Wednesday, September 07, 2005

I've put up a new Website daling specifically with animation. I'm much better about updating that one than this tired ol' bloggie. It's here: Leave me a message!

Monday, August 15, 2005

The new computer is up and running at last. It's a dual 1.8 G5 designed for animation, the best and most powerful computer I have ever owned. I have some growing pains associated with my long habit of PCs.... the dual monitors will not work until I get yet another cable, but all in all I am very pleased. It's fast as shit. I am now at the point where I need to have professional quality resources to edit my animatic. I will no longer suffer the cracked copy of VEGAS to mix pictures and sound. It would never do, really.
I am also about to start an animation blog, and will likely shut this one down. It's been up since 97 in one form or another, and is probably pretty valuable to the spammer types that love and old URL more than life itself. But I tire of it in principle and in practice, and so will be ghosting it onto another server in the next couple of weeks. I do like it that I have gone essentially unbilled for three years, but everything ends sometime.

Tuesday, August 09, 2005

This one cracks me up. And it's a bit of a test to see if Dede is still reading this. If so, I expect a desperate and accusatory call from my sister!

Daily Iowa State Press
Iowa City, Johnson, Iowa
July 15, 1903

James Carroll of Marshalltown Desperate Over Drink Habit.
Marshalltown, July 15- James Carroll, a cooper, committed suicide Monday by drinking laudanum. He was fifty years of age and leaves a wife and eight children. Mrs. Carroll stated that he had threatened to kill himself, because he could not resist the temptation to drink. On Sunday he had acted queer and she his his razors to prevent his using them.

Laudanum was easier to obtain, and cheaper, than whiskey. You cannot buy it these days. You can, however, make it yourself with very little effort.

Monday, August 08, 2005

Lord, not it seems that animation blogs are the way of the world. I'll likely soon link to a daily industry-specific and oft-promoted blog that pertains more to my love and chief amusement (shall we say: savior?) and go from there. I am indeed much tempted to ket this site expire in the whole. since nobody sees it long enough to make their own mark. The only sure readers I kenned were those I did not desire.

Thursday, July 28, 2005

My entire life has been spent as a West Coast dude. Arizona, Oregon. There is a tradition of the west coast... Jack London, Jack Keroac, Jack Auff. But the Midwest is different, and here and now I am a midwesterner. There is a different tradition, and an older. Dreisr, Lewis, Bellow. And Hoover, John Wayne and all the rest. Berke Breathed. Bill Watterson. Even Chas Shulz. Miles, too, since KC is midwest. Never knew anything about it, but it is old, vast and largely unchanged. I would like to be able to see more of the small towns and barbershops and taverns. It would keep me interested for a good long while, I think. I am on the verge of epiphany, and this excites me. Whenever I have felt this before I have been enthralled and afraid because it costs me dear. It also has yet to pay... I have never made a big splash. I am comforted that it is the undiscovered who work with impugnity, but they also work without compensation and that wears on a fella.

Saturday, June 11, 2005

Sloan Valve

The men's room has
a stand of urinals crowned
with the sloan valve,
the admitted miracle

of modern plumbing.
Gone is the waist-high
steel sink, stained and filled
with ice. Shoulder to

shoulder in those days,
the men would piss laughing
and unafraid, drunk
and not needing to aim.

Now, during the previews
in my private stall I stare
down the laser eye
that waits for me to leave.

Wednesday, May 11, 2005

get ready for Monday

It's late Sunday night. No music, and
I am kept awake in the dark:
the rain throbs against the roof
and too much lightning makes my dog whimper.

I lie here running
through all the good reasons.
Now I'm angry again, thanks alot
to all of you who do this.

Now it's tomorrow. The radio
is all talk, and the rare songs dumb.
I floor it as I hit the highway, late,
screaming at the slow old lady

in front of me, doing her level best
to piss me off. One thing after
another, and there's birdshit on
my windshield too. This is just


Tuesday, May 10, 2005

Firstly, to my mother: please stop reading my journal. It is not for you in any way, and you certainly do not understand it. Happy mother's day. It's my favorite holiday, even now.

And, now, a poem:


Three, four o' clock,
and I wonder
when time starts its
counting and why, now,

I cannot see it. Odd,since
so many days are spent
thumb on finger, second to second,
knowing everything.

There is a now, at times,
and hungry for it, I eat
with godless appetite
until: then, on my murked horizon

waits me out.

Sunday, May 01, 2005


Horseback, in movies,
does not show the hours
of saddle rubbing raw
soft parts never yet sore,
let alone the endless grip
needed to stay seated lurching
all day.

Photos show something
else again, something ideal
against a cactus backdrop
with rail fence, if possible,
the promise of a hard bedroll
at the long day's end

Who do we kid, here?
Horses are recreation, now:
rich man's toys stabled
better than the Mexicans
who shovel out stalls,
the vast horizon unbroken

In fact, no patch of sky is free
from vapor trails and far-off noise,
no stretch of plain without
high-tension line, tower, house
or road. Even from the godly height
of indifferent travel we pull the shade,
watch our show.

Sunday, April 24, 2005

This is the best and worst of the net and my memories of it.
Well, I've not lain down any honest post in many a week. Iowa is swell, the farm good and solid, the women happy (especially the young ones) and things shifted to a slower pace with no whiplash. I am looking for a job, any job now. I am working very hard on a cartoon, looking to get the studio happening, but there is this ole wolf who, even in Iowa, laps at the sill. It has been a right jolly break, and now it is again time to be busy all the time.
Say, any old friends, give me your email in the comments (untrolled by spammers' bots) and I'll surely respond. My address is jcarrollhach at gmail if you're in a reaching mood. This site has been up now for almost eight years, making it ancient in Web time. I'm in a vacuum here, though, so reach if you will.
In a book, now

Chickens, an idea
to make money
did not pan out.

No surprise, what
with poor planning
and such bad
luck. Expected, foretold

it all went up for sale.
no buyers in those days,
so less than worthless,
it was still off limits,
though no guards were posted,

jobs scarce then, as now.
Unfed, kids wailed,
drowned out by other things
until they stopped

finally. Since everybody
had the same story
nobody told.

Wednesday, April 20, 2005


rooster-plumes of dust
drift menacingly toward me

I press my palm over my glass
and close my eyes

mornings have rules, still
and as the farm goes to seed,
as the pigs cry for water
and the barn stands as always
until some great blow knocks her sideways,

as the clocks’ batteries die

as it is still summer, now

Thursday, April 07, 2005


I loll in shadows of ivy
that stretch and waver
over cool plaster walls.

The huge, heavily-gilt
oil of Lake Tahoe,
a wedding gift to Granny
late in the last century

must weigh
a hundred pounds.

It hangs just over me,
suspended from the picture-rail.

I push my face into
the dust of her old
bolsters, slipcovered
in canvas roses.

Monday, March 28, 2005


My advice, is how it starts,
this wild ride down the cliff-face.
I am scared, and yet the fall
does not kill me. Instead,
boulders knocked loose by careless feet
begin to fall around and on
me while I breathe deep,
safe, relaxed and easy.

You'd better, is how it ends
because better and worse are married
forever, tied with a knot
that grows tighter and more dense
with every bold descent. Hanging now,
kicking against the cliff-face,
the rope no longer slips through its carrier,
catches on the hard steel
pulls that knot into yet another rock.

Sunday, March 13, 2005

Fishing Trip

Shoved into Pop’s truck at 4:30
hard against the cold door
while my brother, at 5 the natural fisherman,
cradled the warm thermos of coffee and rye.

Dad’s flashlight caught us all
in the act, Pop giving my brother
his jackknife and me not watching.

Saturday, March 12, 2005

Summer Afternoon in Tucson

I was stomping weeds in the heat,
my grandfather's hand-hewn door sagging
on Mexican wrought-iron hinges and slammed
by my father, who had hung it..

I watched the ants. They were small, hard
and able to raise burning welts on bare skin.
I looked closely, carefully,
a can of Coleman white gas sitting

in the shade of our palo verde tree.
The red ones were big
and curled over the sand-grains,
hateful of impedence as they dragged leaves

or even seeds over long stretches of baked
gravel. Across the vacant lot,
newly-widened Broadway hissed forever
with airconditioned cars. I kept

my eyes down, following the ants
to their great hole, a cave
of hard tireless cooperation
so pure I was ashamed to watch it..

I carried the dented red can over,
dumped it all and tossed it back,
struck and threw a blue-tip,
a pillar of orange flame, the smoke black in the white sky.

Sunday, March 06, 2005


Dr. Buchanan McKay

COLUMBIA Memorial service for Dr. Buchanan McMaster McKay, 79, was held Thursday at 3 pm at Trinity Episcopal Cathedral. In lieu of flowers, memorials may be made to Trinity Episcopal Cathedral Foundation Building Fund, 1100 Sumter Street, Columbia, S.C. 29201.

Dr. McKay died October 17, 2004. Born on July 18, 1925, he was the son of the late Douglas and Anne Lowndes Walker McKay. He attended public schools in Columbia, graduated from the University of South Carolina with honors and received the prestigious Algernon Sidney Sullivan Award, the highest award a university can give to a student. He graduated from Duke Medical School and took his residency in pediatrics at the University of Virginia.

Dr. Buck, as he was affectionately known, volunteered for the Air Force and was stationed at Davis–Monthan Air Force Base in Tucson, Arizona. Upon discharge, he returned to Columbia and practiced pediatrics for a number of years with Dr. Richard Josey. For health reasons, he returned to Davis–Monthan Air Force Base, where he practiced as a civilian pediatrician. While at Davis–Monthan, he established its first pediatric ward. He was co–author of the first medical thesis on valley fever in children. Upon his retirement from civilian employment at Davis–Monthan, he received the Air Force Certificate of Service “in recognition of sixteen years of faithful and devoted federal service.” He was also awarded the Meritorious Civilian Service Award, one of the highest awards the Air Force presents to a civilian, which reads in part: “His accomplishments as a physician, researcher, and educator are distinctive and have represented a major contribution to the health and welfare of the Davis–Monthan Air Force Base military community.”

Later he was responsible for the formation of the Department of Pediatrics at the University of Arizona Medical School in Tucson. From 1972 until 1995 he worked at the El Rio Clinic in Tucson. Patients and colleagues have many good memories of working with him during these years.

Surviving are his brothers, Douglas McKay Jr. and Julius W. McKay; brother–in–law, Col. Edward Chalgren; seven nieces and nephews; and 17 great–nieces and great–nephews. He was predeceased by his sister, Anne Lowndes McKay Chalgren.



They beat on one another
in the lamplight
proving nothing.

It was the oldest thing
and even the hard queens
offered no wit,

turning instead on their stools
to drink and bat eyes
at a new prospect


some rooms have paper calendars
you can’t see in the dark
that flap in the hot city air wafting
through dirty noisy half-
open windows in this, the
shittiest neighborhood

and tell you to leave
before you really see it


doctor mckay would show us pistols
and give us amys and weed, a cool
old southern gentleman who
asked us indvidually to step
out of our undies and sway

with the polaroid. There was money
we tucked away, individually
and we never spoke of it
nor asked to see the pictures
that numbered in the hundreds


I hadn’t seen him for a long time
and in the hospital I thought unkindly
about how he liked being sick
and heard nurses whisper about the tragedy
as I left. In a week
he was dead and I was still leaving.

Friday, March 04, 2005

the moors

They are waiting
on the horizon or just past,
swords in hand

capable of anything. This
news sends all
into secret rooms

to rifle drawers
for whatever weapons
and valuables

may be carried off
before all
is inevitably lost.
fence line

these hills are matted
with such grass that the fencepost I hammer
rings and rings, jerking

at last breaking through
silent, piercing the dead now,
the hammering almost easy

and weak, my hands
ache as I stretch them
up and up, old-looking and tired.

I watch how my small
fence line creeps over
the old old hill one post at a time

so when I am done
it will keep out almost nothing
and let in almost everything.

Wednesday, February 23, 2005

night creatures

The porch is not mine
now, since it is night ;

today’s coffee
in an oversized mug
cools on the rail.

When I stagger over it
to puke, it is much

The raccoons and maybe a skunk
were all, then, who saw this.

around nine when the wine
is gone it starts

crimped in the chair,
no friends and the TV rooms

again and again
saying sorry, never, always
until the blows come

and the gratitude

Tuesday, February 22, 2005

Iowa farm


The shapes of trees seem gray
like everything
that passes unnoticed.


The boy’s ghost keeps
my daughter awake when he is not
swinging in the barn rafters.


Quiet now, we settle into sleep
as the blurry old sky bleeds
into the room like always.

Monday, February 21, 2005


There was Virginia, hair fresh red
her filtered cigarette crammed into the ebony holder
she said was a gift from FDR
telling the story again, right after she’d finished
end and beginning joined together seamless

and I thought of the ancient English carpenter
who had disallowed power tools of any sort
as thoughtless innovations that would ruin a man
and make him unfit to even drive a nail, let alone
make a ship or chair or writing table

and his reverence for glue, how the boiled
hooves of horses, already worked enough, were
indifferently worked afresh to make
a smelly ignoble thing, a thing of jest
that would yet make a bond so strong as to be unbreakable

Sunday, February 20, 2005

the only white cabby in ny

I was uncomfortable and talked to the cabby at length about how
driving a taxi in new york must be so interesting and how he met so
many people and he said no, the cabby's life was one of the loneliest
with its parade of strangers and even then seen just in the rearview
and then never again ever and how it was all smalltalk and that now
his kids are grown he and his wife have no more struggles in common
and the hard years that paid for the future were a joke since the son
was in florence arizona due to a msijudgment and at best would ever be
a reformed excon and the lovely little girl had grown too fat to dance
in the clubs of littlerock and now was faking disabilty to try for
social security to feed the kids of three, four different fathers and
how it was a lonely lonely life

all the way to washington square where my dinner
started with oysters and kept right on going
like a cab

Saturday, February 19, 2005

the nineteen-forties

With strong purpose one more
of the heroes talks before and after,
looks to build and make the broad
shoulders real, and smokes
against her hat and flattened flannel

on a steam locomotive headed
out west, towards some station
of glad soldiers getting hearty hugs
and more, Ernie Pyle writing
about how the boys walk now,

in spite of it. Darkness, then,
lies only between racing shafts
of light barely seen on the barrel-train
where kissing necks and promises
are whispered in decay’s full bloom

Friday, February 18, 2005


American students usually do
not know the average
age of a soldier
which is 15, nor
how many
where these
very young and
ignorant and emotional
young men fire their machineguns

The young women are willing all too often to believe

almost anything offering something

differerent than what all the other

young women are always talking about

Old and sitting is good enough, when
all that is left of memory turns
and shows only the feverdream horror
world without end and everything else sacred
into jeering cruel eternity while some
stranger coos and wipes and walks off cold,
is to wait

Thursday, February 17, 2005


physically pink and healthy
the young mice
are perfect:

fed sometimes
to snakes
and even frogs, or

taken and raised
luckily, in perfect
conditions subject

to sudden deliberate change
as they make their painful
way from pink to white

in what little cages
observed, tallied failure
would afford them

Tuesday, February 15, 2005


little is known of the very ancient
but it is certain early farmers everywhere
were quick to ferment their harvest:
first, a happy accident
and then, maybe, not so happy,

and with religion the accident
became a gift given
to the strong because those
with most to lose might
inevitably lose themselves.

In the west, at last, someone
through happy accident extracted the thing itself
and loosed mere chaos
upon an eager world. Seamen, mostly
rolled kegs as payment or gifts

and would always surprise . For some
it was a storm, a known thing that nonetheless might send
a man staggering, though now with perhaps an axe
in hand, and so forgave it, knowing something
while the others slept outside the fort
in dried blood

begging for another.
late in the air

it might have been a rough flight,
the baby twisting in scream while I held
my arm over her steady,
not spilling any gin for the life of me

the night window fogged,
but down there were lights
turned on and off by people
going about their business as usual

they didn’t care I was watching,
and as the buffeting rocked my small
sweaty girl into sleep,
we coasted down as the captain tinnily reassured us

and now I am come thousands of miles and know
nobody but the girl in my arms,
the the two sitting behind me
and unusually immense hope
Now I live in Iowa. At this hotel, earlier, I got a very weak linksys wireless reception on my li'l mac, doubtless some college student with an unprotected dsl and a cheap wireless router (I am up on the 9th floor, so it stands to reason). There was also a much stronger wireless signal that I assume is the school... wanted a WEP password, and neither guest nor user nor admin worked, stopped at midnight, so it's something professional.

So, I pay 6 bucks a day for crappy wired lan from some california startup with a marketing plan. Amazing how snotty one gets to be about having access to current innovation. I mean, wireless lan is this fucking year, really, and now I feel DEPRIVED?

I do love it here. Portland is full of know-it-alls who have some story all ready for you before you can ask a single question. This place is frank. It has an energy that is unlike anywhere I have ever been, an energy that eschews nonsense.

I am ready for this. The new uberhaus is an Iowan barn. Let the magic begin. I am ready.

Monday, February 14, 2005

Tongight had all the magic. At erstwhile Uberhaus I saw both Andrew and Amby (second time today), the past few years blurring together as sidewalk chalk in the drizzle.

And, at Cassidy's before that I had a deep philosphical exchange with a jewelery designer who knew Elvin Jones, but that came up but briefly and we did not return to it, though we almost embraced at our parting. He wore a stylish Bulova and I showed him my Pojot. He has two childern, 11 and 16. We talked of St Paul, Dresden, Miyazaki and Brad Bird. My kind of hour, son.

I am amazed and appreciative of my late evening. I leave this city wholly and utterly, and with profound gratitude. Thanks, Portland, and don't let the door bruise your ass.


Whatever is next
lies on floating weed
but some far-flung wave
might yet
change all of it

Sunday, February 13, 2005

sleeping downtown

the hotel has a bar downstairs,
and awake at this hour I think
of it, how it must look
through the windows I, young
might walk past, might see
smiling mouths and cocktails,
confident people so obviously
at home despite the hour,

but I will not shuffle down
the elevator in my mussed pajamas,
slippers, wallet in my hand
to sit waiting on the stool
for whatever it was
I thought I might
have once imagined
if I were young

Tuesday, February 08, 2005

the power of music

reno's dad was only a door away
and we couldn't ever talk
so in the silence we did what
we could, sometimes

whispering. and in the morning when he
knocked his wife across the room to fall
onto the griddle of incorrect
potatoes we watched the wall, the
window, anywhere but the door

and once, driven out to a ranch
in the middle of the desert,
smoking smuggled cigarettes
let us feel superior and then
he left taking the truck and we joked

over cornflakes and powdered milk
softened with pump-water, hunger
new to me while the radio
hissed hits from the city

Thursday, February 03, 2005

Man, there is a ton of stuff on this site. The blog here is just a tiny, tiny part of it. It's been up since 1998, so that's seven years. I have never cleaned off the server, either, so I must assume that everything is still there, somewhere. Odd how an historical document can have such tenuous existence. The contact on the main page hasn't worked in years, and in fact there are no more uberhaus mail accounts at all.

Tuesday, February 01, 2005

Golly, it sucks to be sick. We're amidst the major inevitable chaos of moving, with boxes stacked on boxes and garbage underfoot. Now I am feverish to boot, which gives a dreamlike character to the experience (and also makes everything harder and more exhausting). Slowly, slowly, we get it put away. We're moving past that awkward pert of not being able to full box everything up and are starting the man-in-a-suitcase stage. It's kind of refreshing, but one does tend to repeat outfits.
Pearl District

This old town once had so many things:
the Jack London Hotel
smelling blockwide of piss

and the brewery so racked by ruin that
bottles were made to run in and out
all hours
while tankcars full of mash
cowered in the shadows.

Now, huge new windows peer over
rooftops of careful buildings.
The people below, white in the sun,
carry shopping bags,
unlock their cars,
comfort one another.

Friday, January 28, 2005


I washed for effect,
scrubbing hard and thinking of
the stories of cruel cleanliness:

blood blisters, washcloths, shame,

the dread of a bath, any bath.

With this I whipped myself,
and shaven, shining

stepped into a big, drafty room.

Tuesday, January 25, 2005

Olive and I went on a tour of Downtown, albeit a brief one. We had a cocktail at the old Uberhaus, now a sushi joint called Masu (funded, I was told, by screenwriter's money... that would be appropriate). It occurs to me now, as in the various dreams I continue to have about that place, that coordinates are as important as time. By this I mean that a specific space has equal balance with a spot in time, a "magic moment," and some places , as some moments, are more conducive to magic than others. I throw words like "magic" around, but there are no English equivalents save words like "fortune" or (dear God) "luck." A true coordinate, then, a literal juxtaposition of space, time and individual will that yields to something else, something that exists wholly here, in this world and dimension, is something worth noting. I held forth during a brief chapter in the life of the space, but for me it was eternally significant. Others have felt the same way (the backing partner, I heard, proposed on the stairwell not a month hence). There is humor and irony and not a little pain in it, too. I saw this on young Olive's face.
My view is that anything that makes you more alive is worth it. If, that is, you like being alive.

Sunday, January 23, 2005

Well, a frickin' walkman was bad enough, but the ubiquity of everyone walking around with THEIR ENTIRE COLLECTION OF MUSIC at thier immediate disposal makes me wish for armegeddon. I mean, I have sat behind so many boom-cars that overflowed with the driver's wish to play me his favorite song that the possiblity of that driver being able to immediately choose from 10,000 different pieces chills me to the bone.

You see some fucker with white headphones, rip that Ipod out of his hand and dash it to the sidewalk. Some things are simply not meant to be. Imagine lugging around a thousand LP's, or more: a thousand live musicians. As a culture, we seem to revel in environmental control, but enough is enough.

Friday, January 21, 2005

This site dates back to '98 in honest terms (its precursor was a tilde site on Teleport that featured my comics, and that one dates back to '94 but is not archived). I was looking at it on the wayback machine to see what it, and I, looked like back then.

Truth is, it's all there, more or less. The site is somehow free, overlooked in a sea of acquired servers. I've not paid for it in several years. It may go dark any time, but so far it is still up, ever the bandit.

I recall those first attempts at realizing my essential humanity in drinking, parties and large debauches, in sad company late at night and in blind stabs at doing something with weight. I always steered clear of success, plumbing instead those sources of immediate gratification such as fast, drunken poetry or walking the streets late at night. I felt wholly alive, though I was not so, not as I now see it.

It brings to mind the reasons for writing poems. Such things are deeply encoded, so much so that even the writer may guess vainly in later years at what he was about. To hope that anyone else could read them and feel touched is folly. Probably what has always drawn me to it, I suppose.
a last visit

I talked to him as he was secretly dying
and I did not listen
so there is little to say now
that it is all over.

His gaze, I thought,
skipped over my face
tapping my hands and the table,
a stone thrown indifferently
into the flash flood.

When he died, he importantly
was absent, a first, for he
had held us solid in his smoke
year after year.

And so, they wept, trying
to please him still, burying
a sad cardboard carton beneath a tree
with no marker but memory to name it.

Thursday, January 20, 2005

I drove once across the country
seated next to my mother.

We talked. I was 20
and stared out the window
not knowing much else to do.

She forged in this trip a host
of stories of forgiveness
because I was suddenly, to her,
a man.

And I wondered and still do
where I was when all this took place,
since it blurs into every family
We lie entwined in sleep,
perhaps, coming as we sweat against
the heat.

Summers are long
and sometimes hard, but the buzzing lulls us
in the dark air and we smile
against dank pillows
while the fields grow and grow, terrible
as they approach indifferent harvest.

We know it
is fall when the machines wake
us, engines warming for days and days
of cut and stack

piling all that was borne
in the long quiet.

Monday, January 17, 2005

You might make a case that Martin Luther King, Jr. was the last leader of any significance to arise in America. A powerful speaker, a grounded idealist, and--mostly---the weilder of moral authority, he was able to galvanize the ideals of freedom and equality better than any American since Jefferson.

But certainly all are not created equal. Jefferson knew this as he wrote his numerous doctrines and sipped wine discreetly carried to him by slaves (he was a master at concealing his servants... Montecello is an edifice of underground tunnels, secret passages and cunning sliding cabinets that kept his slaves all but invisible to his guests). He knew these things, surely. When everyone is special, no one is says Syndrome in The Incredibles. And this is true. King, as a leader, stuck his neck out and thus lost his head (Stokely, Malcolm and a host of others did the same). Everybody since has had sime naked striving greed for power that has discredited their moral authority.

Perhaps the next charismatic, galvanizing leader will arise from the fields like Cesar Chavez, or more likely from the streets. The homeless face more discrimination than anyone and always have. People look through them just as they once did (and still do, in places) to blacks. "The Stare," I've heard it called by Ralph Ellison.
And maybe no one is special, but no one I know wants to believe that. Do you?

Sunday, January 16, 2005

Talked to Chris Morris on the phone about aliens, the end of the world, the meaning of both our lives, growing older, philosophy of Marcus Aurielus, my father, women in general and particular, the law, Oregon, the midwest, world culture, American history as it relates to the current situation, the spiritual world, dreams and a host of other subjects too numerous to mention. My cellphone nearly dead, I looked down when I hung it up and the number dialed read: 411.

The thing about the hand of god is that it is usually funny and is always apt.
These nights I won't sleep I dare myself
to suffer tomorrow, push
until it blurs soft and I answer sharp
to any prodding question.

The successive moments lose their sequence:
forced tears peeling the pancake
of an aging actor's party face.

Saturday, January 15, 2005

Livejournal is down, so there goes my anonymous blogging. I think the idea of a publicly read anonymous journal is somewhat reprehensible, anyway. My god, if there were ever fodder for validation of some passing fancy or even obsession, there it would be, all the more if such a blog were to gather some type of following.

I spoke with my father tonight about Patrick O'Brian, and he agreed that in all of English lterature there is no single author who has spanned the range of his series. Nor in Russian, nor in Greek, we agreed. When a man of my dad's stature and opinion says that so-and-so's comaprison to Tolstoy is a shameful lack, take heed. Mt dad may be full of shit at times, but he does know his books. And I agree with him. Turgenev is more the mark, anyway. O'Brian writes more like Turgenev than even Jane Austen, and in that feat outdoes Hemingway. I am an enthusiast, sure, but there is something to it. A character in Collins' Moonstone talks of Robinson Crusoe holding all he needs top know of the world, all comfort and wisdom, all solace and repudiation. I know the feeling. I have always been a man to read books many times over, although I know that by so doing I cut myself off from many brilliant minds. But once admitted to my sanctum, these stories... and their authors... invariably form a chunk of my psyche. Whether this is to their credit or not remains to be seen...

Wednesday, January 12, 2005

I told my friend Astro about my mom reading my weblog, and apparently this is something that almost everyone dreads. Livejournal is full of such stories. He has a few himself. At least it plays into my policy of open-heartedness. I was wrong in putting the letter I sent her on it, I have realized. But I am tired of concealing, of evasion.
My wife wrote my mother and really stood up for me and for our daughter. Brave Potatoes for sure.
The call from my sister was cool, in retrospective. She, at one time in her life, was dealing coke wholesale for the cartels in Texas and was amazingly able to escape with her life (and owing them money). She's a cool number, really. Her daughter plays the sax, too. I hope they will come and visit us at the farm.
I may keep this blog up indefinitely. I blocked it the past few days, but that's not really what I'm about. Defeats the purpose.
And the purpose is... what?

Tuesday, January 11, 2005

Got this call from my sister asking me if I was doing lots of coke and suing for custody so I could move out of state. I gathered from her that this information was culled, more or less, from various blog entries over the past few weeks (y'all can leave a comment, really!). I mentioned chewing coca as well as the recent discoveries by my daughter's therapist, so it stands to reason that with such sketchy facts one might surmise any conclusion. She did have a point that my posting a private letter on my blog was inappropriate, so I removed it. I had no idea that anyone read this blog, so I will confide my more intimate thoughts and feelings to other venues. It was nice to hear from her, though. She is the only one in my family with any balls.
Bestride grief
my horse, perhaps carrying
dark to light, or neither, or both
as I nod and shake my head.

Graves have never troubled me
unreal, encased by dates fore and aft
often unvisited, especially later.

Now I ride over them
unpausing, any still-loose soil
hacked up by diggers
so much dust to be shaken
from my cloak at the last minute.
Odd that this is the oldest Website I maintain. The address of anything at uberhaus is now a giant spam magnet more than anything. Still get a ton of hits on this site too, though it hasn't really been changed in three years. The design is pretty horrid, but I think it still looks unusual. And Blogger is STILL free, to boot!
I have learned some pretty awful things in my life, most of them over time. The sudden ones are the hardest, those moments when you are innocent of a thing and then suddenly not. It shakes you, especially because you can easily look at your innocence as false. The patterns all mesh and the only thing that is not so obvious is how you did not see it all along (such is why potboilers are read only once). When it it one you love who shows you, shows you their wounds from your "innocence," it is bitter to swallow. What holds us up at such times? What cane will bear your entire weight, even for a moment?

Tuesday, January 04, 2005

The knee-jerk is so common
or the twinge of back pain or hiccups.

It is undignified. Reach for
a reason: Anyone
can have this
happen, a flinch that makes a coward live forever
or worse.

A horse
broken-legged in a field with a cold colt
trembling hard against its skull surely
will know smokeless collapse, whether the field
is torn by battle
or construction. This can be a comfort:

Any body, suddenly old, will tell anyone
that pain:
the messenger, is always misunderstood
yet cannot be shot or killed
or wounded.