Old Time Love Story

I've been visiting my Aunt in Palm Springs the last few days. We've been having a wonderful time going through letters my Grandmother and Grandfather exchanged prior to being married. Their correspondence reads like a novel - full of big dreams, loneliness, humor and yearning.

It was in a Arkansas melon patch that Alpha first laid eyes on Lloyd. She caught him eating the melons with his bare hands, and years later was fond of telling her grandchildren, "he was the ugliest man I'd ever laid eyes on!" At 17 years old, they parted when Lloyd's family moved to Oklahoma, and thus began the written correspondence. The first letter was from my Grandfather: 42 short poems. Check out these gems:

I love you little, I love you lots

my love for you would fill ten pots

nine tin buckets

eight tin cans

seven wash kettles

and six dishpans.

Long may you live

happy may you be

loved by all others

but mostly by me.

The sea is wide, the sea is deep

in your arms I long to sleep.

Long is the road with many a crook,

I hope someday to be your cook.

Grandpa, that is such false advertising! She always cooked for you!

Even though they loved each other from the beginning, they didn't drop everything to be together. He struggled to finish his (8th grade) education, then tried to join the Civilian Conservation Corps (there was a long wait list - this was during the great depression, mind you), and considered joining the army. She continued her education while working as a housekeeper and eventually became a schoolteacher. They rarely visited each other, relying on letters for communication. My Grandfather felt like he must make something of himself before he could be with Grandma, so he moved to California to make his fortune. The fortune wouldn't be made until much later, with the assistance of Alpha, but he made enough and experienced all sorts of difficult and interesting jobs and characters. Finally, in their letters, you can see how the "blues" of not being together became too great to bear, and they were married. The letters stop.

It strikes me how long they remained apart, despite their longings for each other. For 4 years they followed their difficult, separate paths. Of course the struggle didn't end with marriage. I think being apart actually prepared them to be together. They were married 61 years.

Learning to Live Again

It's been over 2 years since I've convened with my notebook in a meaningful way. I had forgot what a powerful tool it is; a place for self-examination, personal therapy, random thoughts, random-er doodles, incubating ideas, creative freedom, and non-judgement. It feels good to resume this relationship, notebook and I. Who knows what will come of it?

University of Life

Tomorrow, after nearly 5 months on the farm, I'm finally headed home. Yet as my departure nears, I find myself doubting: is Austin really home? After all, it's no accident I've spent almost half a year in rural Oregon. To me, popular culture has never seemed so foreign, and I suspect I'm in for a shock and something resembling depression upon returning to the city. We all learn to acclimate to the situations we find ourselves in, and it probably won't be long until I'm once again comfortable in the concrete jungle; content with movie theaters, art museums, and rock shows. But there's no denying: the farm beckons me. It's in my heart and it won't let go.

This summer, Farmer Steve was laid up with gout for a month, completely out of commission. The other day he apologized that he was unable to teach me skills during this time, to which I replied, "Don't worry about it. I've learned more here than in a hundred classrooms." And it's absolutely true. Perhaps unbeknownst to him, the farm skills I've learned are the least of it. The things I've learned most are less tangible, but perhaps more important. Things like: generosity, how to get along with others, patience, work ethic. When I see Steve pick up someone's slack without complaint, or offer to clean dishes that aren't his - I greatly admire him, and find myself emulating that behavior. Here, at a little farm in southern Oregon, I feel like I'm becoming the man I want to be, and that is very satisfying.

I find myself loving Deb and Steve like family, and the feeling must be mutual, because they've offered to contribute resources and expertise to help me build my very own cabin down by the goat barn. Fifty yard walk to the river. Spectacular view of Hope Mountain. The opportunity to become a self-sufficient human with a variety of skills, immersed in an amazing community of like-minded individuals. Hard to say no.

The other night, I camped down with the goats, in a golden grassy field adjacent their pen. Under the stars, warmed by fire, I made a long list of reasons to stay. Tomorrow they will become reasons to return.

The Goat Barn

The Green Dragon Destroys the Kingdom

The Late Harvest

Been working like a dog lately... 12 hour days are becoming the norm. I'm probably too tired to write a coherent blog post, but I'll give it a shot.

Work has been coming in two forms: unpaid community volunteer work and very well paid medical marijuana work. I guess the two achieve some kind of taoist, universal balance? The karma of selfless good deeds has wrought personal abundance? Beats me... all I know is I'm too exausted to draw comparisons, make decent metaphors, or spell.

Yeah. So on Sunday (the big 10-10-10), a woman in the community organized a very successful event (in collaboration with 350.org) in which people came out and helped clear the hike & bike trail along Takilma Road. My day was spent reclaiming swaths of the trail from overgrown blackberry and ceanothus, throwing the cuttings into a large trailer, and taking it to the goats. Imagine if a big dumb baboon brought you your favorite food on a silver platter all day long. That's what it was like being a goat on Sunday.

On Monday, a bunch of us volunteers went gleaning at a local farm. We combed through a gigantic mono-cultured corn field, and left with a few truck-beds of very nice corn which we distributed to food banks, charities, and schools. It was neat driving around delivering corn we harvested. I felt like Santa Clause.

Gleaning: Hard on the back!

Then today (and for the forseeable future), I did extremely boring and monotonus work for ridiculous sums of money. Actually, it's not so ridiculous if you think about it... nobody is gonna do this type of work for less than $20/hr, really. Unless you live in another country or came here from another country. It's soul sucking work and no self respectin' American should have to do it! It's work that transforms you from a living, breathing, possibly interesting human being ---> into an automoton.

Yes, but most of us learn that survival is toil sooner or later. I keep reminding myself that I'm putting in my toil now, rather than later. If I work enough in the next few weeks, I'll have my rent covered in Austin for a long time. I may not even have to get a job when I get back. I keep thinking about how nice that'll be. Keep thinking how much time it'll allow me to work on my art. It's what keeps me going.

But man! I need a friend who's into massage! My neck and shoulders are like rocks! I would give anything for a 30 minute massage: cash, cooking, cleaning, foot rubs, sexual favors, whatever you want!

Strong Women

During my stay at the Frog Farm I've gained a tremendous amount of respect for its owner, Deb Lukas. She's a tough gal. As a single mother she lived in a single room in a cabin high in the mountains. Raising her child, she didn't even have a car. Imagine having to bicycle over 10 miles to the nearest grocery store - with your baby! Since then, she's bought her own land, acquired an education in Herbalism, opened her own medical practice and herbal pharmacy, and with the help of her partner, Steve, is transforming a rather arid & rocky piece of property into a thriving permaculture farm. As if that weren't enough, she's also founded a non-profit whose goal is education, community building, and creating sustainability within the Illinois Valley. While many find her strong personality not-to-their-taste, she doesn't seem to care. She's on a mission and won't be stopped.

Deb's not the only one. I've begun noticing that Takilma is full of strong women. Women who have started their own businesses - growing gourmet garlic, raising Alpacas, baking! Women who sit on the boards of the Spiral Living Center and the Dome School. Women who ensure the children get a quality education and who put their energy into bringing healthy and affordable food into the community via the local food Co-Op. Meanwhile the men do their men stuff - tilling the soil, cutting wood, growing medical marijuana - all while benefiting tremendously from the efforts of the amazing women in this community. What lucky guys we are!

The other day I played The Girl Stands Up To Me Now for farmer Steve. After, I asked him what the benefits are to having a strong woman. In his humble imparting-great-wisdom-to-you-in-so-few-words way, he said, "It's nice having someone to help row the boat." Indeed.

As long as you're going the same direction!

Man Carrying Sofa

By Tony Hoagland

Whatever happened to Cindy Morrison, that nice young lesbian?
I heard she moved to the city and got serious.
Traded in her work boots for high heels and a power suit.
Got a healthcare plan and an attorney girlfriend.

Myself, I don’t want to change.
It’s October and I’m still dating my checks July.
I don’t want to step through the doorway of the year.
I’m afraid of something falling off behind me.
I’m afraid my own past will start forgetting me.

Now the sunsets are like cranberry sauce
poured over the yellow hills, and yes,
that beauty is so strong it hurts –
it hurts because it isn’t personal.

But we look anyway, we sit upon our stoops
and stare, — fierce,
like we were tossing down a shot of vodka, straight,
and afterwards, we feel purified and sad and rather Russian.

When David was in town last week,
I made a big show to him of how unhappy I was
because I wanted him to go back and tell Susan
that I was suffering without her –

but then he left and I discovered
I really was miserable
– which made me feel better about myself –
because, after all, I don’t want to go through time untouched.

What a great journey this is,
this ordinary life of ants and sandwich wrappers,
of x-rated sunsets and drive-through funerals.

And this particular complex pain inside your chest;
this damaged longing
like a heavy piece of furniture inside you;
you carry it, it burdens you, it drags you down –
then you stop, and rest on top of it.

The Girl Stands Up To Me Now

I decided to illustrate a few lyrics from Jonathan Richman's brilliant song The Girl Stands Up To Me Now (I can't find the song on YouTube, but I suggest you check it out). It was a fun project. I enjoyed coming up with images that tried to push the humor of the song further. Anyway, take a look and let me know what you think.

(click image to view)

Photo Journal (with art to come!)

Being on a farm will help you appreciate the natural cycle of life and death. A few weeks ago, with the upmost solemn respect, we slaughtered 13 chickens for meat. For me, having never killed more than an insect, it was a slightly jarring experience, and gruesome for sure. Though I chopped off a few heads myself, something in me rebelled at every step of the process. It certainly made me reconsider being an omnivore. In our society we're so disconnected from our food production I think many people can live their entire lives without questioning their diet. I wish more people had first hand experience. It would certainly lead to more conscious food choices (not just about meat, but about things like pesticides, animal treatment, genetically modified food, etc...).

John and Deb: Cold-blooded killers

But of course, with death comes life. We recently had 5 adorable chicks hatch. I feel especially happy for the mama hen. You see, most chickens (around here at least) lay their eggs and leave them unattended, off pursuing their own business. A few rare chickens become broody and sit on their eggs trying to get them to hatch. The mama of these chicks would sit on her eggs come hell or high water. For months I've had to grab her and lift her up in order to obtain her goods. Well we finally decided to let her sit on them, and her heartfelt desire for children has finally been realized.

She makes a great mama too. She follows them around and teaches them things like how to scratch for food. Very cute!

I think I've had poison oak on alternating parts of my body for the last 2 1/2 months straight. So with great delight I've been watching my arch-nemesis change color, its leaves slowly becoming impotent. You LOSE, poison oak!

But you sure have a beautiful way of surrendering.

With the growing season winding down, I've had time to pursue more pleasurable projects like sculpting artwork with mud plaster and working my stick:

AKA: Making curtain rods

All was going well until I went and stepped on a big, fat, rusty nail. Definitely one of the less enjoyable moments of my life.

Tetanus shots are for wimps.

And while it still hurts, at least I've had some down time to recover. I've used to opportunity to work on my art, creating a mini-project I'll be unveiling soon. It should be posted within the next few days, so stop on by again, ya hear!?

Prelude to Cabin Fever

Autumn has arrived in Oregon -- with it the rain. After months of continuous sunshine, three consecutive days of cold, dreary showers has come as a shock. Isn't that how it is with life? You have something good and warm and nourishing, its presence secured, its face so familiar you begin to scorn its loyalty, then *poof* it's gone before you realized what you had? Perhaps you even begin to wish you had savored it longer, been more present, done something different. There's not much to be done now, however, so you decide to adapt because it's better than being bulldozed by sadness.

This weather reminds me of Vancouver. The way low hanging clouds engulf mountains and tendrils of smokey fog reach into valleys to caress their depths before curling again towards the sky. After painfully long periods of grey, I like how the sun will peek out for brief seconds, as if to say "hello" and "I'm still here." I like walking through wet, dripping forests. I like engorged rivers.

I don't know where my home is again. Sitting at the window overlooking Hope Mountain, I ponder staying here, huddled up for the winter, reading, writing, drawing, living the gospel of Thoreau: loneliness is good for the soul. Peeking back at Austin, it all seems like vanity and distraction, a repulsive thought for a self-righteous puritan who secretly delights in not having looked in the mirror for days, weeks even.

That reminds me, I should probably trim my nose hair.