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at high speeds

and leave the freeway

pass a reservoir

and wind up past large ranch homes

into the golden hills

i could get to a smallish parking area

i could get a permit for the wild

i could throw on my pack and head up a road

down a road

then up over a bit of a mountain

past blue oaks and huge manzanitas and madrones

to a pond where the woodpeckers dance in reflections

i could rise over another bit of a mountain

and then plunge into a deep canyon

a thousand feet down

and, just before the road climbed another thousand feet up,

i would find a creek named coyote

dripping its way down the canyon

if i walked up about 50 yards

i would find a huge boulder,

leaning against two trees

in the shade of that boulder

beside the creek

i would sit upon a sandy beach

in the hot, dusty, buggy summer

it would be cool, soft, nearly mosquitoless

i would gaze into a quiet pool

where water striders dance across the surface

and i would see a large rock

covered in ladybugs

occasionally one would get too close to the water

and fall in

flailing for a moment

until scooped up by a water skiing strider

taking the ladybug like a pigskin

and racing down the field with its prize

another ladybug falls in (just wanted a drink of water)

the next strider races up,

carries it off

on the water they are the superior design

big, strapping athletes

they laugh at the flailing ladies

but suddenly their smirks evaporate

the air is alive with vibration

a dragonfly!

it pounds through the air, stops, hovers, scans,

zooms off

oh mama, what technology!

the striders go back to their catcalls and showing off

skating about their lake with the greatest of ease

the ladybugs huddle, scheming,

they are pooling their money

to hire a dragonfly

A blue frissbee is good for playing frisbee golf in nature. That’s what I was doing. It’s one of my favorite games. (Don’t know how to play? All you do is pick a target and say, “See that tree? The one by the trashcan? Par 4.” That means everyone has 4 shots to get to the tree. After each “hole” or target you adjust your scored based on how you did. If you did it in 3 shots you are now at -1, which is good. If it took you 5 shots you are 1 over, which is a little bad. Oh, you got it? Good.)

Last week I got to play frisbee golf while camping. That’s pretty much the best. It doesn’t hurt to have a cold drink in hand and a small posse of friends, strolling through the woods, picking out challlenges: “Through those two skinny trees and then it’s got to slide over that picnic table and land in that bear locker.” Wasn’t there an ad like this a while back? Michael Jordan and someone calling shots? Obviously written by a frisbee golfer. Most great works of art trace back to this possibly ancient sportsform.

In the old days they didn’t use frisbees, of course. No plastic ’til that guy in the Graduate whispered the word. However, there have always been projectiles (that’s the prequel to There Will Be Blood). I guess it probably started with rocks, especially back when there was a whole lot less stuff to break and fewer people to maim. Or, I suppose, when maiming was no big deal. “See that big guy with the lumpy head?” “Grog?” “Yeah, par 4.”

Last week in the mountains my posse and I happened to “play through,” as they say, someone else’s camp site. It wasn’t on purpose. We were just working our way back to our site, carefully trampling a relatively pristine meadow, and a couple of the boys didn’t make the turn so well (we were aiming for one of our tents). A couple of womenfolk from another camp site exclaimed, “Hey, why don’t ya play out in that big meadow? No one to hit out there?” We hadn’t actually hit anyone, but of course we apologized and moved on.

Later in the game, we found ourselves looping back to camp from another angle of apporach, this time through someone else’s site. However, we were just shooting straight down the edge of the driveway, nowhere near any of the humans as far as we could tell. Several of our frisbees didn’t really make it past the driveway, however, landing loudly near a rather large truck (you can see where this is going maybe). Suddenly a large man with no hair (and not because he was old ’cause he was young enough to maim) leapt out of his truck and said, “What the f#@%!” Then he repeated it. “What the f#@%!” Then he made us to quickly understand that his people were also the people at the next site over, the ones we had already lighlty disturbed earier. “That’s two times!” he growled. We apologized and slunk back to camp (we’re frisbee golfers, man, not kung fu fighters…we just want to play disc in the peaceful woods).

Afterwards we exchanged thoughtful analysis: “That dude was special forces!” “He said two times because one more time and we were dead.” And…”It’s a good thing there were so many of us or we would have gotten our a@#%s kicked.” Good manly stuff like that.

I should say that when not in the wild you can actually find frisbee golf courses. They’re ‘aight, but I’ll take a cross-country game any day. Who wants to follow someone else’s course when you can make your own? The trick is just to not play through people’s space. You can do it if you’re alert.

Today I was at my own park,  which is a perfectly great place for frisbee golf. It has beautiful redwood trees, oaks, magnolias, buckeyes, trashcans, tables, benches, play structures, no end of good targets. I was lining up for a deep throw out towards a redwood tree in the middle of the park but I hooked it straight into the brick bathroom building. POW! My little blue frisbee blew into a thousand pieces. I picked them up and dropped them in the cardboard trashcan. It didn’t seem right. After all, printed on the frisbee in clear black letters it had read: Reduce – Reuse – Recycle. And yet, it had also read “Alameda Waste Management.” I called it my 3 R’s frisbee. Still, the truth is it wasn’t recyclable.

Those four blue pieces probably still sit midway down in that trashbox at the park. A skunk strolls by. A deer has hopped down following the creek. There’s a possum. A cat, thinking, ‘I don’t think I should have cut through the park at night.’ Four blue pieces. It was a kind of magic carpet that took me through the forest until it hit that brick wall. Now a raccoon knocks over the trashcan. “What have we here?” He digs down, pushes aside the four blue pieces, grabs a  half-eaten burrito, tears it open and eats it. Strolls off, cackling. Back on the ground we find shards of tinfoil, a few black beans and four little blue pieces, quietly reflecting the quarter moon, just cresting the tallest redwood.

In our case, the teenager is the United States. That’s an improvement, of course. Until a recent election, we were a toddler: George W. Stinkypants. “I’m NEVER gonna unplug stuff more, you poopy head.” (Then he sticks a fork into the outlet).

How about a campaign for grown-ups? What could it be? “I will turn off my computer and TV after 6 p.m. on Tuesdays and Thursdays.” How’s that? Too hard for you? Start with Tuesdays. We’ll take it from there.

When I got home it was time to walk to the library with my family for a magic show. I put on my new shoes and walked. As I went down the stairs, my toes hurt. Oh no, I thought, I got the wrong size. Then I thought, yeah, but you’re going down a hill. That’s like trying to check how much gas you have when all the gas is sloshing to the front of the tank. Wait ’til you get to the sidewalk and walk a bit. So I did. They still felt cramped. I walked to the library and back. They maybe felt a bit better.

Still, today I brought them back to this recreational type store to check out the next size up. They were holding them for me in Customer Service. I compared the two and found the larger size was a good fit. I brought yesterday’s shoes back to the woman at the counter. She said, “Did you wear these out of the house?”

See, this is where the tension enters the story. You have to imagine me standing there in this store and this woman wearing a green vest is standing there looking at me. To my right is a big canoe. (These are not necessarily real details).

As I say, “No,” she turns over the shoes. On the bottom we find some gooey thing with pine needles sticking out of it and whatnot. I mumble, “I just put them on and walked around inside the house.” I could have added, “The house is really dirty right now,” but I was too embarrassed to think clearly. Instead, I just stared at the bottom of yesterday’s shoes. What the hell was that gooey thing?

“Don’t worry about it,” she said, her green vest flapping pleasantly as she flipped the shoes back over. She handed me a receipt and I thanked her. Then I slunk out of the store.

I wonder how many steps you are allowed to take in a pair of shoes before they become irrevocably yours? And, more importantly, did I overstep?

Today I was having a nice slice of Arizmendi pizza (sorry Arizmendi fantatics in exile) and I picked up the greasy newspaper by the window and read this great article on the “reverse Okie” effect. It was in the Contra Costa Times or maybe something called Inside Bay Area, or maybe just Bay Area News Group, but when I googled it just now I only found it in the Charleston Gazette. The fact I found most striking was that in the last four years 275,000 Californias have moved to Okalahoma and Texas, double the numbers which came from those two states during ye olde Dust Bowl (the lesser known holiday football game where each team piles onto an old jalopy and tries to make it to the other side…). My vast Sacramento readership will also appreciate the quote from Brandon Jones of Del Paso Heights, who said praised the job opportunities, growth and vibe in Oklahoma City, saying “Oklahoma City is like Sacramento back when the Kingers were in the playoffs.”

My only question would how many of those 275,000 moved to Austin? That may be skewing the migratory impression a bit. Still, Oklahoma City. Who knew? Add it to your short list, there, 20 somethings.

OK, now go listen to “Do-Re-Mi” (I recommend the Nanci Griffith version) and “Oklahoma Hills” by Woody Guthrie and ponder.

The Poetry Room at City Lights Bookstore is sacred ground. I can feel it. As you move towards the back of the store a sign says, “Have a seat and read a book.” The two guys at the front desk waved away my offer of a bag, telling me to keep it with me, as if they knew I needed to sit and write today.

I climb the steps to the poetry room and it is wood and quiet and the shelves are trembling with life. I pick Rilke’s letters to a young poet. While at age 40 I now wake sometimes to find that a foot or knee or shoulder muscle no longer functions, I am still a young poet in geological terms.

“Go into yourself. Find out the reason that commands you to write…”

You know a room is sacred when it can absorb the frequent arrival of loud tourists and bring them to a place of quiet contemplation. As I sit on my small wooden chair, reading hungrily through the pages, loud footsteps approach with excited German chatter. Two women with similarly curly hair reach the top step, giggle, and slide quickly into silent browsing. I read on.

“Then, as if no one had ever tried before, try to say what you feel and see and love and lose…”

Out the window there is an old fire escape. Beyond that, a rooftop. Clothes hang from pipes and wires but I can’t see how someone got them there. They hang before a gray sky.

Now a group of four loudly climbs the stairs up to the Poetry Room. They are happy, young, well-dressed and cocky. They too are absorbed. They break apart to peruse shelves, crack books of poetry and beat literature. United we talk, divided we read.

“Write about what your every day life offers you; describe your sorrows and desires, the thoughts that pass through your mind and your belief in some kind of beauty.”

The Poetry Room is empty now. The rain is falling out on the fire escape and invisible hands have removed the hanging clothes from the rooftop. I hadn’t noticed the rain.

They come in pairs and small groups, never staying long. They are loud at first, then split, read in silence, reform and make a loud, nervous remark as they take the first step back down, out of the Poetry Room. Some came awfully close to finding beauty. They pulled at different books, snapped a picture of the Beat Literature sign, murmured something clever to a mate, but then they left.

I’ve been here before and made the same mistake. It’s OK. Hopefully they’ll get another chance.

Today I sat in the wooden chair on those hardwood floors. I pulled a book off the shelf. I read. The room became instantly sacred, a place of absolute beauty. It is ironic but not at all surprising that we humans buzz around rooms like these and then hurry off, never unlocking the mystery. More often than not, the key was right there before us, maybe downstairs, painted on a sign in large, happy letters: “Have a seat and read a book!”