Author Archives: David Rich

Forbidden

Prototypical New England. The apple, a staple in the diet of any cold blooded northerner. Dipping temperatures ushered in with spectrum shifting leaves– it is the season of the great apple harvest, Autumn. Diverse is the opportune word when discussing these magical morsels. Green, yellow, red, rose, tie-dyed, round, oblong, dented, bruised or poisonous, apples are like snowflakes; seemingly all different and distinct in their own wonderful way. There are over 7,500 different variety of apples in the world and 148 different types just in New England. Deciphering apples is an art in and of itself. Breeds may share some of the same characteristics but these crossovers tend to stop at appearance. Two similar looking apples will have different flavor and consistency, leaving the eater baffled and tricked. It is the apple’s own practical joke, they have a great sense of humor. 

Apples will be reviewed on a five star scale. One star being the least desirable and most disgusting, five stars indicate cream of the crop, the holy grail of Malus Domestica. 

The star count is based on a very specific criteria: overall taste, crunchiness, aesthetic appearance, portability, and seductiveness/sexual appeal of the eating process.

Rating System:

* -inedible, ugly, soft, hassle to hold, makes eater look undesirable and perhaps even grotesque

** -general distaste, certainly not pretty, weak audibility when bitten, easily bruised      

*** – enjoyable, solid bite, not an eyesore, may try variety again  

**** – truly a delight, unmistakable pop, feels great in hand, holds up under weight  

***** – can evoke the fall of mankind

Apple species: American Beauty- “Pygmalion”

An apple commonly overlooked due to its unappealing physical appearance. Brown freckles splatter its crimson skin. The deepest under-skin appears to be a shade of puke green. It has skin like ultra fine sand paper that would not seem pleasant to the eater. Rubbing it on a t-shirt will reveal a reflective sheen. This apple requires an aggressive approach. A dark horse of sorts–the interior flesh is phenomenal, stark white with limited pulpiness. Two paralleled bites will leave limited skin, a true testament to its size. It is of solid weight and shape, resembling a baseball. This apples yearns to be tossed in the air and handled with weathered hands. The flesh is sweet and dry, it can be eaten without a napkin. A perfect companion for a walk in the woods. It is strong enough to withstand being buried by several hard cover books or wedged between a backpack and a water bottle. This apple is not for the faint of jaw, it will require mouth muscle that some may not be willing to exude. While its beauty will not make anyone swoon, it is an all-around solid apple that will be a reliable option in one’s fruit holster.

A personal favorite. Not for everyone but appreciated by those who have the balls to try something out of the ordinary.  

****

Apple species: Red Delicious- “The poisoned apple”

Perhaps the most recognized apple, a picture of a Red Delicious would be shown next to the definition of “apple”. It can be commonly seen on a teacher’s desk or being given to Snow white. It will often be donned with a sticker from an apple conglomerate, shipped to Stop and Shops, and displayed in front due to its vein beauty. The Red Delicious comes with an artificial wax not found on freshly grown orchard apples. This superficial apple may look flawless but tastes like it has been grown on an assembly line and transported in on a tanker truck. The apple has a very bland, almost bitter taste that will linger much longer than desired. This apple has no right being a regular in the “apple cannon”. There is a high level of seductive quality to the Delicious but cannot to displayed due to the near impossibility of actually stomaching it. The Red Delicious should never be consumed, even under dire circumstances. If presented with one resist the urge to eat it, instead use it as a door stop or to test out one’s arm strength. 

Shallow, vile, and boring. Beautiful to look at but disgusting to eat. Food for a deer without taste buds.  

**

Apple Species: Granny Smith- “Falstaff”

A clumsy apple perhaps unaware of its follies. It can be referred to as the “potato” of apples. Far better cooked than eaten raw. The Granny Smith wants so badly to be adored. Upon first bite the Granny tastes almost lemon like, provoking pain in the salivary glands and forcing the lips to pucker. A difficult apple to eat on a consistent basis. It is most tasty when peeled, slices, sweetened, and cooked in a pie. It is very easily recognized and is of charming appearance. The provocativeness of this apple is based on how seductive one can look while eating a la mode.   The Granny has a mossy green color that covers the fruit from top to bottom. Certainly not a sickening snack but not one that will be eaten with any kind of consistency. Jawbreakingly hard. The Granny needs to accept its fate and perhaps be grown already immersed in sugar and cinnamon. 

This apple is not recommended to be consumed straight, Makes sublime wine, Circumstantially irreplaceable

***

   

Apple Species: Golden Supreme- “The White Whale”

A flawless example of the original fruit. An enigma in the world of produce. Many autumn days have been spent searching through farmer’s markets and stopping at roadside farm stands in search of this sensuous superfood. The Supreme looms over its lesser brethren, casting a superior shadow. An offspring of the golden apples grown in the Garden of the Hesperides that gave immortality to those who consumed them. When held the Supreme feels as though it is an extension of one’s own extremity. Vibrant gold surrounds its skin, radiating color as if it is donning a halo. The cutest smudge of orange and pink is pressed like a thumb print. It requires a perfect amount of exertion when attempting to penetrate into its silky flesh. The crunch plucks musica universalis. Juicy drops dribble down the chin, allowing one to bathe in its enchantment. The Golden Supreme inspires droves of suiters, yearning for a nibble. The type of fruit that instills a belief in a higher spirit.  

Perfection.

*****

Mesmerized by bloody nail beds; I quit eight months ago. The index finger is looking healthy, better leave that one alone- except for the the edge that I missed, guess I’ll even it out. “Relentless”, “obsessive”, “addicted”, “masochist” are just a few drops in a filling pot of terms associated with my habit–a constant infatuation that consumes minutes to the hour and even hours to the day. How much time have I actually spent bending my fingers in boxes, starring at them, biting, chewing, picking, spitting? Actually, they don’t look that bad right now.

Onychophagia (also onychophagy) is the scientific term for biting. “Doctors” say it is an oral compulsive habit and an obsessive compulsive tendency, they say it starts at an early age often around five or six years old, they say it’s related to ADD or defiance or separation anxiety, they say it’s a disorder, they say it can be treated. Trust me, I have tried. 

There was a time, that I vaguely recall, seeing a friend staring at his hand during morning greetings in the fourth grade; he was enchanted. Surrounded by constant chatter and supposed stimulation but they did not faze him. Concerned only with his hands. He found something that actually kept his focus. Any time that his nails were not being inspected he would disrupt with quaking leg shaking or drumming heavy taps on the glossy metal desk legs. I asked him why he did it and he said, “do what?” No self awareness. Clarifying what I meant and followed by a harmonic “duuuhhh”, he said, “I don’t know.” My criticism and intrigue with these malleable bones led to my own habituated fix. Step one, at the latter stages, of any addiction seems to always be admitting that there is an issue. I look at my fingers and know that I have an addiction, but what does that matter- I quit last year.            

As a seasoned nail warrior, we exchange stories of bloody battles and fallen keratin with others that have been through it all. A friend shows me her ring finger, it is finally starting to grow back after Mastication Day about a month ago. I show her my middle, curved and weathered from last weeks court appearance. We seek comfort in knowing that any time our nails get hacked up and torn they always come back, a microcosm for the bodies and brains bearing the protruding protectors. I quit a year and a half ago. 

Oral fixation- a term coined by Sigmund Freud. I always need something in my mouth. A term that sounds overtly sexual, a term that I explain with conviction (perhaps far too liberally as well). Formally, oral fixation is the result of an infant’s thwarted appetite during nursing. Freud observed that a child would potentially develop a neurosis during adolescence and it may continue into adulthood. What may have started with nails has grown to include mountains of “chewables”. Gum, pen caps, disposable spoons, coffee stirrers, paper clips, sunflower seeds, plastic orange juice rings, and assuredly plenty of other inanimate objects have fallen into my grasp, and journeyed toward my not quite bright white ivory fence. I try to avoid anything messy though, like a marker or a paint brush (trial and error won out on those). Gum is my main fix these days, popping in a piece as soon as I get to my car in the morning. Flavor varied depending on the mood of the day . I’ll usually have at least three flavors in the cannon; a mint (spearmint or wintergreen are preferred), classic bubble obviously, and the third is a wild card, ranging anywhere from cinnamon to Zebra Stripe. One piece will customarily last until after work. Even with the gum occupying my mouth, my mind still observes the dexterous entities that it is controlling. Saving something for later, when the gum has long since lost its luster. I’ll chew the thumb a bit while I write this sentence. The days without gum are difficult. When my value pack hold only wrappers and I won’t have time to say “hey” to Amir at the bodega. 

Every alternative has its downfall though. With gum apparently I have to worry about artificial sweeteners and the “organic chew” tastes like shit. Also chewing gum at the rapidity that I do has undoubtedly led to a clicking jaw and perhaps even my charming overbite. Sunflower seeds are so damn salty. The unsalted ones are my preference but the mass public seems to enjoy Spicy Buffalo Pickle Ranch Oreo Blast as opposed to the flavor nature has provided them. I hate chewing on pens, they are holy. It is sacrilegious to use a Scribe’s sword as a chew toy. Straws drip if you don’t pinch the bottom. Orange juice tops get thrown out and I don’t buy it all that much. 

Then there was “dip”, my old friend. Snuff, chew, lip, pinch, all refer to that same burning poison that made me forget about all the other vices. Freshman year of high school was my first exposure, on the baseball field of course. The biting was at its “worst”, people were finally starting to notice. Copenhagen Long Cut soaked in Jack Daniels was my first pinch, nearly made me puke all over the right fielder’s white Mizuno cleats. I bought a tin after practice. A substitute that would last up through senior year and into my second year of college. My gum line is almost back to its original position. I quit at the request of an ex girlfriend and my dentist. I quit 2 years ago.

Nail biting is a colloquial term that we generally associate with anticipation or nerve wracked suspense. “This Thursday don’t miss the nail biting finale of… (fill in garbage television show here), a psychologically diagnosed obsession has become a recognized analogy. Even non biters use the term with nonchalance. You need to go through some scabs before including us in your vernacular. An exclusive club that only the most refined members of society are part of, or more accurately just those smothered or rejected youngsters; the crem de la crem.        

A broken record playing such hits as “that’s uncouth” and “just stop” spins constantly whenever those who know my habit are around. There is nothing that I haven’t heard and told myself before. As a “pathologic groomer” there are ways that I present myself to the public. When holding a glass in public it is important to turn your wrist so that the nails are not pointing directly out. This will avoid situations in which people ask about the nails; biters only like to talk about it with other biters. Avoid nail salons, they can be critical. I do not see it as a problem though, it just helps me get through the day. To be honest that habit has gotten much “better” over the last year or two, I can show you certain fingers and you wouldn’t think they were so bad. I quit 10 years ago.

Satisfying. When I see that perfect bite and execute it flawlessly, jubilation spilith over. It is an astoundingly immediate pleasure. The clean up come with less grace. Tearing up a tissue and sopping up red droplets. Absorbing other pre-scabs with my tongue. Perhaps in time the habit will be nixed, living on only through tiny scars. It is my comfort though, knowing that I have these ten tools capable of writing this essay and entertaining me for hours. I have never seen myself from the perspective of an outside observer, what it truly looks like when I hook the big one. Internally I do not care. There have been classes lost as a result of evening out the lineup, movies forgotten because of inconsistencies. At the time it all seems worth it. 

Certain people and experiences can break the habitual concentration, they mean the most to me. I have stopped for girls, for catches, for writing, for conversation, for skiing (damn mittens), for travel, for disgust, even for you– but never for me.

“Sleep like a glove hand, covers our eyes.”

Inspired by Kate Tempest

Tabitha sits on a metal bench beneath an oak tree, somewhere uptown, between one and one hundred. The winter’s breeze seeps beneath cinnamon curls, unraveling momentary microcosms of a life limp from a world boiling. Winter is warm, she thinks, is winter still called the same thing when the preconception of it hesitates at the very thought? Audible now, she sounds the same as riff raff ranting to themselves as they walk block to block begging for some sympathy. She always offers it up too. A left pocket of loose change bangs against her leg, enough in there to cause a bruise. Legs crossed and palms open, tokens spill between space in her fingers. A piper of the midday hustle. If anyone dare disrupt her, x ray eyes staring holes in cars and folks without malicious intention. It’s her natural resting position. Focused on nothing in particular with the exception of an ever-struggle prevention to never think of nothing. The whites of her eye balls are 8 ½ by 11 pieces of paper, perpetually blank beneath the invisible ink of her perception. She dots a proverbial period in her unfurling scroll. When instead of writing the next line in her magnum opus, she gathers four quarters between her thumb and fore finger. Dumb luck would have it that this man needed just one more dollar to score a scratch off to go along with his ketchup packets and french fries he is having for lunch. She is not an overseer of fire breathers, it is up to them to decide what they do with her change. Whenever a thank you follows their transactions, a hollowness escapes down the closest sewer grate and most criticism disappears on its way to the treatment plant along with the rest of judgement and greed and hatred for the different and so called lesser. 

There is no space in a beautiful mind for criticism of nightwalkers, right talkers, and synthesizers. She would never admit this though. Self conscious to a fault and awareness like a super power, thinking thoughts like a Droste until they meta multiply. And she cowers, beneath the weight of a society that constantly shows it’s mistakes. Observations from a still position, give light to all her criticisms; those in three piece suits are passing others who need to dig in trash bins. 

She does plenty to help – compared to those around. her. Scared that nothing will ever be enough to provide some pleasure. Or relief from the constant thought of making choices that will ultimately lead to demise and quiet voices. But ceremony is also a possibility with one way of thinking and that is as follows: When the phrase ignorance is bliss is tattooed on everything above street level, it means that the cries of those in need become ultimately hollow. 

A truck in the distance shifts to reverse, triggers her internal alarm that her lunch break is coming to a close. 

She blinks in slow motion to multiply time that is hers and the city’s. Processing choices she’s made for herself. Like, Do I need to wear a size down to get a promotion? or sometimes the notion of me not coming home until the light is no longer nature’s but city’s grid makes me sick to my stomach. Stunning in a vacuum; where her organs and esophagus mimic choruses of a brain paining to replace her long legs and kemp hair. 

Sipping coffee the same color as her nail polish today. She laughs internally at her own cliche, as the passing buses dry them slowly.      

She toils early to late at a studio, placing monetary numbers on other’s creations as she patiently waits for a moment to take a breath and process her own endeavors. Bars written on bars, sheet music filled with words flapping like a lizard tongue, blank pages still to come, concentrate too hard on the next one, the next one, the one. Sing sick sequences of giving ten pence to a beggar dressed like a dream maker that gives back double what is given them. This is the place she lives in but does not believe in.  

What about the new shoes she bought last weekend? Regret heavy as the weight she puts in them. She takes so much credence in exclusively thrifting but impulsive nature got the best of her. Deciding to gift herself a bit for momentary pleasure and they look great too. Treating self like the needy,  seeking a reason to spend what she “earns” on the daily. 

What of it matters though, concerned with bigger ideas and impact, coming from the stereo. Nodding head in (some) agreement, but more to the beat of the sympathetic season that kills and births in weekends. Life, death, life, death, is such the sickly pleasure of a universal pattern.  It’ll be rainy soon and her wool top will be covered with nylon. Covering up the crochet sweater that her late grandmother made her.         

A poet and writer, but most of all a fighter. From a single family household sold to the make bank rolls. The corporate magistrate took from a women working a job in the sun and school under the florescent lights of practicality and tuition. She watches her brothers, even still, until they slumber, while Mom’s downstairs figuring out the next payments. They live thirty miles east, over a bridge and byways, thinking on the drive if they will be alright without me. Mom never takes her money; no matter how many times she offers up to pay for anything even if it means they will turn off her electricity. Refuses with a kiss and back to steam over the tea pot. Takes two cups from the cupboard, chipped revealing character (a representation of the family), and a spoon to stir. They sit over a game of scrabble, three syllables or more, brilliance passed down from generations ahead of her. Can’t think too much of her upbringing, growth looks so damn appealing. Digging deeper is a shiftless act belonging to the reaper.     

Happy in glimpses, but more than she admits it. Thinking thoughts in observations, staying patient as she waits. Until the next time she is called to do the deeds of human beings. 

The day arrived like every other weekday. A subtle thud came from my Dad after he finished his own daily morning routine. How he felt that this was enough after so many failed attempts always amazed me. The second warning came with more conviction–three stiff smashes came like a switch, but only for a few seconds. The third time was the kicker–what would it be today?…Splash. Two Dixie cups of water cascaded down on me and my blue and red pinstripe sheets. After deliberating with myself whether or not a few extra minutes was worth having my mattress overturned, it was inevitably time to rise and shine. En route to the toilet I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I looked the same but my brain felt a bit erratic–as though it was tugging in every direction. Was I going to brush my teeth first or go to the bathroom? or wash my face or floss or do a handstand or read the dictionary? All these thoughts abstractly molded themselves into a single solitary realization…I think I have a superpower. Ultimately the routine went; wash face, pee, brush teeth. I didn’t have time for the other tasks, unfortunately. While at school these powers were truly put to the test. Immediately upon sitting down in first period earth science my mind went jumping; from theoretic thought to hypothetic hyperbole in a single bound. 

What was that, a venn- diagram comparing cumulonimbus clouds and cirrostratus ones? Sorry Mr. Marela, there is a much more pressing battle between Mario and Link just getting underway on my graph paper. 

When lunchtime came my mind zeroed in only on the things that were present at the time, a table full of buddies, the table next to us full of girls, and a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. After a quick game of hit for hit (a barbaric game in which each patron punches their associate with great fury until someone bows out) it was time to head back to class, a double period of Language Arts. We were reading A Diary of Anne Frank, a typical 7th grade story, but something that actually held my interest. I even started reading it over the past weekend. Before the teacher began her lesson I was called up to her desk. She told me that I was going to meet with Mrs. Steeble, I didn’t recognize the name. I ambled down the hallway toward room 220. I tried deciphering why I was being sent here, but nothing apparent came to mind. That hallway was silent.  But, the closer I got to 220 the louder it became. What was going on? As I opened the door a rush of rambunctiousness resonated. There were only four kids in here but it sounded like forty. There was constant movement–not a single calm moment. Before I even shut the door a lady came up, introduced herself, and said that this was the FLEX classroom. She explained that this was a place for students to focus and work more efficiently (a fortress of solitude). The commotion calmed and the room turned into an oasis with a few flicks of the light switch. After completing a hundred-problem multiplication sheet and a DRP assignment I was ushered back to my normal class by Mrs. Steeple. The day ended typically with a few more daydreams, some nail biting, and a binder of homework that I doubt was going to get done.

****

I walked up the hill every day to get home. Today I was surprised to see that my Mom’s car was in the driveway. This was a very rare occurrence; she worked an hour away at a school for troubled teens and often didn’t get home until after 8 pm. I did have a baseball game that night, maybe she wanted to come watch. As I cautiously came into the house she told me grab a snack, but do it quickly because we were going to a doctor’s appointment. 

Crap. 

While we drove to the doctor’s office I told her about the new class that I had gone to that day, and how my mind was in limbo. I didn’t want to tell her about the powers yet, not until I had a better understanding of them. 

This place did not look like a typical doctor’s office. There were no receptionists wearing scrubs or that familiar smell of latex gloves. This was just a carpeted waiting room with a lackluster supply of Dr. Seuss books and an underwhelming collection of mismatched mega blocks. A thick, dark, oak door opened and out walked a man wearing a baggy burgundy sweater, tasseled loafer and half-moon glasses. He called us into the office. Was he the doctor? We exchanged pleasantries and spoke a little bit about my school, home life, and friends. After a while he asked my Mom to leave the room so we can speak alone. 

He began asking me all types of questions about my concentration and focus. He spoke about my powers and how they affect me in school and on the field. I told him that I felt great and that my mind was as powerful as ever. Why did he want to know this stuff about me? How did he know about my special abilities? He wasn’t a doctor… he was a villain. Trying to break me down, uncover my secrets so that he could have the powers for himself. 

After a half hour in his office I did not crack. My mom informed me that this was going to be a bi weekly affair. I was ready for our next encounter. He kept referring to my powers as ADD, a “disorder” that alter one’s ability to focus. I was answering yes to all the questions he threw at me. Do you do your best work under pressure? Are you drawn to things that allow for high levels of creative expression? Are you attracted to high risk activities? Do you often run late? He said that a bunch of kids my age have it, I knew he was lying. He wanted me to take some sort of a pill that would suppress these powers and make me function like a “normal” person. This was where the line needed to be drawn. 

He saw this as a curse, but to me it was a gift. This was my life now………

That day my mother told me something that I have never forget, she said “anyone can excel at one thing, you can exceed at them all”.

Add more??

The four hours and twenty seven minutes it took to get out to the North Cascades from Seattle was pleasant compared to the lumpy, divot scattered “drive way” that led to the one roomed cozy cabin. I was surprised at how well kept the house was as compared to the rest of the property. A perfectly triangular cedar pile with a blue tarp draped over top was arranged very close to the front door. It seemed to be placed in such a way that would dissuade visitors–I felt as though I should have been more nervous—Here live a man with the reputation of tearing people apart on first glance. I was going to take him by surprise, a random drifter who overheard of his whereabouts while at a bar. 

I was already at knock number five, still nothing… The windows were open, without screens, allowing me to see inside. I heard a dog, subtly panting, coming from the backyard. I told myself that I would only knock two more times and if nothing came of it then it was an omen. He just did not want to talk, no visitors, no disturbance. I cannot say that this was surprising. 

Why would a man that lived his entire life out in the backcountry be at home on a flawless fall morning?

The sound of bottles and cans clanging in a plastic bag was getting louder. I stood at the door, silent, hoping that it was him taking a trip out to the maroon recycling bin. The door’s raspy hinges made a groaning sound as it opened. Standing there was a man—a dirty, plaid cap set upon a full head of grey hair, kind of man. Green flannel shirt half tucked into a pair of elastic waisted light-washed jeans. Boots that I was extremely envious of–dirtied with the soil of a thousand climbs. He was a shorter than me, but dwarfed me.  

(Fred Beckey is a legend in the climbing world. He has 325 first ascents, which overshadows any other North American climber by more than twice. He and his family migrated to Seattle from Germany in the 1920s. Beckey is the prototypical “dirtbag” climber. He left a cushy job with a printing company because it was interfering with his climbing goals. His tent became his home and the mountains his backyard. When Beckey began climbing in his early teens it was a primitive, undeveloped sport attempted by only the most reckless mountaineers. Beckey’s reputation and legend grew as he grew older and the sport of climbing became more mainstream. The spike in popularity that began in the early 1970s presented Beckey with a platform in which to embrace the modern, safer, technology as well as ridicule those who were not there during the primordial stage. Beckey would out climb everybody wearing old, worn sneakers and no harness. A writer at Rock and Ice once wrote, “Watch out for Beckey: He will steal your women, steal your route.”)

A snarky scowl became his face. He knew that someone was knocking, waiting eagerly at the door but he was not about to let it stop him from carrying out his routine. I mistakenly introduced myself as a “traveler” looking for some “advice” on climbs and scrambles in the area. While I felt like I was doing something monumental, it was just another day in his life. After going on his adventure to the recycling bin, we exchanged introductions. I introduced myself very casually and referred to him only as “Mr. Beckey”—he did not imply that I could call him anything else. We went around to his backyard, cracking open two bottles of Sessions on the battered forest green Subaru that sat on cinder blocks. I asked question upon question, being overly cautious not to linger on one route for too long out of fear that I would rehash a pesky crag*. The answers he gave me were less than reluctant. He was speaking to me as if what he was quoting a guide book, one that he obviously wrote. 

I was in searching for Fred “Fucking” Beckey, the one that used to pay for gas money by charging to be a lead belayer to clueless newbies. The guy who hitchhiked around the entire continent, stopping every time he glanced upon a metamorphic marvel. 

This all seemed so recited, as if every day a stranger straggled up to his residence in search of some historic beta and the opportunity to share a beer with a legend. It took me a while to admit to myself that that was the case indeed. Mr. Beckey had become a celebrity whose claim to fame had long dissipated, leaving only rehearsed stories that play like a broken record.

-Climber-

*A steep, rugged cliff or rock face

I woke up with the sun already at my back.

What will guide me today?

Trying to find a star in morning light can be frustrating– 

It is simpler searching in a clouded sky.

Grays hit eyes without reflecting. 

Hope comes from imagining that behind the billows are an

Entire plane of spatters, 

Intended to be a beacon

For an explorer 

that needs them the most. 

___

Driving down Desolation road, 

minding my own mind— 

allowing it to perceive the convexed pavement through serpentine cracks.

I wear black. 

Squinting forward with my cheek pressed against the abrasive surface

halfway between unmistakable clarity and mistaken uncertainty 

A figure kneels immortally still on the side of the street. 

My right foot coaxing the brake, my body acts on its own.

He wears a tattered burlap jacket that drapes off a skeletal torso.  

Pants torn, they cannot conceal knobby knees, brittle from standing.

On his head, a buckled top hat— 

One hand grips a package of laudanum, and in the other, a journal.

Stop. Where is my voice? 

My hand reaches right to open the passenger door. 

I grasp hold of vocal chords, I speak with a whimper, “where to?” 

He cricks his wrist, checks a watch, and says, “whatever’s next.” 

He tells me stories of rides, and the glories of the road. 

He tells me his name is Mr. Reaper, but I can call him Grim. 

We careen together, seeing layers of dusty mountains, 

Fields lush and lusting to be ran through. 

We speak about what this life is made of—

Beings connecting like chain links, touching one another as they drift apart—

The Ocean always coming back to the shore

no matter how many times it leaves.

He checks his watch,

“We are going to see a friend.”

He tell me everyone will be there

A painted landscape once blurred from eagerness

Becomes familiar.

Glimpses of the neighborhood—

The city takes a breath.

Surrounding streetlights flicker when we rush by.

Baseballs stuffed in sewer drains, Bicycles without handlebars.

The lights are turned off at 731 Murdock.

A cul de sac can be seen in front of us

Beyond the circle is a pasture of chess pieces arranged in a cluster.

We park on the point farthest from sight—under the cherry blossoms.

He softly sings between steps as we move diagonally,

“August, die she must, 

The autumn winds blow chilly and cold;

September I’ll remember 

A love once new has grown old again.”

Everyone is here

Huddled around a hole in the ground

Lying there anxiously; a solemn boy. 

He doesn’t wear a suit

But clothed in a black hooded jacket,  dirtied white t shirt, and dark cobalt jeans. 

A watch wrapped around his wrist.

His Chestnut eyes widen as he turns, chest to the ground pushing against the rock filled soil

His knees crack as they straighten, 

finding footing among the concaving ground.

Grim tosses me the sack of morphine

He bends down to lend a hand to the boy in the box—

pulls him out with one thrust from a muscleless arm,

And flicks a check mark in his journal.

With simultaneous strides they shuffle back to the idling car-

I bow my head-

A flick of a forefinger tips my chin, raising it up so my eyes can gaze into his

They are hollow.

Mesmerized by nothingness, I cannot look away.

He does not speak but seeps his thoughts directly into my mind— 

Converting sorrow into memories and sadness into dreams.

Dear Donors,

With a strengthened writing hand, in the latter portion of my first semester, I write you this letter. Your generous donation has provided a tremendous feeling of relief and ease—allowing me to focus on writing and producing work. St. Mary’s has provided an enlightening space that promotes education, community, free thought, and spirit. This experience has far exceeded my already lofty expectations. 

I came out to California by way of Connecticut. A lifelong New Englander with a yearning to head west in search of fresh inspiration and new air. What I was looking for was stimulation, what I found was a family. The transition has been smooth due to the openhandedness of the faculty and staff in the program. An outstretched arm is always there when needed, helping me to make the most of the program. 

As an homage to the scholarship’s namesake I would be remiss to mention my own desire to be an educator. I hope to follow in Ms. Butler’s footsteps and attempt to live up to her looming legacy. Ms. Butler has set high expectations and I fully intend to meet and exceed them. The term “literary excellence” was used in the description of the scholarship, it is my obligation to exemplify this in my never ending pursuit to become the best writer, student, teacher, and person that I can be. This pursuit is dedicated to Ms. Butler, the Butler Endowment, and all the kind souls that support furthering education and the spread of literature. 

To quote one of Ms. Butler’s favorite authors Samuel Taylor Coleridge, “The happiness of life is made up of minute fractions – the little, soon forgotten charities of a kiss or a smile, a kind look or heartfelt compliment.”

With Admiration,

David

Are The Arts becoming lost? Is the age- old means of expression being ushered out by the emergence of technology? Filling in bubbles with the click of a mouse appears to be replacing creative articulation as this new generation attempts to make an impact on the ever-evolving world. 

The ability to write and think critically are the shovels that helped me dig my way out of an academic rut. These skills have continued to shape my mind and have allowed me to find a voice when the constraints of monotony restrict it. 

Special teachers have influenced me throughout my academic life. Teachers that have taken risks and chances to instill an appreciation for this writing. Allowing students to peer into their eyes and see the honesty they exude, the cries of passion that spill from their lips. My professors have become these Merlin-esque figures that have opened realms and regions of my imagination that I was unaware existed. I need to experience this; I need to connect with emerging minds that yearn for even a spark of fervor. I am more than willing to provide this.   

I have been a poetry editor for my University’s literary magazine, The Helix, for the past two school years. I take my role with the utmost seriousness and make certain that the publication is a reflection of my own hard work and dedication to the craft. I actively make efforts to spread the presence of the Magazine across campus and the community, often making appearances in English classrooms, encouraging all ranges of writers to submit and participate in the Helix sponsored events. I have helped organize “open mics” and have brought writers and poets to campus. It is my constant desire to spread my love of language to those who perhaps do not yet know that they share this as well. 

Many of my professional endeavors have involved working with children. Not a day goes by where my persistent encouragement to read and write is silenced. For a time, I thought that all this preaching was falling on deaf ears, often speaking to these children while their eyes fry in the numbing light of an iPhone. Not all is lost however; many children have asked me to read their poems or wanted to discuss books–portraying maturity that spans far beyond their adolescent stature. These occurrences make still my heart.

I have a responsibility to pass on history, words, and literature–it can be quite difficult for one to discover their power without having someone else help them uncover it first. 

I will be researching transcendentalism and searching for the premier places to absorb and produce the writing that it inspires. A key aspect of transcendental theory is to come up with one’s own understanding on “Things” i.e. society, nature, God. For my specific research I have been travelling to different state and national parks around the area—from Big Sur up to the redwoods of Humboldt County to try to find what these “things” mean to me, my writing, and how I go about exercising my ever rekindling world-view. At these sites I will be reading a variety of transcendental literature, using them as sort of guide books. After reading through some, my inclination was to stop reading and be in the “now”, I felt it was what those looming predecessors would have wanted. This research has helped me to be in the now, and to write from that place. It seems like I have always had a deep connection with the woods, and am looking for some more in depth basis into that. I definitely share certain outlooks with the transcendentalists. My research is most rooted in the “why”.    

The annotated bibliography that follows tells about the place in which I conducted the research, as well as the literature that inspired.

Joaquin Miller State Park

Joaquin Miller State Park is an urban park run by the city of Oakland. This park offers an escape from the city’s grind and allows for contemplation in a variety of serene and relatively quiet spots. There is a mixture of genuine nature popping up in between manmade structures and clear-cutting. An actually beautiful park considering the amount of foot-traffic and proximity to neighborhoods. I used minimal environmentally impactful means while traveling to and from the park—riding my bike from my apartment in McClymonds up to Grizzly Peak Road. I strolled around to see a still, reflecting pool and pyramids built by Miller himself to represent the Ten Commandments (religion and transcendentalism weaving resulted in some nearly mind-breaking thought). The park was a bit busy, being a Saturday, so I ventured off trail and found a pine needle-encrusted divot under a redwood to settle in and read.

Ralph Waldo Emerson, Nature, Chapter 1

Emerson’s Nature is a self-reflective essay that riffs upon the relationship that humanity has with nature. This idea that man and nature are on the same plane was a revolutionary concept at the time. Many believed that nature was a reflection of man and therefore was dictated by human, which is obviously a very backwards view. Emerson questions the outlook of the past. He begins the essay by saying, “Our age is retrospective.” He goes on to say, “why should not we also enjoy an original relation to the universe. Why should we not have a poetry and philosophy of insight and not tradition…” Emerson speaks about the universe and what composes it—nature and the soul. There is, what is “me” and what is “not me”, separate from the soul. There are perspectives to be found in nature that will impact one’s well-being and moral principles. He goes on to discuss that modern peoples do not even see the sun, or at least do so in a superficial way. At no point in the essay does Emerson rely on authorities of the past, but rather depends on his own experience of being to hypothesize a theory. (After reading that, I put the book down and began to think on my own.)

Prairie Creek Redwoods State Park

Located in the snoring town of Orick, CA in northern Humboldt county is Prairie Creek State Park. Too far north to get much city traffic, and all the tourists have dwindled by the end of October. There is a constant cloud cast over the tops of the trees—it is one of the wettest spots in California. My carbon footprint is a bit bigger than it was in Oakland, the drive took about seven hours on US 1. Once in the park there is no noise from drivers and pedestrians alike, just the subtle breeze coming from the creek and the creek of the ancient giants. This parks offers almost too much time with one’s own thoughts. I felt as though a feeble pebble had been wedged under a mountain. A place that forces the mind to consider reasons and answers but they seem to be unable to escape through the dense canopy. I find a spot to camp by the brook, gather whatever dry kindling I can find, open my ears to the forest music, open Walden, and drift into Thoreau’s consciousness. 

Come morning, I read the words, “How vain it is to sit down to write when you have not yet stood up to live.” I went for a hike, bookless.

Henry David Thoreau, Walden, Where I Lived and What I Lived For

This portion of Walden discusses what Thoreau’s ideal living is. He inquires to several farmers about possibly living on their land and imagines buying their houses to be his own. He prefers a place in the wilderness over one in a village. He draws out plans but decides against building, claiming that true wealth is had when certain wants are left alone. Thoreau questions the acquisition of material objects—he seeks a place separate from society. He begins building, and living in, a home in the woods (at Walden). He basks in its unfinishedness, feeling as though it is part of nature. Thoreau encourages all folks to elevate their lives by “conscious endeavor”, which means to find a passion and run with it. His endeavor was simplicity and solitude. Thoreau pokes fun at those who value the ventures of others (news) over their own. He advocated his own lifestyle as primary. 

Pine Ridge Trail to Sykes Hot Springs

A rugged, grueling, gorgeous hike in Big Sur. Across the road from the beaches is an expansive, undisturbed wilderness of pointy peaks and ridges. The trail climbs to and fro in switchback painted erratically. This is the only trip that I did with a companion, a girl I met in Berkeley who turns out to be really sweet and a total badass. The sun heats up the trail as well as our backs shadowed by the black backing of our backpacks. We climb higher into the halo-cloud, sitting god-like on its rocky throne. It is hard to think of much else other than the “now” while doing something physically demanding, a primary reason why I enjoy staying active. I will myself to take another step, after the last ten and before the next. I play a song in my head that may have squeaked out in an inaudible whisper, at the moment this was the Song of Myself. 

Walt Whitman Song of Myself

This poem, as part of the greater work that is Leaves of Grass, is a celebration of the self. An exercise that everyone should participate in to recognize themselves as active members of a fucked up and beautiful existence. The speaker/narrator of the poem represents the part of us that isn’t our everyday, but the one that keeps us going from day to day. It is our transcendental voice—the one that absorbs all the activity of the moving, natural world. But, it is this “us” that remains detached from our conscious selves. This voice is immortal, hopefully continuing on through generations inspiring. Throughout the poem, this voice dips in and out of a human’s physical self and becomes a part of it. It is when this unity happens that the self can experience spontaneous enlightenment. Whitman riffs on the idea of being content with one’s self—if no one else is aware that is fine, and if they are, that’s fine too. He speaks of the connection between humankind and nature and how it happens in the most intimate way. He does so by using the life cycle of death and rebirth and its continual perpetuation.   

The lunatic, the lover, and the poet are of imagination all compact,

Shakespeare,

A Midsummer Night’s Dream

Playing amongst geometry–

We reach out hands

Anticipating 

A catch.

They drift like strips

Of paper scraps: colored neon.

Wanting for thought

Pressed on their pulp.

Craving for touch– 

But they are caught 

in the canopy.

With lucidity–

Shake, blow, 

Coax 

The drowsy giant.

For we are your merry pranksters,

Please let us careen with you.