Where my seabag is...

Across the Fields...

Across the sky, the clouds move,

Across the fields, the wind,

Across the fields the lost child

Of my mother wanders.

Across the street, leaves blow,

Across the trees, birds cry - 

Across the mountains, far away, 

My home must be.

~ Herman Hesse (1902) translated by James Wright 

"Home is where your seabag is."... a Navy-issued mantra of sorts, I've always liked it.  I look at the sky and see the half-moon, a black & white cookie.  I think home is where the black & white cookies are.  Then, I remember where my seabag is.  It's here with me.  Right where we should be.  

on the rocks

“I have a thing for rocks and stones, I really appreciate them”.

“You’re in the right place”.

The people in my life are like rocks. Some of them are dumb. Some serve for stability, some are rolling stones. I could stack them in piles according to rules of agreement. Some of them, I’d like to lick or throw in the water, others I’d like to carry in my pocket. Some rocks look good, and some keep things back, down, or up. There is a rock in my bathroom that serves as a holder for a bar of Dial soap. That’s not necessarily one I’d like to lick. Some are fun to play with.


Yesterday, I walked a pleasant afternoon with a sweet friend. All over the neighborhood, I was barefoot. Crossing busy streets, getting dirty feet. Most sidewalks around here have built-in bike paths that are rubbery & soft.

Grounded, connected, natural, and free. At a park we delighted in the foot-massaging path, consisting of rocks of various colors that gradually decrease or increase in size, depending on which way you’re walking.

Diagrams posted near the path show how different areas of the feet are supposedly connected and affected by various areas of the body. Brilliant.

Today, while riding the bus, I noticed large rocks beyond the sidewalk. Among the rocks, green plants grow. They’re succulent-like. I love seeing plants growing near rocks. These, in particular, reminded me of Monterey. Later this day, I walked through the neighborhood, hand-in-hand with that same sweet friend, a lovely being that I’m grateful to be acquainting myself with. While walking, I noticed several rocks, way beyond the sidewalk, up a hill. They were arranged upright, upon long ends, in what appeared to be a garden. The garden was divided by stonewalls and contained more rocks, stacked into beautiful piles. I’m sure there’s a name for those piles, but to me a pile of stones is just something that someone focused on for a while. This photo is not of a pile of rocks from the garden, but it’s a close representation:  [in yet another moment of 'cleaning things out' i removed several photos from my flick'r site... being mindless of the fact that the images would, then, also be removed from this blog... oops]...

Breathing the mixture of air today was a fresh, renewing experience. Something about it kept my awareness in the moments as they occurred. The breezes were delightful. It’s been yet another fine day of perfect life. More than three weeks will pass before I begin this job. I have been getting paid for a month now; it’s been the best accidental paid vacation ever.

Making instrumentals instrumental

I’m becoming addicted to NPR’s music webpage again. In the States, I had the variety of friends, work, and local venues for the music fix. In Korea, what we hear out on the street seems to be a mix of the same 8 pop songs. In stores, storefronts, and in taxis, we can almost sing along to the Korean syllables. Yesterday, I gratefully listened to a yet-to-be-released album by the Flaming Lips, [Embryonic]. Yes, an entire album, available for our listening pleasure on NPR’s music page: http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=113403123

All afternoon, I was thinking about music and, of course, appreciating the fact that I have plenty of time to do so.

Out for a walk, I was listening to Sufjan Stevens’ “Greetings From Michigan- The Great Lake State” (2003, but a recent, satisfying acquisition for me). Traversing the park, I came upon a solo accordion player. He was a middle-aged man with bushy eyebrows. Seated on a bench before a line of trees, with something appearing to be sheet music spread out to his right, and a bag & random belongings to his left. Headphones off, I sat on a nearby bench to rest and listen. It wasn’t a grandiose melodic execution, by any means, but the guy’s heart was in it. The song just kept going and going and going and going and going and going. As I soaked in the continuing, sometimes dissonant, folding & unfolding of the accordion, my mind and thoughts wandered. I just let them go, freely. Abstract colors and shapes, flowing and changing with the passing breeze of song. At its conclusion, I gently walked away. The moment prompted thoughts about the imagery that music suggests. Vocals in music tend to steer us in certain directions. Greetings From Michigan… brought many visions: a grandmother smoking in a hospital room, an individual in prayer, the daily routine of working class America, and yes, a Great Lake. Music without vocals is still quite suggestive but, for me, the power of its suggestion is obviously much broader. The music to which I refer is known as “instrumental”. (Though, in a university Humanities course, I was taught that the voice is the oldest “instrument”, which leads me to question the term). The imagery prompted by instrumental pieces draws on greater influence of environmental factors such as: time of day, inside/outside, cloud cover or absence thereof, temperature, urban/natural setting, absence or presence of other people, season, lighting, listener’s mood, et cetera.

So what about it? For me, it’s an experiment. Three days of instrumental music only. No divine chants or mantras to accompany my yoga practice, no Damian Marley or Shawn Q for my jogging. No Sufjan Stevens in the park. A new, big world of endless possibilities. The first thing I did this morning was dance… to Vijay Iyer’s jazzy new album "Historicity": http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=113472412&ps=bb4

As I write this, I learn where Night on Disco Mountain (David Shire, Saturday Night Fever soundtrack) came from... it’s a Classical Party: A Summer Night to Remember:

http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=111595310

Thank you, NPR.