Up the Arroyo, Part II

               On the way up the paved road, Nate and Laurie had been talking about the near-record temperatures in Death Valley, California, at the present time. Laurie, not having been there, asked if Death Valley looked like this desert or if it was just sand, or what. Joel affirmed it was very similar. Laurie could not imagine running through the rocks and stickers to finish any of the famous races through Death Valley that intrepid ultramarathoners run each year -- in July. At least one she knew of: 135 miles called "Badwater," straight through that very Death Valley, from 282 feet below sea level to a height of more than 8,000; celebrated and feared races with legendary runners from around the world. Laurie, a distance runner herself, kept up on these events. Onward toward the trailhead they crawled at about 30 km/hour max.

               Each hiker had well-fitting, light and functional hiking shoes and socks, and three of the four wore 40+ spf (sun protection factor) clothing. It was all light and breathable and very environmentally correct; but in the case of the fourth individual -- Laurie -- absolutely untenable, similar to wearing a straitjacket. Out of the question. Laurie therefore, put on plenty of spf 30 cream with backup in Nate's rucksack. She wore a running top and short shorts, and a safari hat with a strap to keep it on her head -- this was the only bow of respect for the burning sun that she could reasonably accept -- whether any of this was reasonable was also conjecture. But everyone was happy in anticipation of all going well, if less than sure what to make of what was popularly called the Wild Card in the bunch.

               Tourist taxis schlepped cautious visitors up the highway toward San Xavier in air-conditioned vans. Nate and Joel made rude and cutting remarks that won't be repeated in text. The SUV was locked and the gang set off straight along a massive wall of what appeared to be layers of slate, just waiting to crash down. Very tenuous looking. There was no geologist in the group, although any curious traveler would most surely appreciate having one along. Syncline, anticline, shale, slate, stratification, fault...familiar terms but not anything the four travelers could point to with a walking stick wand with which to give a treatise; not even Joel, the most heavily over-educated of the group and considered knowledgeable regarding desert rocks.

               Joel, a dream analyst, was happy to stare just beyond the rock faces into his own inner mind, or go sit on a lone stone and contemplate. Just as well. Definitions seemed limiting in such a place when excited fingers pointed continuously to everything imaginable, and light (very light) breezes blew in the high palms. Slowly all thought began to wash away. Making their way along the canyon in this desert jungle (picture this not being an oxymoron), minds and mouths became quiet. At least quieter. 

Takiya, a Japanese native whose second language is English and who tended to be quiet in places of reverence anyway, didn't talk much. Nate, Mr. Definition himself, was content to make use of his digital camera to take as many photos as possible to memorialize the event. This was his own silent manner of describing and telling a story about the world around him. Laurie felt the wind and wanted only to follow it. She sensed magic, but spent much time looking down so as not to fall over the rocks and become a liability to herself even though she felt her body was limitless -- this would grow to a frustrating contradiction as the day unfolded. But indeed, Laurie had enough memories and scars from a lifetime of playing the "limitless" card to have long since made a compromise with Nature. 

               There was hundreds of old, dry bamboo canes lying around, and they looked like great walking sticks. Laurie grabbed one and began walking with it just to have something to bang against the side of rocks and such. This always created a great reverberating sound throughout the canyon. She kept it with her even when it began to crack apart from too many bangings. In Laurie's endless fantasies, it felt like a connection with Nature, a type of call-and-response musical harmonic. She never thought that maybe later it would come in handy.

Up the Arroyo, Part I

Up the Arroyo

               Laurie, her husband Nate, and friends Joel and Takiya tootled up the curvy road in Nate's 1990s O.J. Simpson white Ford Bronco. The road, newly rebuilt, lead from the fishing town of Loreto on the Sea of Cortez side of Baja California to the Pacific Ocean side, about a 50-mile drive over the mountain range that extends on parallel all the way down the peninsula. It was the first week in July 2013, not burning hot, but uncomfortable enough for a pack of Coastal Californians. Cheap Mexican gasoline caused an unsettling rattle every time vehicle accelerated or climbed a hill, but this foursome had driven the road before in the same SUV and knew everything was running fine.

               The road was in very nice shape. And why wouldn't it be? Well, the passage had been created who knows when to take visitors, and much, much earlier than that most likely homesteaders and missionaries, up to the old Mission San Xavier in the Sierra Giganta range. In late October 2012, approximately 20 years after its first paving, the same four travelers had driven its ~25-mile gulf (Sea of Cortez) side to reach this relatively unknown oasis over washed-out pavement teetering dangerously on the edges of deep ravines leading down the old road on both sides.

***

               Hurricane Paul had come along just three days before their tenuous drive up the mountain that October, thus the washed-out old pavement. The storm was very fast moving, of short but intense duration, and actually centered off of the west coast rather than the east. However, Pacific storms often stall on the mountain ridge. This ridge of mountains, the Sierra (de la) Giganta, which is the Baja California Sur portion of the North American Coast Ranges, extends all the way from Alaska to the southern tip of Baja California Sur, Mexico. La Giganta is arguably among the most craggy and unapproachable-looking ranges of the family. Moderately high elevations of up to approximately 7,000 feet in places yet low and sprawling along other portions make for a beckoning roller coaster ride just peering up at them from town.

               As the storms stall, the water gathers and spills directly over the top and into the dips of the range, producing lightning-fast alluvial fans of water down, down, down, across the desert onto the flats and out to the ocean; in other words, directly through the town, in this case, of Loreto. These sandy fans can be seen, with proper respect and awe, from the airplane as it approaches Loreto. The latest storm, Paul, sent about 80 homes to destruction along with trees, branches, cacti, rubbish, refrigerators, and you name it into the Sea of Cortez -- in other words, everything Nature felt was ready to leave the area, from the ridge on down.

After the storm, the alluvial fan finds its narrows

               Understandably, then, there are a number of arroyos that are usually dry leading down from the mountains to the sea from northern to southern Baja. One that is near the small palapa vacation home of Nate and Laurie just south of downtown Loreto had three paved roads and one extensively bridged (federally constructed) highway: Mexico 1, same as Highway 1 in California, just the other direction. The other three mostly concrete roads allowing passage across that arroyo (or branch of the nearest alluvial fan) were and are not so carefully or "permanently" constructed. These three are still, in 2013, repaired only perfunctorily -- relatively smooth poured concrete, but not structurally sophisticated in any way. One is even just packed dirt. "Why bother?" the local and state governments must ask, if there is just going to be another incident in a few years. 

               Still, the "lazy Mexicans," as the locals are disrespectfully called by other cultures, were on top of the situation within figurative minutes of the passage destruction as well as the massive damage to the town's coastline and Malecon. Thus, within 8 months of the 2012 hurricane flood, the town looked almost perfect -- in fact, better than ever; and the mountainous, curvy road was, during this second trip up, completely repaired with stocky bridges, reinforcements, and new asphalt all the way to the ridge where the mission still stands. It most likely continues on down the other side to the Pacific, but this trip was not for the means of reaching the Pacific side, so as with many secrets in Mexico, that remains conjecture.

***

               Today's trip, in the 100-degree dryish heat, was for the means of actually hiking up the dried-up arroyos themselves, or at least one that was said to have many ancient carved or painted images on its steep walls. Last trip, Nate the car owner, dictated by his...personality...wanted to get to the top of the ridge to the "goal" -- San Xavier -- and then and only then come back down slowly and leisurely, perhaps walking up a side road, taking some pictures or whatever. Joel, dictated by his own...personality...was absolutely exasperated by the excruciating visual pain of seeing all these wonderful places to hike and take photos and not getting to stop, because he was not the almighty driver of the car. Clearly, because of his and Takiya's vast experience in exploring the deserts of the West and Southwest United States, he felt deprived, void of his usual personal control, and missing the most mystical and important part of life in the desert: that which is not inside of a moving vehicle. Understandable. It should be noted that the last time was not slated to be a hiking trip and, thus, no one had on the proper footwear for hiking in stickers, soft sand and snake land anyway. But Joel did not forget this slight to his sensibilities, and so a definite plan to take in the arroyos, or riverbeds, along with a few small climbs, was made for one day in 2013, during a one-week vacation.

               Needless to say, all four were on the same wavelength for the relatively short drive, solely to hike this time, to a familiar stopping place with signs in Spanish saying essentially, "BE CAREFUL." 

Emancipation Proclamation

Recently I attended a writer's conference where Dorothy Allison spoke. Dorothy Allison is raw and hilarious. I loved her immediately. She is a prolific writer with awards lining her Northern California home's hallways.

But no, I honestly have not read any of her works, such as her book of poetry, The Women Who Hate Me, or her collection of short stories, Trash. Certainly, everyone has heard of Cavedweller, eventually adapted for a stage production; and Bastard Out of Carolina, which became an award-winning movie.

Despite the rather hostile titles, Allison speaks beautifully, which to me is the mark of brilliance, especially when it's more or less extemporaneous. She teaches as she speaks.

So I listened intently and took notes; except when I was, a couple of times, moved to the point where I had to turn the page and write a few lines of material myself. Thus, I missed the meaning behind a couple of her comments.

One of these comments was this: Humiliation <=> Glory.... They are the same thing. Period. Damn, I think I missed something, although I did get it down with the double arrow and everything. But the context was lost on me. Perhaps some one of you out there who is familiar with Ms. Allison can elucidate this for me? Is it as simple as humiliation will set you free and therein lies glory? Or maybe after years of humiliation comes the glory? Help me, please.

Something she said right up front just had me on the floor: "I like nasty, complicated people." So, that's when I turned to my backpage and started scribbling--good thing I can even read it now:  I said,

"But what about me? I'm not particularly nasty, even if I know for darned sure that I'm way overcomplicated to the edge of self-injurious behavior." Well. Maybe I'm a little too close to make that judgment.

Then Dorothy said that writers have this "undertone...I'm not good enough, I'll never succeed..."

So back to my personal scribbles: "But--what if you don't feel that way, you actually know you're okay, you're great, in fact, and you actually do feel centered and balanced, some of the time, anyway." I am so not good enough, in fact, that I could not stand to hear my present teacher say that, thus, I needed to turn the tables and vindicate myself.

As I listened, I had this strange, guilty feeling that I don't belong here, not in this room, not with these people that Ms. Allison said are our nation, a nation of writers. I want to be alone. I want to just write. I want to listen to and hear and experience my own voice. I don't need someone's silly critiques based on two sentences of a 5,000-word essay. Now--is this because at root, I'm a nasty, complicated, insecure, frightened, unbelieving, imbalanced, ugly human being? Meaning I actually belong in this troupe of other nasty, complicated people without a nation? Afraid someone is going to shut me down into a box manufactured of his or her or their own smallness and irrelevance?

That was cruel, very, very cruel. One side of me thinks I'm great, just to offset my own irrelevance and small mind. And then I take it out on my fellow writers. I'm so sorry. I apologize; it was just one of my rants, some of that, you know, bile.

I took one more note down at the end, a quote she provided from Bob Marley, the master of self-emancipation:

"Emancipate yourself from...uh-oh...did I write 'mental' or 'mortal'?...slavery."

Alright, since I missed that one, too, I'll just interpret it as I see fit: First,

     a) "Emancipate yourself from mental slavery." This means, quite simply, shut up. Get quiet. Accept your nation and what comes with it, or go away, but just shut up.

     b) "Emancipate yourself from mortal slavery." Ahhhh. Now, I shall let loose the shackles that tie me to my mortal coil, as the admitted cliche goes. Death, you ask? Oh, no, not necessarily. What is painfully mortal must retreat, and then...I'll get quiet.

My, now. Ultimately, they both mean the same thing. I'll be darned.

"Humiliation <=> Glory. They are both the same thing," said Dorothy Allison.

I Did It!

Hi again: I got a lot of positive feedback about starting that advice blog too. It seems to have been received fairly well! Click here to check it out okay?  Also , my newest Self Published Book  is now Available from Amazon.com. Please Click here to check it out and order your copy today!  You can also get copies of my first poetry collection Instant Poetry ( Just Add Words!)  on amazon.com and elsewhere  Please click here if you don't have your copy yet or if you want it signed please check out my web site  to get your copy from me. You'll also see my complete list of titles on the "products" page and a complete list of what I do besides writing these blogs on the "services" Page. Click on the "Demo Reel"Link to see the two videos of me performing a couple of my poems. I recommend you check both out if you're thinking of booking me for your events.  Click here to visit my web site for all the details.

Whew! Well, that gets all the business out of the way! Now for something slightly illegal. None of you sent me requests to become guest poets this time and Ilana didn't post anything (miss you!) and I promised someone else's poem this time so I can't write one of m own for you. So I guess I'll just have to "steal" one of my favorites for you this time. It's freely avalible on Google but I think the poet is still breathing  Regardless, it can't have been more than 90 years since they stoped which means they and their heirs still own the copyright. I'm not paying any royalties to repost  nor do I have any clue if they have ever writen anything else. Let alone enough to make a book out of! There,. that should be enough of a disclaimer to satisfy my Legal team.  So enough with the formalities ! here's the freaken poem already! :

The Touch of the Master's Hand

'Twas battered and scarred,
And the auctioneer thought it
hardly worth his while
To waste his time on the old violin,
but he held it up with a smile.
"What am I bid, good people", he cried,
"Who starts the bidding for me?"
"One dollar, one dollar, Do I hear two?"
"Two dollars, who makes it three?"
"Three dollars once, three dollars twice, going for three,"
But, No,
From the room far back a gray bearded man
Came forward and picked up the bow,
Then wiping the dust from the old violin
And tightening up the strings,
He played a melody, pure and sweet
As sweet as the angel sings.
The music ceased and the auctioneer
With a voice that was quiet and low,
Said "What now am I bid for this old violin?"
As he held it aloft with its' bow.
"One thousand, one thousand, Do I hear two?"
"Two thousand, Who makes it three?"
"Three thousand once, three thousand twice,
Going and gone", said he.
The audience cheered,
But some of them cried,
"We just don't understand."
"What changed its' worth?"
Swift came the reply.
"The Touch of the Masters Hand."
And many a man with life out of tune
All battered with bourbon and gin
Is auctioned cheap to a thoughtless crowd
Much like that old violin
A mess of pottage, a glass of wine,
A game and he travels on.
He is going once, he is going twice,
He is going and almost gone.
But the Master comes,
And the foolish crowd never can quite understand,
The worth of a soul and the change that is wrought
By the Touch of the Masters' Hand.
Written by poet: Myra Brooks Welch

Neat huh? Can you guess what makes this poem out of the hundreds of others I've read and heard as a poet/poetry promoter over the last 15 years stand out as one of my favorites?  Do you like it too?

this version is credited on Google as being owned by The global Methodist church and was published by their General board of  Global Minestries. feel free to report it as stolen if you're so inclined. I'll freely admit to theft of intelectual property on this one. Still , they did publish it on google so it may have become public domain. That is , if they had permission from Myra or her heirs to publish it on Google. I don't think they want to go down that road so I feel pretty safe in sharing this with you!  See you next time!   

 

YAY! Here's another one!

Let's switch it up a little okay? This time events first!

1. http://angiesdiary.com/articles/storytelling/short-story-writing-contest-2013/ nugh said!

2.http://www.tweetspeakpoetry.com/2013/07/15/take-your-poet-to-work-day-infographic/  

Read the article. you'll understand!

3. https://www.facebook.com/events/395034473933771/?context=create My birthday party at the Tango cafe in Rochester,NY Leave a comment if you want to come and share during the celebration.

Okay, now that the hard stuff is out of the way, here's another original poem by Yours Truly. ( AKA: Me  of course! Nobody else is leaving comments to become a guest poet. Next time, your turn!  )

Gia is a Phat Lady

By" Laughing" Larry Berger

The earth sings for her children

she helps them live forever.

Man is the ultimate trickster

he sinks poison into his mother

he slowly tries to kill her 

with every breath he takes

The earth still sings

she knows he will only destroy himself

she may change 

she may hurt 

but she will still be singing

 long after he has vanished

They say " It aint over till the fat lady sings!"

I wonder who said that first

and what ever made them foolish enough to think

that the Human Race  could ever have possibly

survived  long enough for that to get anywhere
even close to happening?

Go fig?

(c) 7/31/13 " Laughing" Larry Berger

Neat huh?

If you like it , you might want to get a copy of one of my books  visit the Skysaje Enterprise Web  Site to get a complete list of all my book titles.  You can get copies  of Instant Poetry (Just add words!)  from the publisher too. See you next time!


PS: Last time I asked what you might think if I started an advice blog. I sent the request to over 400 people on my lists. So far I've heard back from 8. What's up with that?  I REALLY want to know what you think of the idea so send me a message and let me know, okay?   Thanks!

Wow! You really DO Like the Poems huh?

Hi folks:  Well it's that time again! Here's an older poem that was actually published in my book  Instant Poetry (Just Add Words!) you can get the collection on amazon.com,Barnes and Noble.com
from the publisher at: http:www.Iuniverse.com  or signed from me for $15 a pop. for more info  visit my website at :http://www.skysajeenterprise.com   Okay, so here's the poem already:

Hats

by " Laughing" Larry Berger

Hats

We all wear them.

we are father, mother, daughter, brother, worker son.

but who cries for the children that are born millionaires?

and why do we go out and kill them? 

(c) 1999 " Laughing" Larry Berger

Sorry to go deep on you but, some folks like it when poems do that don't they?

Here's a little bit on whats happening:

1. http://www.liftbridgebooks.com/event/so-you-want-get-print  My workshop on 9/14/13 be there if you can! 

2. https://www.facebook.com/events/144311665777279/ Poetrypaloza. check it out! 

3.https://www.facebook.com/events/489067391167995/ poetry Spitz

Enjoy!