"coming...

coming..."

how many of you remember the old disney cartoon robin hood? the one with the foxes and rabbits and bears and other "forest" type creatures. i loved the movie growing up (and still do for that matter) and some of my earliest memories are wanting to be like robin hood and live out in the forest until i was very old. ...being a fabulous shot with a bow was not too bad either, but that's going to take a bit more work.

anyway, at the big archery tourney, sir hiss gets himself stuck in a barrel of wine. prince john comes looking for him after the big hullabaloo involving lady kluck becoming the worlds greatest linebacker (i actually think my love of american football stems from this one scene). "hiss! hiss! you're never around when i need you!" hiss replies in a high sing-song voice: "coming...coming..."

the scene replays itself in my mind when ever anyone is looking for me or when something is expected of me...
needless to say tales of our adventures are coming

(my apologies for the delay; excuses of class work will only work for so long)

Part the first: adventure has a way slipping into your blood and breathing, shading the way you see the world

standing in the chill darkness, my still damp suit was miserable to put on; i could feel the goosebumps rising all over my body. down the steep embankment i could hear the water of the stream rushing by and voices of the rest of the group rising up with the steam from the water. the motorway was almost out of earshot, the sound of an occasional passing car or truck filtering though the trees and bush. i slipped my shoes back on and tried to slip though the brambles reaching out over the small track without getting myself caught on the barbs.

"i was hoping to just head into town and find supper and then go home" my beloved whispered.
"i know, but this should be good. com'on, do you really want to pass up a hotpool in the middle of the bush?"

slipping into the warm water of the stream was a relief after the growing chillness of the air. as i sank to the gravely bottom i thought back over the last few days.

the drive south was somewhat mind bending. coming from the northern hemisphere we're accustomed to associating "cold" with going further north; whereas here in the antipodes its the opposite. it seems like a simple enough idea to wrap your head around...

the late afternoon sunlight was fading as we pulled over at on the edge of a small town. there was steam rising everywhere, from small clumps of bush and little piles of rock. looking closer one could see fenced off enclosures scattered around ostensibly to prevented wanderers from straying too close to cracks in the rocky ground or pools of hot mud. driving a short while longer down the highway and then down a few deserted byways lead us to an even more impressive display of geothermal activity. a bubbling, spouting pool of mud lay before us. around the edges mounds had built up, miniature volcanoes sides flowing with years' accumulation of spattering. it was fascinating to watch and even more to listen to. it burbled and spat, sounding for all the world like grumpy old men arguing about detailed matters only they could see as important. the nearly full moon shown down though the rising steam, reflecting back from wavering pools that danced as they were disturbed and speckled by falling drops of mud. the growing chillness of the air hurried us back to the car the promise of a soak in a hotpool more alluring than further observation of bubbling mud.

the heated falls was a long walk down a closed road. the air was weighted and still, no birds or insects could be heard, just our voices and the sound of our footfalls on the rough pavement. you could hear the falls a good ways before the turn off into the bush. a quick change and some groping in the dark and then the slow immersion into hot water. steam rose, was caught in the tree branches and fell back in fat drops. the waxing moon slowly rose, moonbeams breaking through the dense bracken and seeming to solidify in the misty air. but for wanting supper i could have willingly stay in the pool all night.

the chill evening had given way to a cold night; the damp cold that works its way between the fibers of your clothes and then settles down for the night. we were camping near another waterfall, this one not heated. it's voice could be heard around the small embankment, the stream moving off into the darkness. we set up our borrowed tent as quickly as we could and curled up for the night.

a few of you have asked me if we've had any adventures here in the antipodes yet. i've had to tell them no, which is kind of disappointing. i suppose there are the daily domesticated adventures (such as the frowning of the kitchen gods upon me resulting in two successive cooking disasters) and the random odd or beautiful thing that catches (for example, the thick layer of soap suds on the central fountain in the park across from the university), but no real adventures. this might be in part due to the fact that we are both working and studying to the point that we can't remember what day it is, or the fact that we haven't been able to leave the city.

however we've thrown care and responsibility to the wind (which maintains quite a presence here so it wasn't that difficult once we decided to do it) and are taking the weekend off. the whole weekend. starting in about an hour. i'd give you a run down of our general itinerary but i'm not too clear on it myself. we're headed south toward mountains and forests and lakes and hotsprings and generally cooler weather. i should return with tales of conversations and waterfalls and hours of tramping. and Beloved should have some amazing photographs to share.

so adventure is on it's way...

could those of you who still remember Kant comment on the idea of academics (ie those in academia) as "knowledge producers"?
the phrase was brought up at the university and strikes me as being both arrogant and erroneous. it's wrong even without going into the process of coming to know. knowledge is something other than information. information can be made and produced, stored and passed around. but knowledge is what's inside of you after you've assimilated that information.

we the rich are all one with the dead
one day - perhaps even soon
we who now tread so heavily
will join them in the silent sleep
beneath the earth
exchanging the sunlight both sweet and harsh
and the touch of the wind upon the cheek
for crumbling stone and dry earth
and what will remain to mark our sojourn?

the lives of countless others
nameless faceless distant
kept broken and poor to fill our desires
they too will die - be laid in the ground
to enjoy perhaps the first rest
they have ever known

the tawdry signs and boards displaying
our valuing of life and love
a theme of lust and greed
appealing to senses already deadened
and appetites brought low through a surfeit of plenty

what call have I to mourn for us?
we take from life what we will
the self all important
and consummately empty
perhaps it is that emptiness that brings sorrow
the loss of so much that could be
and never comes before the sleep
beneath the head of stone

reflection from class last week

the train comes by
filling the window space
with rush and rattle
drawing my attention
down the tracks - away - away
clatter clack clatter clack
bringing an unheeded freight
of silence in its wake
leaving the mind to wonder
of the where's and who's
coming and going in so
passing a fashion

seems like i should write something today but i forgot the exercise book with my scribbles from this past week and don't feel up to recreating them off the top of my head... there's more poetry coming it'll just be a bit...