Whitman thought this up a long time ago and I realized it was right and defines the beauty of this country, its democratic principles, one man one vote, the fact that the government serves the will of the people, ...which is why democracy and the principles of the constitution were such a phenomenal revolution in 1776. This is the greatest country in the world and always will be, because Americans believe in this ideal. Believing in that ideal is the only requirement to be an American citizen. Unlike places like Japan or China, one does not have to be a certain race to be an American. That is why this country will always lead in innovation. Other countries may complain about us, but the USA defines the popular culture and the direction of humanity, for better or worse. However, Bush trying to impose his will on everybody is wrong. Whitman's vision of the greatness of this country is without parallel. Even in those hard times of 1840-60 or so, when life was very rough, he found the beauty. So here goes, here's the inscription:

ONE'S SELF I SING One's-self I sing, a simple separate person, Yet utter the word Democratic, the word En-Masse.* *French: all together, as a whole.
Of physiology from top to toe I sing, Not physiognomy alone nor brain alone is worthy for the Muse, I say the Form complete is worthier far, The Female equally with the Male I sing.
Of Life immense in passion, pulse, and power, Cheerful, for freest action form'd under the laws divine, The Modern Man I sing.

Everything I got I put it where it was needed book here, foot there, elbow there paper, letters, other things Everything I saw, I wrote it down Everything I thought I could not really find searching here and there, seeing cruel and kind everything I thought I changed around a simple correspondence organization unfound not in fine songs it is Everything I got I formed around town -by me, in 1995 or so

(1/26/06) I had a tiring day pruning trees and cutting off suckers out at the farm, and have come to believe that the strivings off each and every second, following successively on through life, may continue to eventually come to improved circumstances and perspective.

I am going to use this for my main journal from now on since I don't like the lack of functionality in blogger, at least as I can understand it, so look here for updates on anything and nothing in particular.

We are all scattered now, the friends of the late Mr. Oliver Offord; but whenever we chance to meet I think we are conscious of a certain esoteric respect for each other. "Yes, you too have been in arcadia," we seem not too grumpily to allow. When I pass the house in Mansfield Street I remember that Arcadia was there. I don't know who has it now, and don't want to know; it's enough to be so sure that if I should ring the bell there would be no such luck for me as that Brooksmith should open the door.....
from Brooksmith, Eight Tales from the Major Phase, Henry James

This story is about a place where a certain group of people went where amazing conversations took place, a certain exclusive group, which reminds me of ward street and that time. Please find the story "Brooksmith" by Henry James and read it in its entirety.

My Idyllic Dream

I have a vision of living out in some small valley in the coast range, surrounded by the beauty of nature, living simply, doing a lot of gardening, and living in proximity to many friends. I would have a place with a wood floor to teach a small karate class. Others would play music or do art, so it would be a sort of artistic community. People would stop by from far-off places, and there would be great discussions in rooms fueled by wood fires, and mellow parties with music on special occasions, but music would be happening all of the time, as would art of all kinds. We would all be living in close proximity, so we could bicycle or walk everywhere. Those of us that wanted to spend a lot of time gardening could do so. It would be a kind of postmodern artistic postcommunist utopia, and I would be doing what I like doing (karate) and others would be able to do what they liked, visit for a few weeks, go other places. It would be a place with no rules, except that privacy and space would be respected, but there would be a constant social environment with good conversation and good things happening, and hopefully some good writing would result from it. Sort of like the next step up from the famous parties at Ken Kesey's place in La Honda that Jerry Garcia and the Dead attended. It would be a similar beautiful environment, but a step forward from the drugs and chaos of the past, to an environment where we could talk about the kind of world this should be.

I know there are such hippies hiding out in the coast range already, but maybe we could take it to the next level, beyond just the organic farming thing.

Included is a photo of the coast range mountains. They are the west side of the Willamette valley. Corvallis is in the center of the Willamette valley.

It's just a dream, but a nice dream. I always hoped to live in a place where good social interactions occurred on a daily basis, and it seems to be heading that way here.

In my room, the world is beyond my understanding; But when I walk I see that it consists of three or four hills and a cloud. From my balcony, I survey the yellow air, Reading where I have written, "The spring is like a belle undressing." The gold tree is blue. The singer has pulled his cloak over his head. The moon is in the folds of the cloak.

January 30, 2006: It's good to be alive and living in this strange time of the world, when the winter is making its way into spring. I've gotten some encouraging poetry from an old friend about how the vitality returns to the peoples faces as spring comes and the petals fall, and it surely will be a happy time, but there is always the sadness of remembering those who are no longer with us, and the people that are losing their minds in one way or another. An interesting guy, a homeless guy, probably alcoholic, with a limp, has been standing near the interzone recently, in a littel corner of the building to escape the rain, and he has been looking amused. I think I will stop and ask him what his deal is and why he doesn't go to the shelter. I remember a time when I was delivering pizzas:

delivering a pizza to an industrial warehouse the guys move slow things are moving too slow i can't see this or read it one draws up a drink and pours his hand is motionless the drink pours in the cup there is silence they pay and I leave and I think, "that was something different." as i drive home through the dark.

the world is moving slow and i wonder, is all lowercase the way to go, with frequent misspellings? Is there even a reason to spell things rite? Maybe I should just go on a big bad spelling kick and forget the whole thing. Then again, two birds fly by night and a big cat has just jumped across the table. My cup sits on the table. It says "corning glass words welcomes SWE", a commemorative type cup, I guess. It has the no-bullshit kind of form from the basic industrial type class person, but that may be some rampant idealization there, i might say.
Yes, it's true, I work at a bakery. Never mind which bakery. There is nothing so sensitive as bakeries. Lets just say that it is a certain bakery in this town that tends to be a quite large one and well known, but that is about all I have to say about the matter. No one could get me to tell anyone anything about which bakery it might be, because I just can't be sure who might be reading this, and we all know about the bloggers that got fired. So anyway, i had more to say, but I forget. It just seems like life is so good for me compared to what I am used to, which is a lot of strain and suffering for the most part, but hell, a lot of people go through worse, that is for sure.

THE MAN WITH THE BLUE GUITAR-wallace stevens The man bent over his guitar, A shearsman of sorts. The day was green. They said, "You have a blue guitar, You do not play things as they are." The man replied, "Things as they are Are changed upon the blue guitar." And they said then, "But play, you must, A tune beyond us, yet ourselves, A tune upon the blue guitar Of things exactly as they are." II. I cannot bring a world quite round, Although patch it as I can. I sing a hero's head, large eye And bearded bronze, but not a man, Although I patch him as I can And reach though him almost to a man. If to serenade almost to a man Is to miss, by that, things as they are, Say that it is the serenade Of a man that plays a blue guitar. -of things exactly as they are....

Feb 1, 2006: listening to rem, at the beanery, which is my old haunt since '72. Lots of old radicals in here from the 60's and so forth. who knows what they have been through. This is my home, though, as I said, been coming here since before I can even really remember. the beanery system was around way before starbucks, and this particular one is great because there is lots of room to hang out and all of that. Anyway, life is good, things are good, the rooms and tiles are good, the editing and not editing of things is good, and I think of what needs to be done, "in the few days of this vain life through which we pass like a shadow" I should have brought a camera, because there is a really intense looking huge crane with a massive hydraulic piston type deal on it, and they were lowering some group of heavy metal objects onto the top of the building, and it was all quite interesting, and would have made some good photos, but that's the way it goes. More to say...but it's also nice that this computer is working, the beanery computer, ....so this is a good place. I should give it some props on my web site, not that that would help. "There is a time for philosophizing"...In other news, the weather is at least not consisting of rain at this point, so that is good. "I came to disappear" says mike stipe of rem. I'm trying to get set up with an arabic tutor, but I'm waiting for him to email me back. It seems like such a different language that I need some guidance.

The great spirit makes indifferent all times and places. The place where he is seen is always the same, and indesciribably pleasant to all our senses. We had allowed only neighboring and transient circumstances to make our occasions. They were, in fact, the cause of our distraction. but nearest to all things is that power which fashions their being."

People in the mental hospital radiate a certain energy, and you can tell by what they talk about if they are messed up in potentially a good way, or just messed up...some of them radiate a negative, malevolent, horrible energy that is really difficult to make out. Others may be really profound in some way. For example, I met a guy who was a gardener for the Mennonites. He was simpleminded, but he had a true belief in God, it seemed to me. However, he was obsessed with his wife. He couldn't imagine life apart from her, and was obsessed with her to the point that they had to do something with her, but other than that, he had a real understanding of life and its mystery. I would like to be able to track him down, but he wasn't literate and couldn't use a computer, hardly a phone, I would bet. He had never left whatever town he was from, hardly. I remember he was my roommate and a couple Mennonites showed up, and they played some amazing polka music with an accordian, which I suppose, must have been suffused with the spirit of whatever is beyond us, because it was phenomenally beautiful. They talked to me and seemed to understand me, and they seemed very self-assured. So that's it. I'm becoming a Mennonite (joke). But seriously, I'm not making light of the experience. It was real and hit pretty hard, and this guy, although probably have a sub-level I.Q., was more real than just about anybody you would meet. He just didn't understand complexity. And why should anybody understand complexity. Is there any good in understanding complexity?

(2/1/06)The first time I recall having met Stevens, he came as a guest of Judge Powell at his home on Peachtree Street. He impressed me as not reticent but rather a lttle bit shy, which did not surprise me, because I've always thought it was the role of a poet to listen rather than to make much noise. Mr. Stevens impressed me that afternoon. Judge Powell introduced him very warmly and said, "I predict that he is going to become a man of acknowledge worth in the area of poetry." Mr. stevens came again; I believe we were studying some area of poetry. He did make a comment, and it was very well received. Judge pOwell, more than any other member of the Ten, kept our thoughts alive about Mr. Stevens. He was very jealous for Mr. Stevens to be known and accepted as a poet.-from Parts of a World, Wallace Stevens remembered

I was drifting lonely in my singular mind I knew there was a problem with the world outside when the storm was over my ship came sailing in will you leave the world behind to walk into the promised land? -stratosphere68

Stratosphere 68 is my favorite band. They are old friends from Berkeley. These lyrics above seem to indicate dying for a cause, but I've been told that's not really the meaning of them by the guy who wrote them, so you can relax. I'm not sure if they have an album out, but if they do, buy it. They need the money.

The Emporer of Ice-Cream Call the roller of big cigars, The muscular one, and bid him whip In kitchen cups concupiscent curds. Let the wenches dawdle in such dress As they are used to wear, and let the boys Bring flowers in last month's newspapers. Let be be finale of seem. The only emporer is the emporer of ice-cream. Take from the dresser of deal, Lack ing the three glass knobs, that sheet On which she embroidered fantails once And spread it so as to cover her face. If her horny feet protrude, they come To show how cold she is, and dumb. Let the lamp affix its beam. The only emporer is the emporer of ice-cream. -wallace stevens

feb 5, 2006:I remember a guy I met sitting on the pavement in downtown Eugene. He said he followed the dead around and slept near the river, and the river got his sleeping bag a little damp, and he didn't see anything wrong with it. He was at the Bill Graham memorial, up in a tree.
It is a good day and things are happening. The beanery internet connection keeps going in and out and I'm listening to Jimi Hendrix, Band of Gypsies, pretty overwhelmed by the creative genius of that guy.
It seems to me that the character of the person creating the art has a lot to do with whether I consider it to be good art or bad art. People that are willing to look outside themselves are more interesting, but on the other hand, it seems that Hendrix got his music from within himself, but he had the courage to develop a completely new sound that nobody has even come close to replicating. Stevie Ray Vaughn is great, but not in the same league in terms of psychedelic intensity.
Rumi says time flows backward and forward at the same time in a way only know to the infinite, and I am prepared to believe it

Lions in Sweden No more phrases, Swenson: I was once A hunter of those sovereigns of the soul And savings banks, Fides; the sculptor's prize. All eyes and size, and galled Justitia, Trained to poise the tables of the law, Patientia forever soothing wounds And mighty Fortitudo, frantic bass. But these shall not adorn my souvenirs, These lions, these majestic images. If the fault is with the soul, the sovereigns Of the soul must likewise be at fault, and first. If the fault is with the souvenirs, yet these Are the soul itself. And the whole of the soul, Swenson, As every man in Sweden will concede, Still hankers after lions, or, to shift, Still hankers after sovereign images. If the fault is with the lions, send them back To monsieur Dufy's Hamburg when they came. The vegetation still abounds with forms.