Warm

I’m sick of writing about the snow. Crisp whites, frozen tires and bloodless hands. A deserts life right now.

The wide open empty. The lizards the sand the cracks in the mud and the rainless corpse of earth. The slim yet indignant cacti and the humble sun just burning hard pumping rays into everything but shadow. The quiet, the creaky wind and maybe some sweat. The smell of nothing but the sweet stench of dust. A campsite. A fire, a relentless night. Naked stars, cloudless and bright. A suns slumber.

Hills, no, mountains of clay red, beige and smooth. Eager roots, harsh realities, and a humble sense of survival. The heat. Strong, earnest and consistent, it echoes the deserts name. Eyes closed, legs tired, water lost. The dry smack of your lips, a week old beard and an empty cup. I’d have a backpack soaked in salt. My boots would be brown and my pants would be dirty. My shirt would stink and I would drip. Room for a smile nonetheless.
With my fair skin, I’d get tatted red. Aloe like ice. I’d walk home.

Southern trails

I want to see the south so bad. Here I am in the deep depths of an Atlantan winter and my mind wanders across a map. Never been south of Virginia and I hear the gravy’s sweet. Cornbread, grits and some blues I want to taste the flavors. New Orleans gumbo with a jazz purée, Nashville biscuits with served with a country twang and a Charleston two step, alamode. Why the fuck not? I’m here, I’ve never seen it, and from my apartment the breeze smells pretty nice. Crack out the RandMcNally, I’m goin’ livin!

How my head works before I fall asleep

My fingers are too tired to write this.

I feel good about the future.

It looks pretty big.

I wish I could play the piano.

Blues piano.

Green eggs and ham.

The wild wild open.

Cactus needles with a desert sunset.

Soft shoes.

Deep sleep.

Beautiful dreams.

Shaken bones.

Smile.

What if a man had a magical camera? I’m talking about a genetic tweak in its workings that is by all means possible, but altogether unexpected. It literally sees the world a different way. A man might lose his mind over a find like that.

I hitchhiked from the ski hill today. Met a nice man and we talked about stunt devils.

Tomorrow night I’ll be sleeping in Atlanta.

Lift tickets die.

My boots hurt my feet, my hands are cold in my gloves and my cheeks burn a winters red. My ass, damp in its pants, freezes slow on the jerky yet scenic chairlift. The clock reads 3:30 and my legs agree, the day is done.

The last run should always been the longest. Your socks should feel the snow and your smile should flap in the wind. The sun slows to a smolder as you give a nod to the operator at the top of paradise. The crowds have dwindled and he wonders when he too can get a cup of something hot. On a clear afternoon you can see the whole valley hibernating. Trees naked, slopes hidden, and gusts of powder sprinkling the unsuspecting walls. Its beautiful in Montana, especially at 3:33.

I strap up and tighten my grip on a game plan. Las time down I found some fresh stuff stuck in between a log and a forest with long arms. Tracks trail my board and gravity goes to work. Lean on my calves, press on my thighs I slap the mounds of soft with the backside of my line. I’m going to see if its still there. There is a tight left turn that got the better of me earlier. Its dangling pine needles slapped my arm and gave warning of worse if I dare return. Its just a fucking tree.

I dodge and indulge and find my basket of clean snow. Pure, lazy, and mine. I turn hard and often until it turns to chop. I cruise the groomers, build up speed and ignore the slow signs. My face refrigerates as the lodge comes into view. Lackluster skis and poles outline the deck and the smoke billows smooth from its spout. I thank my knees and loosen my boots. Beers are sweetest at the bottom of ski days.

Brooklyn snow

When it snows in New York, street lights drop brown shadows and flicker like short wicked candles. A pocket of chaos in a sea of black, they illuminate a storm all their own. Atmospheres divided by the blank spaces of night, dark street corners, and empty delis. Brownstone steps, dressed in white, see no stars and feel no feet. We watch from windows caked in fog and breathe in sighs. My morning flight is cancelled.

Holiday Rants in NYC

I watched a rat run uptown from union square today. Its fat furry body raced along the cold steel rail before he dipped and dodged through railroad spikes. Only a handful of us noticed. Calm and swift, he knew the underground better than the subway drivers themselves. His nose twitched and he bid me no mind as he scurried by. He had some shopping to do I’m sure.

The drugstores sell trees at this time of year. Healthy full-bodied beasts from some distant forest all suffering the same fate. They wait and watch the cabs roll by nodding only when noticed. Their salesmen smoke cigarettes, as limbs lay tight in string nets. A mean market minus the flesh. These seasonal pimps sell two weeks of cheer for 10 minuets of back-and-fourth and a few 20’s. The pine gets no vote. Strung up by the stressed out, a chosen trunk gets strapped to a roof and feels an honest breeze for maybe an hour. It gets groped into a tree dish, you know the red things with screw holders, before getting dressed by a family drunk on nothing more than each other. It sleeps warm despite the lights and the tacky tinsel lining. The 26th comes but the restless needles still pepper the floor and adjacent rugs. A tree never completely leaves a home, as a Christmas is never completely forgotten.

Clef notes and Nor Cal

For some reason whenever I’m in San Fransisco with my dad we go music shopping. We’d rummage through endless piles of misplaced talent and cast away dreams salvaging only the best we could find in a whole half hour. We were maniacs and it showed. We used to go to the Tower Records not too far from the marina. The seagulls squawked and pacific mists would dissolve with California sun. We always seemed to go in the afternoon. The place was great, layers and layers of world and local tunes. Rock and Pop for days with whispers of bluegrass in the back. I’d chase names I knew, covers I liked, and radio tunes. My dad went straight for the classical. Back then there were two tower records stores. One massive house of music accompanied but a smaller more digestible store offering orchestras and opera. He always started there and joined me next door to do the heavy lifting. We’d fill a grocery store sized hand basket to the brim and cruise the isles. Checkouts were great. Cashiers earning their wages and a satisfied but impatient pops taking his time to listen to each and every sales pitch. He’d always wind up with a shirt neither of us would ever wear. He would laugh and I would shake my head approvingly. We would share songs on the way home and talk about old time greats. Alas all good times change. The internet got a hold of the music industry and soon our sacred Tower Records feel into bankruptcy. Both Stores.

So we adapted and starting going to Amoeba Records in the Height Ashbury region. The streets are lined with the crazy and the carefree. Hippie history and laid back dogs. Kids laughing and parents remembering. It’s a cool vibe down there. The store only makes it better. Huge and less organized it starts out with a row of check out counters and opens up with an enormous foreground of shiny cd’s. The ceilings are high and the corners sport big fisheye mirrors. With those things you can see the whole place with your back to it. A sight my ears can enjoy. It’s a different spot but the same game with the same rules. “Go until your hands are full, see you in a half hour.” The blues section is real deep there. All the way to the right you’ll find the rocking chairs and whiskey drinkers. The heavy hearts and the badass smiles. On the upper level there’s sizeable room where they still sell vinyls. I don’t have a record player so I don’t bother. I bet I’d have fun in there. The people always seem stoked. After a ride through the reggae and the peek at the jazz I’ll meet up with a struggling but happy father. I do the lifting these days. We glance at some new releases and have a gander at the gadgets before confronting an innocent cashier. He still listens to the promotions and we still get a shirt.

Our retail aftermath sounds like the rolling stones and storytelling. Rides home are painted orange and glow strong from the sea. We sing the afternoon to sleep.