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Short of Crazy

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Well, I left Southern Utah, and I didn’t think I could. I left those familiar surroundings behind. My family is back in Utah, and I have no relatives in Northern Arizona. It has finally become quiet in my life. What I become absent from, I grow fond of. But my patience is strong, and I love a new start. If the good old AZ becomes my home, then so be it.

My junk car cannot go off this mountain, because I’m afraid it wouldn’t make it back up. There is the desert below, that I want to see. There are things that I envision; simple things like clouds shadows passing over dark red mesas; whirl winds traveling across long empty landscapes. The desert is calling me, and it would drive me insane if I allowed it. But I am controlling the passion of wanting to be there physically. For now the landscape paints images in my head and in my dreams at night. I wake up in the morning, and look into the sky, as it comes through the window. I watch the nimble clouds traveling passed the square opening..

There is a nothingness that I crave; to simply hear the grind of my motor, and my wheels traversing down some isolated country road. I’d like to be fishing, with my shoes off, below a shady cottonwood. As the clouds slowly floated above, I’d listen to the muddy water flow restlessly, but gently.

My Second Week in Flagstaff

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In Flagstaff, Arizona, I’ve been taking a Navajo History class at the college. Tonight I learned one of the original names for the San Francisco Peaks. The Navajo call them Dookoosliid, and yellow is their color. The peaks are sacred. Dookoosliid is the western boundry of Dinetah, the homeland of the Navajo People.

Tonight, radiant yellow clouds glistened above the San Francisco Peaks. They were yellow, and then dark orange. Soon, everything turned into a soft purple glow as the sun disappeared. I want to hear the wind whip and howl through the pines, through the darkness of these woods. This summer, violent thunderstorms will venture through. I find myself alone in this little apartment on the western fringe of Flagstaff, with the room mates gone. I realize how far from home I am, nearly three hundred miles from Cedar City, Utah!

Flagstaff is situated in the nation’s largest Ponderosa Forest, and it separates the outside world. Which is a good thing! On the horizon, there is nothing but pine steeples against blue sky. The peaks rise above, and they become an incredible panorama.

It’s been a joy to write in my journal. When feeling homesick, it is a place to ponder. But I learn to appreciate the beauty, and wonder of this world. Arizona is a nice little place, and I don’t get homesick too bad. In fact, it scares me that I don’t miss home. I miss my family though!

A Night in the Kiabab

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The fire ignites the oily wood
cracking and echoing
into the forest.

Infinite candled stars
glitter in the black staircase
above the trees.

There are whispers
in the Quaking Aspen
in the dark grass.

Faraway from the settlements
A Great Horned Owl
sings in the tallest Ponderosa.

With every hoot
he becomes a shadow.
The ghost soon stops?

as I enter
into the darkness.
I hear the fire behind…

Eating the pitch,
snapping and casting
orange ribbons of light.

Deeper and deeper
my footsteps go
into the black labyrinth?

creating excitement
mystery, courage,
tears, and dreams.

This was long ago.
It is still here.
Forever it remains.

In the Forest

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There in the sky’s cathedral, in the white painted aspens, where the land is still untouched; is a place where I can go to get away from the ignorance of the world. In this space is the space in which I tick. This miraculous landscape is alien to its own existence. It’s unlike anywhere else. Like the song of the hidden valley, where no one ever goes. I sit beneath a living tree, below the foot of a large sleeping hill. Now from this place, the Earth Mother speaks to me in dreams. In the sun soaked clouds, those dreams of old, speak to me. Hiding themselves as when I hide myself in prospective touch. All the materials of life are burning like a steady day inside me. Behold, in the extremity, I was threshed away into this still silence. And there, I thought of far more intelligent things. And my might, gazed at reality, giving me its music. I stared into my own existence, as a person would stare at his own reflection in the water. What a rich time it is, feeling nothing but the corners of God’s imagination.

Untitled

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In the dark mansion of space
I ponder the old ways of this world.
Will we ever return?
What are humans without?

With every traffic noise
and every humming car
The silence remains there afterwards.
A silence greater then humans.

The pine tree quietly waits,
the forest is waiting.
The mountains keep covered secrets.
There is a greater cause
weaving into us, illusions or truths.

With every lifestyle and luxury,
Death eventually comes to everyone.
Death converts humans to the quietness…
of the flowing river,
and the natural flow.

I’m waiting for the mystery
to carry me away
over vast distances of knowledge.
I have a home beyond death.
I ponder the still endless
wastelands of the desert
onward, into dreams.

Moving to Flagstaff, Arizona

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I have lived a total of six days in Flagstaff now. I don’t know what to think of this place yet? I love the singing Ponderosa Pine that engulf the sprawling town. There are so many trees, that I couldn’t even find my way around. A few times, I got lost. This town is actually environmentally friendly; at least when compared to the towns of Utah. A lot of ravens take up residency too. It’s a quiet place, except for the trains. They sound their horns at all hours. It isn’t bothersome though.

Compared to Southern Utah, this area is a lot more diverse with people. There are a lot of folks coming from different backgrounds. In Utah, it seems like 90% of the population is Mormon and of the same mindset. There’s the Paiute in Southern Utah, and a few Mexicans. But in my humble opinion, Southern Utah is culturally lacking. I say this respectively, not to offend anybody. I have yet to become familiar with the citizens of Flagstaff, Arizona.

Today, I drove to a place called the Oak Creek Canyon overlook. There was Native people selling stuff there. Ravens were chatting. Far below the overlook railing, I could hear the creek rushing downward. I loved the steep walls of the canyon, and the various layers of sandstone that composed it. Then I wanted to go see Sedona, despite all the New Agers and frauds that I’ve heard are living there. I didn’t dare drive down to Sedona anyway, because my car has been acting like an creaky dinosaur about to kill over. In the past few months, it’s been acting strange and unpredictable. I can’t stand the thought of getting stranded again, like I did the other night while coming into Flagstaff. A radiator hose blew out in the engine, and I ended up trying to stop people on the highway for help. It’s a lonely feeling, when no one was willing to stop and help. I guess people let fear, or carelessness dictate their lives. I try to stop and help people when I see them in that predicament. Finally, a highway patrolman stopped and called a wrecker.

So now I am living in Flagstaff with three other room mates. What a dark town it becomes at night. I’ve noticed that it blends into the surrounding forest after sundown, below the San Francisco Peaks. These mountains are sacred to the Hopi and other local Native peoples. I’ve known the controversy surrounding the peaks, and I side with the original nations in this area. Down below the peaks, the desert is primordial, calling to all those that hear its vision. And how I love the glow of the peaks, when the pale moon shines upon them.

I love traveling through the Navajo Reservation, and seeing the long empty shadows being dropped from low rising sandstone formations. Just before sundown, there is a twilight of emense silence, and the only sounds I hear, are the roaring engine and the wheels humming against the endless highway. Navajo homes with little street lamps, weave a spider web of existence in the black labyrinth of Northern Arizona. I feel the strong warmth of isolation. I feel something that is hard to speak of. I listen to the radio buzz, and the static responding to the RPM of my motor. Into the blackness, into the Painted Desert I traverse.

Flagstaff is a quiet place. Yes, it is a busy little city. But it isn’t really. It is full of interesting things. I have yet to explore it. When I see Arizona, in a wholesome sense, it has a spirit that is far different from Utah. Even the local Wal-Mart has an ‘Arizona’ smell to it. Yes, I am going to miss Utah, but I left to find some personal indipendence.

And to Zoey, I appreciate your comment. I checked my bloginality, and I may post the result in the sidebar somewhere.

Towards Them Hills, I Go

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In a heart beat, I’d rip down the walls of square existence, and all of civilization, in exchange for simple beauty. My own shadow speaks. My enemies are those that destroy beauty.

I leave town with pop in my jug and the cool wind coming through the window. Towards the rolling hills I go, covered with dense Juniper, and Pinion Pine, where cloud shadows twist and roll. My pop jug is full of Mountain Dew; and I’m feeling the cold air hitting my face. I?m happy and humble. The desert clouds hum above my car, as it travels down the shady highway, further from town. The town glistens behind, where busy mice hurry in their trivial lives.

Turning off the highway, onto a dirt road. The car ploughs down the road, towards the mountains. Gravel slams the floor beneath. The tires plow through soft dirt, making thick clouds of dust. Towards those lonesome hills I go.

The sky is so blue, and so calm. The desert is so clean and wide open. Nobody can find me out here in the sticks, of long ago. The deeper I venture, the freer I become. The Earth Mother is so beautiful. She is so comforting. Out of the hills, cloud shadows carve the landscape. The landscape has no end. It cannot be sold. Beautiful is the wild. The desert is a haven of peace and harmony.

I hear my own shadow singing.

Black Shadow

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I thought I
heard the unseen,
while sleeping?

Nothing opened the door,
but it remained closed.
Yet, Nothing walked in
and I heard him
jingling his keys!
I also heard him
punching the code
into the key pad!
Again, no one came
through the door.
The door remained closed.

I see an ungodly shape on the wall.
The inanimate black shadow
watches me without eyes.

Introspection: Am I a Hermit?

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I was talking with my grandpa today, about hermits, those bearded men that still seem to haunt the mountains living in makeshift huts or sheep camps. He said I ought to take my camera and go photograph the few that I’ve come by and try to capture them in their routine. Of course I’m wandering if this would be considerate or respectful towards them?

I assume that these folks live in the hills because maybe they don’t want anything to do with civilization. These individuals truly live in the quiet places, yet, I don’t quite understand where they may be coming from? How do they survive emotionally with only themselves to entertain? I’ve been wanting to hunt of few of them down and get to know them. If they want the company?

To me, a hermit is a human that discovers happiness in isolation. Half of the time, I feel like a recluse. I tend to despise human company, out of frustration. Mostly, I crave the company of others. I would like to learn how to be at peace with myself as my thoughts are very stormy. I crave the sugars of society but I wouldn’t mind living on the fringe.

I don’t expect everybody to live in cabins, but I feel like a hermit. I’m waiting for a life changing event, for my dreams to grow. Yet, I’m not an earth-loving, tree-hugging, dope smoking stereotype. I’m an average, clean cut college student, and this is my journal. I won’t let the bigger world define my existence. I have my own innate power, to resist the common.

Scaring the Beast

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I’d been hiking through sage, and sand for hours. The sky was blue and calm, but small clouds soon grew thunderous. I brought my two dogs with me on that afternoon excursion in July. The wind wailed, and whistled through stone crevices. The cloud shadows began to merge, and soon rain was falling. I was hours away from my vehicle parked on the highway’s edge.

After spending time at a petroglyph site, I was able to find a small cave, to wait out the storm. Lightning clapped and echoed through the canyon…

As I reached the entrance of the cave, hollering for my dogs to follow; out of the dark came an unknown beast. On two giant wings and large talons stretched forth, a Great-Horned Owl almost crashed into me, but managed to land on a rock near the entrance. Completely startled, he stared at me in violation.

I scared the hell out of that poor bird! In confusion it flew off into the canyon, into some shaded cliff overhangs.

Peering Into the Unknown

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Stars and quasars burn forever, like candles, in the stillness of the universe. Beyond the earth’s atmosphere, the universe is teaming with hidden activity. Undocumented life forms dwindle and cluster in the dark crevices of outer space. Their intelligence sometimes exceeds ours and they play with our imaginations. They have always known us and they visit the earth like tourists and vacationers. Every now and then, strange lights are seen on the desert, and appear when they think no one is near. Aliens have been coming to the earth for a long time, always leaving us with mystery.

The desert is something that cannot be understood, only speculated upon. My mind drifts through mountains of sage and cedar, and I hear them hills over yonder, chanting about what happened long ago…

As I try to put my feelings onto paper, yes, I speculate about manifestations that have caught the corners of my eyes, or a bold flash of firelight deep in the hills, that disappears in a flicker. There are abnormalities that appear, and they seem to move and vanish, with utter and disturbing surprise. It is the excitement of being alone and isolated in the boonies. Of course, my imagination tends to run rampant, like a rabid coyote. But perhaps I get tangled in blissful delusions.

Recognize the Beauty

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When humanity becomes too noisy; forget the contests and debates of human existence. Venture into the shadows of this quiet world. If you go to the farthest boundries of the wilderness, or into your own imagination, always remember, that you are lucky to be in a beautiful world. It never leaves your side. The Earth, the forest, the desert, is an entity that cares for you. Whether you’re lost in the confusion of some conflict, or basking in the moments of peace, you are always valuable, and indispensable in the face of the Creator.

Lightning and Snowflakes

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Thunder rolls across the sky in winter time. How strange that the lightning would spark on the last part of November, while snow is falling. Oh, that powerful thunder echoed across the dark valley as I was heading home tonight, with snow flakes smashing into my windshield.

Beauty is everywhere in this world. The desert is so beautiful, with the deep sparkling snow covering the valley, and covering the mountains above.

White Painted Aspens

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With the wind,
Aspen leaves clap
in cheerful crowds.

Yet, their yellow bodies
barely cling
against winter air.

The Aspens creak,
like rusty wooden doors,
wood screeching against wood.

With the wind,
the trees move in waves
as grass in meadows.

Leaves clap and fall
from white painted branches.
The forest sings like rivers.

The Yellow Sandstone Canyon

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An aged river slithers through the yellow sandstone canyon. For millions of years it has. The clouds are passing through the sky, like there is no human existence. This world continues without the presence of humans. We should be grateful to be here, we should try harder to protect it.

I am sitting out here, with everything washed in a soft glow. The blue sky is gentle, not rough. The clouds are majestic, old looking, yet they constantly shape shift. The water in them is ancient. The water flowing in the river, carrying the canyon’s sediments, is ancient. The Earth thunders with an awesome beauty that hides in the Southern Utah Wilderness.

When all else becomes lost, I hope this place remains. The Canyons are safe havens. They speak quietly to those, who cannot find any other comfort in a turbulent, human world of wars, bloodshed, intolerance, and hate. There?s a good side to people, but the bad side is overwhelming…

There’s nothing so peaceful, like listening to a flowing river, wind dancing around, or hearing the various songbirds whistling in old cottonwoods. I want to stay in these places forever.

Blue Gems

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I hold a blue mineral
colored as the turquoise sky
like an azurite dawn before sunrise.
or even the deep blue night
holding a silver moon.

A polished cabochon
of Chrysocolla emanates
the early spring morning glow
or a dreamlike trance
that clouds traverse.

My grandmother’s oxidized
silver ring, is inlaid with
Robin’s Egg Turquoise.
She purchased it in Kingman
back when Highway 66 was in its prime.
The blue of the turquoise resonates
her own beauty, and her age.

Pieces of Chrysocolla
Turquoise, and Azurite
unite shades of dense blue minerals.
The earth painted them
from her soul of desolate
rolling desert hills.

The Twisted Link

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I wonder the lonely electric, internet abyss
twisting with uncertainty
while sifting through uncanny piles
of restless information.
Raw data wants to reach sheltered minds.
Screams are muted
in the static of internet space
choked by joyous or horrible manifestations.
Religious or progressive fanatics
stretch forth leery hands
to offer weary hopes.
In a shattered world,
tangled up in magic power lines
nothing is really safe.
Cities sit next to dark oceans
towns next to old landscapes.
The internet motor continues to purr.
I am waiting for the lights to go out.
For the story-telling TV to shut down.
For the quietness of the howling wind.
For shape-shifting shadows that
haunt human existence.

I am the Wasteland

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I’m the sandstone cliffs,
that overshadow cottonwood trees.
I’m the dark basin valley
that engulfs your little cabin.

The shrieking wind is my soul.
I am the wasteland
that gives you access
to sleepless dreams.

My age will outlast human eras.
My heart will sustain life forever.
My wisdom will never die.
My grace is endless, eternal beauty.

The Snowy Forest

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Just before dawn,
Pink colors glow
on the mountain peaks.
The snow storm has passed,
leaving everything frigid and silent.
The pink reaches the forest bottom,
Mixing with the brown shadows of
queer trees.
Their trunks rise up through snow,
exposing dark textured bark,
the skin of ancient monsters.
I love their phantasm
The mountain talks with mysteries.

Long ago, some old man
passed through these mountains,
on a horse, headed for Santa Fe.
He came right through these old pines
that kiss southwestern skies,
and catch desert wind.

*I recently watched Ron Howard’s film, The Missing, and the landscape in the movie inspired this poem. The scenery in the film reminded me of similar places I’ve been. That’s why I like Westerns. Some of them provide the awesome landscape photography that envelops the story, and its characters. Ron Howard’s film did an amazing job with the photography!

Southern Utah Rock Art

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Rusty, painted figures
animate on yellow sandstone pallets-
made from red ochre
that endured forty centuries.
These supernatural beings
dance across the pallet.
They are living, breathing souls.
Trees grow from finger tips,
Antennas and tangled hair
sprout from alien heads
I feel the beating heart of the canyon.
I can feel their ghostly patterns.
What are they doing when nobody draws near?
They look without eyes,
Whisper at night.

Painted humans travel
across the rocks.
Headless human beings
hold hands, or connect feet.

I leave a gift, a coin,
Or something.

Eddie the Hobo

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Eddie was the old banchee-like man
with a twisted, hairy face.
From town to town he went-
singing quiet to himself
along yellow grasses and highway.
Eddie says he’s the Bigfoot Man.
At night-time he sings,
while watching the ancient moon rise.
Over each belt of cloud,
and dark mesa dream.

If I Had to Leave

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If I had to walk away, and never look back,
Here are five things I’d take with me:

A piece of Turquoise,
My grandpa’s old cowboy buckle,
A small pocket book of family history,
A Jar of my grandma’s peaches,
And the first quilt my mom ever made me.

The American Illusion

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“Money controls too many decisions in the world today,” says my brother, after discovering our parents have been forced to leave home, for better paying jobs! They seem like poor cogs in the wheel of civilization. Poor mutes that depend on the beast to merely survive. What would happen if all the little workers stopped working, or supporting the beast? Would it really spark any biblical end? No, the sun would still come up the next morning. The way of the Beast, is a dead end, since the beast will go belly-up, when fuel runs out.

America and the material world are made of money. It’s too deeply entrenched into material things, that shouldn’t matter. A rich woman might carry a bag of diamonds across the desert, before considering a jug of water. That is the truth of the illusion. What matters, is surviving in this world, not exploiting it! The economy (beast) must feed on natural resources to exist. The economy (beast) depends on the “value” of something to exist. And whether it’s painful to hear, the beast looks like a parasite.

We’d all be back to the horse drawn carriages, if we didn’t have money. Wouldn’t that be nice? Deconstruct civilization. Fight the parasite! Be a freedom-fighting hobo! 🙂

…diamonds weren’t even valuable, until someone indicated, a diamond was forever!

The Deepness of Rivers

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An elderly woman sits above a sandstone canyon,
looking at the moon, in the shape of a cow’s horn.
Thin and silver, its rests behind clouds.
She deserted her home, before her children arrived
to haul her away to the rest home.
Looking into the darkness of cottonwoods below,
She listens to the tireless flow of the river,
traversing an ageless path towards the sea.
Her own children betrayed her.
They ignored her dreams,
with their busy cell-phone lives.

This canyon overlaps her age,
or the wrinkles of her skin.
Her mind became wise
from listening to the wind.
She sings a lullaby, she used to
sing her children to sleep.
Now she sings softly to the sandstone canyon.
Her rusty Studebaker is parked
near the scenic overlook sign.

She wants the silence and beauty, one last time?
before those blind bats take her away,
to the place you go to die, a junk yard,
where society dumps your useless days.
They forget to acknowledge your long journey.
Nobody listens to the
Deepness of Rivers anymore…

My True Nature

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I WILL NOT accept the things I cannot change.
I’ll break the windows of everything I know!
I’ll listen to passionate dissidents.
I want to deconstruct civilization.

I’m tired of frivolous squares
forcing circles to become squares.
I’m sick of Uncle Sam
the greedy pig, smoking
his cigar on top of Mother Earth.

I’m sad, because I’m
sick of the beast.
Squeezed by the left and right
to follow their political lead.

All I want,
Is the safety of thunderstorms
and gentle rains
and windswept red deserts.

Give me a horse, or a mule.
I’ll become an old hermit
With beauty in his life
and the wasteland in his soul.

I know that the first three segments of my poem are a little cliche But I deleted this poem at first, because I received a negative reaction from both parents. Why should I hide or sugarcoat anything that inevitably doesn’t go well with some?

Faceless Creature of the Desert

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I’m waiting in autumn for you.
I’m freezing in the snow,
waiting for the unknown to dissipate,
so I can witness a dream untold.
Somewhere in canyon country, you are waiting.

I see your crystal eyes reflect
off canyon pools in summer,
but nothing is there…
It rouses me, like weeping.
Only the howling wind is heard.

Sharpened trees, slice the wind.
Sunglow illuminates their flickering leaves.
The earth pads my tired feet.
Everything on the outside,
is stirring inside.

Something sensual and dark
hides in the bushes and rocks,
in the infrared clouds.
Deep from within Mother Earth,
the ancient shadow sings.

Random Images of a Canyon

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Chipmunks eat Starburst’sweet, fruity, and sour.
It’s not quite like regular seed! They enjoy the hiker.
But shy of humans, ravens plane the cliffs
looking down on the hiker in suspicion.
Junipers yield naked bluish berries,
hard like steel between the teeth.
The sandy creek winds its way
cutting through banks of fine sediment.
Boulders sit in rock slide piles,
coming in endless shapes.
Some without faces. Some frown, or smile,
to show glittering, sandstone teeth.
There’s the canyon’s shadowy ghost,
it doesn’t mind the human, either.
Clouds travel the September skies.
The hiker shouts while finishing lunch,
his voice echoes off canyon walls.

Dancing Cottonwoods

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In moonlight glare,
Cottonwoods sing in the wind.
I see silvery branches, glowing.

Camp sits between the beauties,
near the sandy creek
running chilly and cold.

The Cottonwoods tilt their trunks,
waving their arms-back and forth
beneath the moon.

Heaven is here.
Dancing Cottonwoods,
creak their wooden limbs.

Conjuring the Past

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Something isn’t right, it’s never right! I don’t know whether I’m depressed or just restless? However, I am enjoying school very much. Finally, I have classes that I can relate to, and people I can discuss political issues with. But the begging landscape keeps pulling me away from civilization, into the shadowy wilderness of Juniper hills, and deep filled canyons of silence.

As I am walking home through the campus, after classes, I’m enjoying the blue sky filled with small white clouds. It’s hot outside, but there isn’t any desert wind. Walking under campus ponderosa, the sun sifts through pine tree branches. An old lady carefully limps past me and I look into the eternity of her eyes. She looks like an ancient creature covered in folded wrinkles with narrow lips tightly woven. She is beautiful and quietly walking past me. She has an intuitive friendly face. I felt like stopping her and talking. I love to be around older people whether they are wise or just lonely. I wander where she was heading? Does her family visit her as she looks quite solitary.

This town is filled with young students in their twenties but them are aliens. I don’t know why? I’m the stranger. In my head an ancient piano is playing: Somewhere My Love at a funeral without visitors, family, or friends. There’s a coffin filled with a sad human being covered in red and yellow roses. This was nothing more then a spontaneous thought: I begin to hear wind howling down sandy canyons. It’s a constant, soothing roar that never stops. Within the quiet shade my mind conjures images from the past. At one time, this college campus did not exist. I can see Paiute men from the old days wondering through here in search of rabbits. Instead of green lawn, there was wild sage. The images flicker in the mind like an old picture show. Between two worlds the sun is humming. Something is out there – waiting.

Long ago, there was no Cedar City, and there were no Mormons entering Southern Utah. This desert province wasn’t Southern Utah. Before them the ol’ Spanish Trail went right through the heart of Cedar City and down into Northern Arizona, to Santa Fe. In 1776-77, the Dominguez-Escalante Expedition traveled through here.

This land is stolen. It is occupied territory. America is a simple label placed on an ancient landbase filled with the endless history that predates Columbus, or my European ancestors. As I am walking, the wind begins howling and weeping. The pine needles begin to sing.

For Grandma Millett

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I treasure your advice. You were the wisest of humans. No matter how things evolved, you knew faith and endurance worked. You were the toughest of the brave with those swollen hands of arthritis.

I’ll always remember your soft-spoken eyes, surrounded by wrinkles, hidden behind thick grandma glasses. I would hitch-hike from my town to yours, just to come and stay. That highway would stretch for miles, and I walked for hours, waiting for a diesel to stop.

Our surreal conversations would start in the early afternoon and head clear into the night. During summer the mocking birds impersonated every other song bird. Locusts buzzed outside your desert door. I crave those harvested summers-my imagination reflects them clearly.

It was just you and I dwelling on life. Each talk had a personality. We were Deep Thinkers. It was difficult to see you leave. Time and space have never been the same. That old house of yours still stands, with the family name; Millett, strewn across the front. I miss the chimes and cowbells that sung from your porch.

With Love, You’re Grandson.

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