Tom had done what he could to donate the heavy, electric wheelchair taking up space in his tiny garage. The first outfit had a truck, but lacked manpower and a ramp to load the beast, while the second flatly refused to pick it up.
That night, Tom dreamed that the heavy, electric wheelchair followed him everywhere, as if it were a 300-pound puppy, lost and starving.
Our talkative host, suddenly silent, rose from his chair, and fled the table towards the bathroom, leaving his gathered dinner guests bewildered. His concerned wife pursued after him.
They sat, mostly in silence, waiting.
Eventually, she returned to the table, soon followed by the husband. He held a wet washcloth to his mouth.
“He bit his tongue.”
“Is it very bad?”
“No.”
“Thank goodness.”
He remained subdued, in a sort of embarrassed muteness, for the remainder of the evening. Of course, it did not help that the conversation immediately and impolitely turned to the question — why do people bite themselves?
Early morning — not yet too hot and not too cold either. I decided to bounce my way off-road so I could get some alone time.
Once parked, I got outta my truck and wandered a few feet to the south. I was jus’ below a rise and I wanted to see what was beyond it.
Jus’ what I thought…more open desert with sage and rocks. Perfect.
As I turned to walk back to my truck, I saw a glint of metal in the dirt, so I picked it up. I had found a battered dog whistle.
Looking it over and trying to shake some of the debris caught in it, I thought about how I used to be able to hear a dog whistle. “I wonder…” I said as I placed it between my lips and gave it a hardy blast of air.
Suddenly the desert around me came to life with the yipping and baying of coyotes. Nope – I can no longer hear a dog whistle when blown, but they sure can and they were none too happy with the assumed shrill sound.
far open places
empty blue skies
dramatic thunderstorms
sage brush to pinon pine
dusty, dirt roadways
mountains, sand, rocks
wild herds of mustang
milky-way at midnight
it is good to be alone
They never saw his nose twitch at the smell of the newly turned piles of dirt. What they did see was a grown man join his three dogs as all four rolled in the brown earth till absolutely covered in moist loam and happiness.
The cops said they weren’t breaking any laws.
Written in July 1972. For being only 11 or 12, I think I was a little obsessed with my hometown and death…
Mouth of the Klamath, fog rolls in from the sea
My desire lives beyond the tallest redwood tree.
Too far have I traveled, so much have I seen,
Heights of the mountain, the valleys below,
Hot sandy deserts, the sunset a glow.
Friend, carry me back to that river I know.
Mouth of the Klamath, fog rolls in from the sea
My desire resides beyond the tallest redwood tree.
Run through the fern, a child of the Glen
At night shine those stars, Heaven’s preview
Won’t you carry me back to those days where
Time and my life along that river shined true.
Mouth of the Klamath, fog rolls in from the sea
My desire survives beyond the tallest redwood tree.
Cheers at the sunshine and smiles in the rain
Still take me back to where memories remain
Hearts filled with fire, ever higher and higher
As they carry me back to the banks of the Klamath.
Mouth of the Klamath, fog rolls in from the sea
God deliver me home to my childhood reverie.
Mouth of the Klamath, fog rolls in from the sea
My desire lays buried beyond the tallest redwood tree.
Returning from the North Coast, I took the longer route home. Crossing over the pass, I decided I wanted a beer and I quickly found a bar.
The couple in the corner were British, their brogues echoed every time the house band fell silent. I ordered a second beer, knowing I should be home already.
The British man wiped his mouth, took a gulp of whatever they were drinking, got up, and approached the stage. After he began playing, I quickly knew that the couple were Paul and Heather.
The music was very good and so was my third beer.
Spanish Springs area, Northern Nevada, July 13, 2019…
Light shift, yellow, orange,
Darkening the already dark
Rooms behind the curtains.
Effects noticeable and now.
Wild land fire, burning hill
South, moving northbound.
So much dense gray smoke
And very little information.
Voluntary evacuations, the
Services moving neighbor
To neighbor, door by door
Those red globes flinging
Air support overhead and
Droning, ever droning up
Then down, then up again
Thick slurry drops, target
Attack and hand crews on
The lines, until nothing is
Seen but blue, clear skies,
Blackened hills, scorched.
Singed coyote trots away,
In search of another home
While ours remain saved
From another man-made.
To the victor go the spoil.
The Old Blog in the Desert 