believe that what is good for me must be good, what seems true to me must be true, what I understand something to be must be the way it is.
In the modern American context this takes the socio-political form of the right-wing evangelical or the left-wing secularist… two sides of the same distorted coin. They are like groups of people standing on two small but very different islands within sight of one another. One believes their island is the whole world, the other is equally convinced their island is the whole world. Meanwhile there are oceans and continents and other planets and universes they refuse to acknowledge or think about. They only spend their time yelling at the others on the opposite island to convert to their way of thinking, or plotting how to take over that other island.
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The goal is to get words down on paper. If they are the right words in the right order, so much the better.
But in the end, tidying up comes later.
I have been writing now for years. I have a habit that works for me. Whether it would work for another, I do not know. But for me, it is enough to get up early and to write.
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I wonder if something could be written linking: Whitman -> Thoreau -> Jerry Garcia? Or better yet: St. Francis -> Thoreau -> Whitman -> J.G.?
I see all four resonating in me. Add Yeats and Hemingway and you have those “artists” closest to my heart, closest to the way I experience and see the world.
In the first four figures, you have four that never tried to fit in, who were magnificently and beautifully their truest selves (to coin a Mertonism). In Yeats and Hemingway you have the two writers that I measure all writing by.
My father was fascinated by history. Any highway sign that pointed to an old battlefield or abandoned town, to teepee rings or a buffalo jump, to some Lewis & Clark site or Vigilante meeting place was sure to have my dad pulling the car over to have a look around. I never complained.
Since I shared my dad’s enthusiasm for all things historical –especially Western– I grew up visiting Montana ghost towns like Bannack, Elkhorn, Marysville, Argo, and Hasel and poking around old homesteads and abandoned ranch houses and mines.
Time takes a toll on ghost towns. The towns I visited in the 1960s and 1970s are half a century older now. Buildings I once walked through are often now just piles of wood and stone, or completely gone altogether. Another generation, and they will all be gone… expect those few that have had enough commercial and/or historical value to warrant some governmental attention.
Teepee rings and ghost towns have always resonated with me, with my sense of history and my sense of the meaning of life. I have visited famous buildings and places in the East and ancient ruins in the Southwest, yet I have never felt the same wonder and awe that I feel when I stand in front of an abandoned homestead or look down on a circle of stones almost lost in sagebrush and grass. The longest poem I have ever written, “Madison Buffalo Jump, 1975,” was my attempt to pin-down… to literally pen-down… that feeling.
Bannack, Montana is the ghost town I have visited most. It is also the one I have have the most digital photos of. Here are some photos from the first Territorial Capital of Montana, Bannack St. Park take a few year ago.
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Here is the Dead (with Bruce Hornsby on keyboards) doing one of their under appreciated masterpieces.
I have mentioned here before that I read a lot of what is traditionally, and pejoratively, classified as “genre fiction.” It is what I enjoy reading before going to bed or at times when I am too tired to write or read something more demanding of my attention. Watching TV makes me restless. Reading light-fare does not.
I started one a couple of days ago that I got from the library. Like a lot of “Men’s Adventure” fiction it features a rich, handsome, brilliant, courageous, hero who is not only an expert in some obscure field but also a great business man as well an expert in weapons and police or military tactics. They are also, of course, peopled by beautiful, sexy, and brilliant women who are smart about everything but stupid enough to hook up with the hero of the book.
These cliches are easy enough for the most part to overlook or skip. Details about weapons and tactics can be easily skimmed. But what cannot is the inevitable right-wing political-bullshit baggage many of them carry with them.
In the book that I am trying to read now, the writer has come up with a ridiculously complex plot centered around the idea that a group of environmentalist-lefties kill a bunch of people to steal proof that global warming is not caused by CO2, but other factors.
According to the protagonist, the case for CO2 causing climate change is a hoax born of emotion and not science and perpetrated by researchers who are paid a lot of money to confirm the flawed theory so as to hurt industry, mainly American industry, and the “American Way of Life.”
It is interesting to note that the protagonist is not denying global warming. That ship has apparently sailed. Even Exxon executives, for the most part, no longer try to sell that story. No his argument, which mirrors many I have heard from righties of late is that maybe is is a contributing factor but it is not the only one and besides it is economically too expensive to clean up and not as dire as claimed.
Whenever I hear such “economic” arguments a couple of questions come readily to my mind that I would love to be able to ask.
First, on the one hand they are saying that researchers are biased because they are paid hundreds of thousands of dollars to prove that global warming is a problem. Yet at the same time they seem to be saying Oil Companies are NOT incentivized by the billions of dollars of oil profits to deny their own culpability, or that their researchers are not incentivized by the hundred of thousands of dollars they get to prove that CO2 does NOT cause global warming.
Second, there seems to be a conflation of what is in the best interests of oil companies is obviously in the best interest of the United States. This is an equation, I have never been able to understand. Yet is is as old as the TeaPot Dome Scandal.
I will keep reading the book probably. But what promised to be a far-fetched plot, has apparently become a ridiculous one.
Listen to some good music and hangout with friends and family.
As I have mentioned here frequently of late, I have been reading a lot of Franciscan theology. My interest in all things theological waxes and wanes. And yet on some level it is always there.
Poetry and theology are after all the two ways I think about this world. And though I may be biased, they remain in my mind the two best ways to think about most every thing.
In my early 20s, I formally studied theology. For the last three decades it has been more informal. I can say the same thing, now that I am thinking about it, about poetry as well!
If I had kept every theology book that I ever dipped into over the years the house would be even more full of books than it already has been. (Though I have gotten better about letting go of books. Much better).
I say all this by way of explanation for anyone new to me or to ClimbingSky and who may be wondering why I am posting these days about prayer or St. Francis.
If someone believes or does not believe as I do for the most part matters little to me. I feel about them usually like I feel about those who say they do not like bourbon. It is only their loss. I am no missionary. Nor have I ever wanted to be one.
What does irritate me quite a bit are those who say they arrived at the conclusion that there was no God, or that all religion is just bullshit, etc. when they were in 8th grade.
I feel the same about these people as I would someone who said they had read Shakespeare in 8th grade and had concluded that he could not write. Or, that they studied science in 8th grade and have concluded that Global Warming and Evolution are bullshit.
For these people I have only… lack of respect. And that is really all they deserve. Adolescent insight is after all hormonal not intellectual.
If you are of this latter group, and you have stumbled onto this blog for reasons of poetry, feel free to move on. For those who stick with me, thank you.
For longtime followers, and I know there are a few, rest assured that I will continue to weave rather randomly between topics poetical and theological with a few stops in between to talk politics or art or music or Westerns or books or sports. By now, what else would you expect.
I have been thinking about prayer of late.
I used to attend a Lutheran church where one of the pastors insisted that any event held at the church required a prayer. It was her view that something going on at church needed to have a “Christian” component to it. Though she never said so explicitly, it was apparent that she believed that someone (especially and ordained clergy person) saying a prayer did something that changed any event from secular to sacred.
Needless to say, it was an idea that I had no time for. And still have no time for.
To my mind she was making two mistakes.
First, she was making prayer the pre-eminent “Christian” component. Certainly it would be better to insist that the event somehow feed or help the poor, take care of children, take care of creation. That would be closer to the heart of what it means to be Christian than someone standing up and giving a minute-long list of requests asking for God to help and support in some way.
Second, and most importantly, she was making the mistake of confusing prayer with the act of talking rather than listening.
There is an old saying: if you are talking you cannot be listening. I respectfully suggest that what passes for prayer in most churches involves lots of talking and very little, if any, listening. It is hence not prayer at all. It is merely the petitioning of desires and grievances.
Prayer is letting the heart and mind rest in silence so you can actually hear what God has to say. For I do believe that God speaks to us.
Prayer requires quiet and solitude. It requires letting go of the very desires and grievances we associate with most so-called prayer.
Most of all, it requires us to shut up and listen!
I suppose that is one of the reasons church music makes me restless. You enter the church and there is a prelude playing until the service starts. The service is people talking or singing. Moments of silent reflection are but a moment, at most. And when it is time to leave, there is more music.
And when the music is dreary and boring… it is better to skip the service altogether and to go outside and listen to God in nature, or to read and hear God in poetry.
It is better to do almost anything than to stand in a group of people and talk.
I have not done Music Monday for awhile.
I am still listening primarily to live recordings of the Grateful Dead. It has become for me a form of prayer. Hearing the same songs done in different ways over different years. Especially Jerry’s guitar solos which are as holy to me as Lester Young’s saxophone solos and Duke Ellington alone on the piano. There is in the way all three play their instruments a “slowed-down-feminine-beauty” that I have heard nowhere else.
I have said here before that I do not much like most hymns or sacred music. It would be more accurate though to say that I “loathe” them. Nothing makes my worship experience less meaningful than the boring sound of an organ or people forced to stand and sing some dreary hymn.
But I do enjoy hearing crowds sing “secular” hymns at concerts. It should be the same experience, but it is not. Maybe it is because one is spontaneous and rooted in joy, the other rooted in… expected decorum.
I will think on it some more. In the meantime, here is another Dead song and another Jerry solo.