Cryptic's Choice 2014

One of the most valuable things I learned about myself this year was that I actually don't loathe poetry. Thank you creative writing!

One of the other valuable things I learned in 2014 is that my whole being gets stagnant when I'm not trying new things and pushing myself out of my comfort zone.

So, I thought it was fitting that my last blog post of the year be my first shot at haiku. Here's 2014, more or less...critique away if you desire :)

One of many good nights in the jack pines...

Getting a dumping

Lake effect don't mess around

Stopping my going

Irking my candor

Superficiality 

Why can't you be you?

Gonna make mistakes

Frank Sinatra in the air

I did the right thing

Vomit the pain out
Phone is shorting from the tears

Thank you for the hurt

Footsteps chase my own
Is that how it worked inside?
One dead, one got life.

All in one weekend

Taught me to shift, her to steer

My dad is a saint

There's a storm coming
Kirtland's sing bombastically
Uppies wolf whistle

Sun kisses bare breasts

Paddling topless through cattails

You're welcome bitterns

I will not wear shoes
They separate from the earth
My toughening feet

A swish of the line
Ply the fly, flirt with the trout
Dance with the current

Your screens enter first
Preventing you from sensing
Life in the moment

Cherry pie and rum

Made spectacles and stories

This is 'Murica

Your words were full of
Flattery, empty promise
They cooked me a trout

Wearing a long skirt

Because last night's was too short

You have a girlfriend

Blueberry mouthfuls

Mosquitoes buzz in my ear

Stomach has regrets

That Jack Pine soundtrack
Hermit Thrush and machine gun
Nighthawks overhead

Kiss until we're numb

Standing in starry river

Wish it were different

Small fingers grasp mine
Balancing on beaverdam
Bring kids to nature!

She called diamonds trump
Daddy Longlegs fed the fire
She took it alone

More new horizons

Belugas, poutine, spruce trees

Fueling wanderlust

Lighter, pot, paddle

Gonna make swamp gas fireworks

Blazey Badger smiles

Usually we jam
Purple juice staining my walls
This time, we jellied...

Slept in Central Park

Thought we might get arrested

Stood up for our home

Walls refuse to fall

My hand between him and heart

Not ready for this

Make bread on Fridays

Then spear rats with kitchen knives

You're fun to live with 

Your money can buy
Fake tits for your trophy wife
But won't buy you abs

Streaming tears, again

Too much laughter and ginger

Overflow with love

Gray Jays on my hand

Otters sliding on the ice

Mom I hope you're proud

If my writing works
Through a documentary
Resurrect the dead

The Beckoning Tree

Most of the time, I consider my height an asset, but not this afternoon as I push my way through the clogged deer trail. I stop to untangle my hair from the briars firmly attached to my hair and realize my reluctant playing of the Absalom role. This happens pretty frequently; it is an understatement to say that feminity doesn’t come naturally to me. I spent one fall afternoon trying to flush Ammodramus sparrows by bushwhacking through a brushy field. Afterwards, midway through a date at a sushi joint—a sushi joint with bathrooms classier than any place I’ve ever lived—I discovered a substantial matt of burdock lodged in my tresses. Long legs and long hair can be advantageous, but I’m probably undeserving of them both. I impatiently reclaim my hair from the thorns. My quest may involve snarled hair, but the end result will be a detangled brain. Although the trail around me is thick with undergrowth to thwart my passage I push down the trail towards a thin place.

Albeit patience-testing, the walk is not long nor arduous, and it meanders over land that my family has revered for generations. I’m answering a tradition, one prompted by love and the desire for reflection that spurs me across field, swamp, and forest to The Beckoning Tree.

                Leaving the sandy field, I step into a fine fragment of northern hardwood forest. There’s no trail anymore, so instead I let a deeper pull guide me towards my goal. Over mossy hummocks, through swaley spots threatening once-dry socks, over fallen trees—I press on. Just before I enter her presence I push through a screen of young trees, which her crown towers above.

                She’s a gnarly old sugar maple; for many years, my family has made the pilgrimage to talk with the Beckoning Tree. Her lower limbs unfurl away from the trunk, reaching out to grab you and draw you in. Her domain is always shrouded in a strange quiet that settles you. She’s ever receptive to people seeking solace and slow time.

Slow time is one of the things I miss most from the Philippines. There, it is a natural part of life. Here, you have to make a concerted effort to find it. If you’re not vigilant, it’s so easy for life to become a sanity-annihilating whirlwind of keeping up—keeping up with work, with friendships, with technology.  On every side we’re assaulted by information. Society tells us that silence is no longer crucial. The last week of the semester was sheer hell for me. It’s been nearly two weeks since I’ve been in a classroom yet it was only yesterday that my brain stopped short-circuiting itself.

                So many people retreat to places like the Beckoning Tree in search of the same peace that I am. The spiritual capacity of nature is far from a novel idea, and it’s been exalted by many nature writers like John Muir, Thoreau, and Sam Campbell. Sam, describing his own sanctuary in Three Lakes says, “Here, silence and solitude are so profound as to be almost visible, beauty extravagantly lines the trail-sides, and the tranquility of eternity rides the breeze that sways the pines…it is my sanctuary…while I am sure that this mental state of peace, receptiveness, patience, free of hatred and vain striving, can be attained anywhere where one will honestly seek it, I know that the contemplation of natural beauty and grandeur is of tremendous aid.”

                Sam realized the need for a place—a sanctuary from the world. One representing not only retreat, but a spot where the curtain separating earth from spiritual realms ebbs, allowing you to see something of heaven itself. They’re places where it’s easier to listen to your inner voice, or the voice of God. Even though the world tries to thwart our seeking of higher things and places, nature is always inviting us to come and replace stress with the inherent silence and quietness of soul we experience from an environment conducive to thinking. It’s important that we find our thin places; one of mine is at the Beckoning Tree. Where are yours?  

Philosopher of the Forest: The Project

I’ll never be a student missionary. That’s why I spent 10 months teaching—and learning—in Palawan.

I’m never going to college. Three semesters now stand between me and graduation.

I am not going to be a writer. A bird bum, a lawyer, a logger, even—but not a writer. 

So, it should come as no surprise that here I am, in Three Lakes Wisconsin, using my Christmas Break as a sort of writing hermitage. I sit in the lobby of Deja Brews, drinking my caffeinated dues that endow both (a) wi-fi and (b) an escape from the curmudgeonly companions sharing my cabin 2 miles down the road.

Escape. Sam Campbell (1895-1962), one of the early voices of the early American conservation movement, journeyed to Three Lakes for escape too, then using the inspiration from his time here to encourage all that would listen to pursue their own nature escapes.

Sam Campbell

Encouraging conservation through invitation rather than regulation, Sam didn’t leave The Wilderness Society or the Boundary Waters in his wake. Sam’s approach to environmentalism instead employed his woodland friends to speak his message of stewardship; this strategy had an exceptional impact on his audience.

Ironically, these things setting Sam Campbell apart from other environmentalists of his era render him one of the least-remembered forces of the American conservation movement. This enigma is remarkable for a man who, in 30 years, delivered more than 10,000 lectures to a collective audience of more than 9 million, produced more than 150,000 feet of film, and published numerous books.  

Nature's Messages, Sam Campbell

One set of his books, the Living Forest Series, played a role in developing my own affinity for nature. Many nights my dad would tuck me in and read Sam’s tales as I fell asleep. The stories about adventures—and the animals and people he befriended in the process—excited me. I wanted to make my own escapades and nature friends!

Little did I know that, years later, I would be making my own nature stories. Right now, I write for TLD Productions, a video and production house in southwestern Michigan. Last May, their script writer for Philosopher of the Forest, a documentary film celebrating Sam’s life and legacy, flaked. I flippantly said that I would do it; here I sit in a northern Wisconsin town working to recapture Sam’s voice for presentation to a new generation.  

Enjoying an interview turned story-telling session with Judy Lehmkuhl, June 2014

As I get deeper into the project, I realize just how much Sam gave to the world. He used his gift of writing, movie making, lecturing, his sense of humor—and most of all, his passion and love for people—to build the bridges necessary to inspire people to awaken and warm to the idea of conservation. We need Sam’s message today at least as much as we did then. Our culture’s relentless pressure to achieve and maintain the American dream compounds our isolation from nature. Sam Campbell is a man worth remembering.

               

I write this to a soundtrack of Stevie Ray Vaughan. Just as the death of a musician doesn’t render their song obsolete, Sam’s message won’t fade—not if we don’t let it. His legacy will continue on in new ways, with new voices. I am honored to be one of those voices.

For more information and updates about the project, follow my blog and also visit:

www.gypsygene.blogspot.com

Follow Philosopher of the Forest on Facebook

Philosopher of the Forest homepage

Sam Campbell

Enter Writing Hermitage

Monday, 12/8/14: Unity, Maine; 8 hours at the library, 7,044 words written.
Tuesday, 12/8/14: See above, give or take a few words.
Friday, 12/12/14: Berrien Springs, Michigan to Three Lakes, Wisconsin. 7 hours driving through the Midwest's billboard community (strip clubs, casinos, pro-life messages, fireworks), three chocolate chip sourdough cookies, SERENDIPITY. 

Terry Dodge photo

Until mid-January, no more classes, no more exams, no more slipping on the icy death chute (benignly known as the Hills to Sea Trail) that I must traverse to reach campus. 

But, Christmas break is not exactly a break, either. Much needs to be accomplished, but unlike a great deal of schoolwork, the task at hand is not brainless busywork. Since May I've been sporadically working on a script with TLD Productions for Philosopher of the Forest, a documentary about Sam Campbell (one of Sigurd Olson's contemporaries). The impossibility of doing this task while taking a full load of writing classes dictated that I devote my Christmas break to a Writing Hermitage of sorts... 

So, here I am in northern Wisconsin near Sam Campbell's home, in a beautiful cabin with a wood stove and a pet crow. 

Things I plan on accomplishing over break:

1. Produce a workable script. I'm a capable writer. I love challenges. I've never attempted to write  a documentary script before. I feel like I'm clinging to a crumbling cliff, ready to leap towards the water below. And I freaking LIVE for that feeling. Sure I'm intimidated, but I'm embracing it too. 

2. Handfeed Gray Jays. And maybe hear wolves howl...and maybe see aurora borealis... I can't write all day every day, and enjoying the beauty of northern Wisconsin will rejuvenate my mind. Gray Jays are one of the most charismatic birds of the northwoods, and I anticipate forging friendships based on peanut bribery this month. 

3. Destroy my hip flexors with the help of my snowshoes. I don't have a car here, which is fine; I have two legs that work just fine. For me, exercise is the most crucial step in achieving a clear head. By default I'll be sitting a lot this month, but when I don't have to be, I plan on destroying my body to restore my brain. 

4. SABBATH. I don't care what your belief system is; we all need Sabbaths. I haven't intentionally observed a Sabbath for too long; if I don't start off the month with this principle in place I know I'll be tempted to write on a rest day. 

5. Learn how to make sourdough bread. This might be bad, but I already TOTALLY have an old man crush on Warren, who I'll be sharing the cabin with. He fly fishes, makes violins, writes books, and walks 4 miles every day. He got his sourdough starter from Alaska and held it on his lap in a Dixie Cup on the flight back to Minneapolis. I can't wait to get to know him better, he's full of stories and laughs. 

6. See 8 owl species. It's a good irruption year, I'd like to find a hawk-owl here, but I'll hitchhike to the Sax-Zim if that's what it takes for Great Gray (and if I get enough work done to deserve a reward, you know...). I've already got Long-eared, Snowy, and Great Horned in the bag. 

7. Write a letter every night. I am so blessed to have a life full of amazing friends. Unfortunately, I don't often have the time to tell them this in more permanent mediums than in passing or over text message. So, if I don't use up all my words on the documentary, I hope to use this break as a long-overdue chance to drive home just how much they mean to me. I don't take you for granted, trust me. :)

8. Read some every day. You write a lot, you need to read a lot. Steve has a whole shelf full of Canoe Country anecdotes, philosophy, and lore, including some work from both Sam Campbell and Sig Olson that I've never read before. I anticipate spending most evenings in front of the wood stove, hot chocolate & Bailey's and good book in hand...

9. Have an adventure every day. I want to get a feel for Three Lakes--whether that entails shooting pool at a dive bar or exploring the XC ski trails or helping out with a Christmas Bird Count or...yeah. Possibilities are endless. 

I'll probably be posting quite a bit in this blog about the project, so stay tuned! Enjoy the holidays everyone! :)

Lunacy

Some people place the full moon as the culprit for making them moody, others swear it makes them angry. Me--I was born three days after the full moon and sometimes, I wonder if that's why it makes me so crazy. When the full moon rises, quivering over the horizon, I tremble with passion and recklessness. My general yearn for adventure amplifies into demand, and moon madness infiltrates my life.


I wake up, sit in creative writing, feel like running laps around the building and telling everyone that they write really well, because they do and they're too humble and I believe if someone is GOOD at something there's nothing wrong with being proud of it.


Instead, I ignore the prompt and write about my moon memories. There have been a lot of them this year: the day we celebrated Smokey Bear's birthday with hundreds of toddlers and their incontinent grandparents, and Hartwick State Park's toilets, in solidarity, took a holiday. Every aspect of the day proved disastrous, so the moment we shut the park down, Saraya and I sped into Dawson's, headed back to our kayaks, and had well-deserved shakes on the lake as the moon rose. When we got back in, I ran for hours, didn't even feel winded, although the next day I could hardly move.


There was the night we broke up a roadtrip by stopping on the shores of Lake Superior for a spontaneous night swim...and then another night where the Boy and I stood in the river, in awe of the river of stars above us. He broke the silence to ask a question I'd been hoping to answer all summer.  We shared our first kiss with the moon, and we stayed in that arc of rippling light, in awe of each other, until our feet were numb. I could write about that one for awhile...


Unity's night sky must be one of the best of any college campus in North America. I don't mind the night classes because I get to appreciate the grandeur--and this week, the moon. We've had snow since Halloween, but the top layer melted and refroze into ice. Treacherous, but beautiful, and I'm not deterred by the risk. Last night, I slid across the bridge. The night was austerely crisp, and everything was illuminated under the moon's beam. I wanted to talk with Barred Owls, but settled instead for kicking the ice off the bridge and reveling in its glassy shatter. The ice intensified the reflection; it was magical.


Right now is the crunch before finals. Although my schedule seems to be more sane than many of my friends, I still am anticipating my next full moon, when I'll be in a remote part of northern Wisconsin working on the documentary script. I dream of snow, snowshoes, the full moon, and the allure of the North Country to infuse my life with wonder once again.

Rat Season

I stumbled up the stairs, absorbed in the afterglow of the night's revelries. I could still taste the sweet potato fries, hear Dave's soulful guitar... 

Jake's voice greeted me from the top of the stairwell:

"Alison, we have a problem in our house..."

Last time one of my friends had a problem in their house, the problem manifested itself in the form of a leaking toilet that dripped through the bathroom floor, through the basement ceiling onto the drum set. 

This memory floated through my slightly intoxicated brain, jarring my reverie. 

"What's wrong?"

"Come here."

As I stepped into Jake's room, I was pleased to note that, like mine, it was cluttered. I'm pretty sure my professors convened last weekend and plotted how to best ensure an overwhelming week, but anyway...

"Look in the radiator."

"Whaaaa..."

Wrapped around the metal coils was a tail, a fairly substantial tail. Attached to this trail was a furred urchin with mean, beady eyes. There we stood, pitting our two partly-functioning brains against the rat's fully functioning brain. 

"WHAT DO WE DO?"

"I'm afraid of rats."

"ME TOO. It ran across my feet and I was like, 'fuck fuck fuck"

The logical thing to do seemed to be to transfer our problem to someone else. As I pulled an unconvincing damsel-in-distress and frantically texted all the bearded, knife-wielding types in my phone, I heard snippets about BB guns and poison from Jake's conversation. 

We looked at each other blankly from opposite sides of the radiator. Obviously, passing our problem off was not going to be our way out tonight. 

"Weeeellll..."

"I'll go grab the cleaver, you guard the doors."

My words definitely ignited more fear into Jake than into the rat, but it was worth a try. However, it soon became apparent that the cleaver seemed more a threat to our radiator and our feet than the rat, cozily snuggled inside the contraption. This would never work. 

"What if...we got it drunk?"

The Alcohol Fairy gifted our house with coffee brandy the other day. Neither of us drink it, so the next line of action was to soak a bagel in the brandy and hopefully entice the rat to enter into a life of debauchery. 

This time, it was Jake who left me to guard the rat while he ran to the kitchen to concoct a potion we hoped would prove irresistible to our intruder. 

I sat on the floor, gazing into the urchin's eyes, willing it to stay put until Jake's return. During his absence, I had a flashback about the rat in my hut in Philippines. I hated that thing with a passion--it peed in my stove, ate the crotches from my underwear, and rustled around my thatch roof when I was trying to sleep. My detest for this creature was so strong that I had intense dreams about killing it on at least a weekly basis. 

One night, I was unable to sleep because of its incessant stirring and scratching. Having met my limit, I grabbed a machete as long as my thigh and started swinging desperately. Although my hut was, uh, remodeled that fateful night, the rat unfortunately was not. 

Jake returned, bearing a soup plate containing what looked like a hobo cocktail of sorts: coffee brandy, a chunk of bagel, two moldy grapes. We set it down next to the radiator, and waited for the rat to cave to temptation...

Waited a grand total of three minutes. Patience is not one of my virtues, and neither is silence, so Jake and I started discussing all the ways we could destroy it. 

"If I had my blowgun here, I totally could shoot it". (probably, I couldn't but that's besides the point...) 

"What we need is a spear... WAIT."

I ran downstairs once more and grabbed a long, shiny, brand new chef's knife. Its packaging promised it to be good for "slicing, dicing, and chopping". 

I handed the knife--and responsibility--to Jake. We made a barricade out of skis and clothing, then I crouched on one end of the radiator with the cleaver. 

The rat, antsy, started crawling around. Suddenly, Jake plunged the knife through a gap in the radiator, right into the rat's back. 

An awful squealing and thrashing ensued, but soon, the death throes were over and our house had one last rat. Jake and I high-fived and went to bed, proud of our teamwork. 

It may be deer season in Maine but rat season is open at High Street. 

REASONS WHY JOHN FOX SHOULD GO TO QUEBEC FOR FALL RECESS 2014

 1. You've sat in class a LOT this semester. Therefore, you need to stretch your legs. Quebec provides ample leg-stretching opportunities, like these places where I stretched my legs on the drive out.

2. I'm sure the Baby Beluga song made such a lasting impression on you when you were little that you've longed to see them -- or kayak with them -- ever since. THIS IS YOUR CHANCE! 

3. Quebec has Caribou. Caribou like these bulls, which consist of hair, antlers, and utter manliness: 

...and also signature Caribou drinks, which apparently consist of wine, whiskey, and maple syrup. 

4. When we get hungry, we can eat copious amounts of Poutine. I am of the persuasion that Poutine should constitute its own food pyramid -- after all, it is a balanced meal of carbs, proteins, and fats. 

...and then wash it down with intriguing bottles of Quebec beer. 

5. I have a talent show to get ready for -- you could have HOURS of quality entertainment in the form of Weird Al!

6. I googled "hot chicks from Quebec"; THIS came up. 

...and, with the language barrier, you might accidentally end up with a hot Quebec wife! That almost happened to me once, in Philippines. 

7. Quebec City is made out of stone, which means we could be renegade urban climbers.

...Orrrrrr, you know, we could actually do stuff like THIS:



8. We could creatively acquire signs like this:

...Or, if we went to Newfoundland, we could get even better ones.

10. Since you were sick this week, that means you should drink a lot of hot toddys to restore your constitution. I aspire towards making the best hot toddys known to man.

 

11. I wear cool pants.

You wear cool pants.

People who wear cool pants should go on kickass adventures, together, for fall break.

SO YOU'RE COMING TO QUEBEC RIGHT?!