Thank you for your beautiful writing, Chris, it helps, and I am so grateful for your perspective, which always teaches me something new. I love that last paragraph in this post so much. May we all have someone who treats our travail like you treated that bird's. Be well.
Morning light on the Clark Fork, nostalgia, black-assed mood: "these are a few of my favorite things!" Between Trumpers, the pandemic, and fuckin' cowbirds, I'll take the cowbirds. We're all cowbirds, trying to survive. Welcome back, buddy. Your light reminded me of an old poem where that heavenly light shone on my little owlet of a pal who died way to young. Every day is a gift. If we let Mother Nature drive, like good cowbirds we'll survive. If we keep grabbing and yanking the steering wheel, she'll take us home and up the wreck.
I’m reading this on vacation near Sandpoint, ID, just a few miles from the eastern edge of the Pacific Time Zone. The sun comes up so early that it feels like I’ve been sleeping, fitfully, half the day when I glance over to check the time: 6:30 a.m. What makes it more ridiculous is how I plan my day around the clock, which automatically changed as it’s also my phone. Even when we’re less than 50 miles from where my internal body clock has been living for 99% of its life, we still eat and sleep around the rules of this arbitrary time boundary. And I’m already very much an equinox guy so this just seems like adding insult to injury. Not sure why I’m blathering on except to say I, too, share a mood change at the summer solstice. Balance beats too much light or too much dark.
Around the corner from my house was an old restaurant. It had been there since the 70's, and served fried river-fare. It had a massive mural of Johnny Cash by the front door (which was covered in bumper stickers from the last 50 years), it had dingy lights and wood paneling on the walls, and it had posters of Ansel Adams pictures on the walls. The food came to you sitting on waxed paper tossed into a red basket, obviously. You had to go get your own damn condiments from the weird spot by the line, but that meant you got to go say hi to the cooks. It was purchased by some folks who live in the rich neighborhood down the road. Now the brick has been painted black, there are floral arrangements on the chrome tables, the Edison bulbs (which are vaguely racist, somehow) show just how clean the place is, and Johnny has been painted over. The name is the same. The food is okay.
"...moments of joy seized from the depths of sorrow"---that resonated and the cowbirds seeking the bison that once were so many that they formed a long robe...thank you.
I get so much of this. Moving light on the cliffs. Of course you noticed the same thing in Crested Butte. "It's alive." The memories and spirits in places. Haven't begun to clean out my late wife's things, can't face it yet but already think I could leave Taos—so much of it hurts. Defiant, unknowing both at the same time (yes). Cowbirds following the buffalo herds when "the whole country was one robe," comforting for deeper connections & I'll think of them kindly. Have you ever caught hummingbirds like you did the cowbird? A handful of air. Thank you.
I love these meandering writings you sometimes do. I was gifted a StoryWorth account for Mother’s Day from my son and DIL. The account sends you a question a week (you can choose a different one), the idea is to record memories and family history. But I hate that shit. I hate looking back. I’m over my shitty past and want nothing to do with it. I’ve moved from my home state so those memories aren’t slapping me in the face all the time, the way yours do. And I’m glad. But then I’m not a writer. I want to say some crap about maybe living where you are makes you a better writer but I really have no idea. Sounds like you were writing pretty well in Crested Butte too.
Anyway, I may be disappointing my son and DIL but I’m using my account to record my hikes this year. (It lets you upload photos too. At the end they send you a book.) Looking backwards is too painful and I’ve spent enough time on that shit.
Hope you survive the summer. I have a feeling Missoula must be hotter than here. I’ll be thinking of you.
I always thought I was just a grouchy asshole for resenting the tourist creep in the summertime (a sentiment overlaid with internalized ideas of "but good for the local economy!" to heap on the pragmatic capitalist guilt). But the more I talk to friends and family who are from here, or have been here a long time, the more I understand our community is being "loved" to death. Plus ça change and such, but I really fucking resist it.
After last year's hardship and loss, I just want breathing room and a break for the world to come to its quiet senses - not a turbo return to the hyperextroversion of late-stage capitalism. I've been thinking a lot about Hungry Ghosts and all the insatiable devouring that our consumer economy depends on. Once anger and despair release their grip, I often feel doubly resolved to shore up the parts of life that are slow, quiet, complex, and decidedly not for sale.
Thanks, as ever, for sharing your window on the world and cowbirds, friend. Here's to birds, poetry, dive bars, wild rivers, healthy dirt, shabby diners, indie bookstores, and thoughtful humans.
This piece is especially beautiful. I also have atypical SAD! Living in Southern California, this time of year until November is a real challenge for me. I miss the seasons.
This is so much everything I've been wondering about the past couple of years. This spirit of evil, of want, of emptiness and desire and relentless need for more. Is that the true devil, I've wondered? I don't believe in these things, but when I read about wetiko a few years ago it rang true -- how else to explain the craving that is so overwhelming it blinds you to the reality of killing your own ability to survive?
Beautiful writing and way of seeing the world, every time. Sounds like I'm going to be reading Smokehole (the podcast is fun, though there's a lot of riffing about his background -- I had no idea he and you share a rock band history!).
Another summer SADS person (Western Washington State) thanking you, not ashamed to say that I can't afford to subscribe due to poverty level income but certainly would subscribe if I could. Thank you for the free option and the link to the Martin Shaw video. I look forward to reading your posts and the comments from your readers.
Thank you for your beautiful writing, Chris, it helps, and I am so grateful for your perspective, which always teaches me something new. I love that last paragraph in this post so much. May we all have someone who treats our travail like you treated that bird's. Be well.
I've been spending a lot of time thinking about cottonwood trees.
Please dear Lord won't you bury me
Under the boughs of a cottonwood tree
Please dear Lord
Please dear Lord, bury me
Where the chickadees sing
For eternity
Dear Lord.
Morning light on the Clark Fork, nostalgia, black-assed mood: "these are a few of my favorite things!" Between Trumpers, the pandemic, and fuckin' cowbirds, I'll take the cowbirds. We're all cowbirds, trying to survive. Welcome back, buddy. Your light reminded me of an old poem where that heavenly light shone on my little owlet of a pal who died way to young. Every day is a gift. If we let Mother Nature drive, like good cowbirds we'll survive. If we keep grabbing and yanking the steering wheel, she'll take us home and up the wreck.
The Owl Is Back Again
Sorry I missed your wedding reception,
got lost along the way (should’ve ignored
Casteneda’s directions).
When I finally arrived and settled
on grass outside the bar, down
by the lake shore, I watched an owl prey
on a gopher in daylight,
thought it rather strange. It didn’t
leave but perched on a pole to eat its kill,
silent as bells on the masts of sailboats
tethered in the bay below.
Morning, twenty years ago,
we woke before dawn after running the town
all night, our sleeping bags damp with dew.
Dawn shadows faded on the mountain
across the river as new light filled
the valley up, and rocky cliffs glowed
vibrant gold. When I looked at you,
you blinked, slowly turned your head,
puffy-eyed, hair matted into tufts.
The owl’s come again to tempt the sun,
hungry for dusk and nocturnal blood.
It waits for us to lose ourselves
in our business on the ground,
then spreads its wings, talons ready,
falls easy as autumn leaves.
How does the owl decide who
to choose and when? Does it take us
away to speak the wind?
I’m reading this on vacation near Sandpoint, ID, just a few miles from the eastern edge of the Pacific Time Zone. The sun comes up so early that it feels like I’ve been sleeping, fitfully, half the day when I glance over to check the time: 6:30 a.m. What makes it more ridiculous is how I plan my day around the clock, which automatically changed as it’s also my phone. Even when we’re less than 50 miles from where my internal body clock has been living for 99% of its life, we still eat and sleep around the rules of this arbitrary time boundary. And I’m already very much an equinox guy so this just seems like adding insult to injury. Not sure why I’m blathering on except to say I, too, share a mood change at the summer solstice. Balance beats too much light or too much dark.
Around the corner from my house was an old restaurant. It had been there since the 70's, and served fried river-fare. It had a massive mural of Johnny Cash by the front door (which was covered in bumper stickers from the last 50 years), it had dingy lights and wood paneling on the walls, and it had posters of Ansel Adams pictures on the walls. The food came to you sitting on waxed paper tossed into a red basket, obviously. You had to go get your own damn condiments from the weird spot by the line, but that meant you got to go say hi to the cooks. It was purchased by some folks who live in the rich neighborhood down the road. Now the brick has been painted black, there are floral arrangements on the chrome tables, the Edison bulbs (which are vaguely racist, somehow) show just how clean the place is, and Johnny has been painted over. The name is the same. The food is okay.
"...moments of joy seized from the depths of sorrow"---that resonated and the cowbirds seeking the bison that once were so many that they formed a long robe...thank you.
You touched some strong communal chords there, Chris. You are not alone. I loved this piece.
I get so much of this. Moving light on the cliffs. Of course you noticed the same thing in Crested Butte. "It's alive." The memories and spirits in places. Haven't begun to clean out my late wife's things, can't face it yet but already think I could leave Taos—so much of it hurts. Defiant, unknowing both at the same time (yes). Cowbirds following the buffalo herds when "the whole country was one robe," comforting for deeper connections & I'll think of them kindly. Have you ever caught hummingbirds like you did the cowbird? A handful of air. Thank you.
Damn, Chris.
I love these meandering writings you sometimes do. I was gifted a StoryWorth account for Mother’s Day from my son and DIL. The account sends you a question a week (you can choose a different one), the idea is to record memories and family history. But I hate that shit. I hate looking back. I’m over my shitty past and want nothing to do with it. I’ve moved from my home state so those memories aren’t slapping me in the face all the time, the way yours do. And I’m glad. But then I’m not a writer. I want to say some crap about maybe living where you are makes you a better writer but I really have no idea. Sounds like you were writing pretty well in Crested Butte too.
Anyway, I may be disappointing my son and DIL but I’m using my account to record my hikes this year. (It lets you upload photos too. At the end they send you a book.) Looking backwards is too painful and I’ve spent enough time on that shit.
Hope you survive the summer. I have a feeling Missoula must be hotter than here. I’ll be thinking of you.
I always thought I was just a grouchy asshole for resenting the tourist creep in the summertime (a sentiment overlaid with internalized ideas of "but good for the local economy!" to heap on the pragmatic capitalist guilt). But the more I talk to friends and family who are from here, or have been here a long time, the more I understand our community is being "loved" to death. Plus ça change and such, but I really fucking resist it.
After last year's hardship and loss, I just want breathing room and a break for the world to come to its quiet senses - not a turbo return to the hyperextroversion of late-stage capitalism. I've been thinking a lot about Hungry Ghosts and all the insatiable devouring that our consumer economy depends on. Once anger and despair release their grip, I often feel doubly resolved to shore up the parts of life that are slow, quiet, complex, and decidedly not for sale.
Thanks, as ever, for sharing your window on the world and cowbirds, friend. Here's to birds, poetry, dive bars, wild rivers, healthy dirt, shabby diners, indie bookstores, and thoughtful humans.
This piece is especially beautiful. I also have atypical SAD! Living in Southern California, this time of year until November is a real challenge for me. I miss the seasons.
This is so much everything I've been wondering about the past couple of years. This spirit of evil, of want, of emptiness and desire and relentless need for more. Is that the true devil, I've wondered? I don't believe in these things, but when I read about wetiko a few years ago it rang true -- how else to explain the craving that is so overwhelming it blinds you to the reality of killing your own ability to survive?
Beautiful writing and way of seeing the world, every time. Sounds like I'm going to be reading Smokehole (the podcast is fun, though there's a lot of riffing about his background -- I had no idea he and you share a rock band history!).
Honest words laid out next to each other beautifully. I think I love this piece more than almost any other you've written. It touches deeply. x
Another summer SADS person (Western Washington State) thanking you, not ashamed to say that I can't afford to subscribe due to poverty level income but certainly would subscribe if I could. Thank you for the free option and the link to the Martin Shaw video. I look forward to reading your posts and the comments from your readers.
I feel this - sitting with you in it. Thank you for saying things so beautifully.