Tonight at 8PM I am seeing Wilco which is one of my top bands. Here is one of my favorite Wilco songs titled Poor Places:
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
Thursday, February 4, 2010
Digging
Seamus Heaney (1939-)
Digging
Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pen rests; as snug as a gun.
Under my window a clean rasping sound
When the spade sinks into gravelly ground:
My father, digging. I look down
Till his straining rump among the flowerbeds
Bends low, comes up twenty years away
Stooping in rhythm through potato drills
Where he was digging.
The coarse boot nestled on the lug, the shaft
Against the inside knee was levered firmly.
He rooted out tall tops, buried the bright edge deep
To scatter new potatoes that we picked
Loving their cool hardness in our hands.
By God, the old man could handle a spade,
Just like his old man.
My grandfather could cut more turf in a day
Than any other man on Toner's bog.
Once I carried him milk in a bottle
Corked sloppily with paper. He straightened up
To drink it, then fell to right away
Nicking and slicing neatly, heaving sods
Over his shoulder, digging down and down
For the good turf. Digging.
The cold smell of potato mold, the squelch and slap
Of soggy peat, the curt cuts of an edge
Through living roots awaken in my head.
But I've no spade to follow men like them.
Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pen rests.
I'll dig with it.
- from Death of a Naturalist (1966)
Digging
Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pen rests; as snug as a gun.
Under my window a clean rasping sound
When the spade sinks into gravelly ground:
My father, digging. I look down
Till his straining rump among the flowerbeds
Bends low, comes up twenty years away
Stooping in rhythm through potato drills
Where he was digging.
The coarse boot nestled on the lug, the shaft
Against the inside knee was levered firmly.
He rooted out tall tops, buried the bright edge deep
To scatter new potatoes that we picked
Loving their cool hardness in our hands.
By God, the old man could handle a spade,
Just like his old man.
My grandfather could cut more turf in a day
Than any other man on Toner's bog.
Once I carried him milk in a bottle
Corked sloppily with paper. He straightened up
To drink it, then fell to right away
Nicking and slicing neatly, heaving sods
Over his shoulder, digging down and down
For the good turf. Digging.
The cold smell of potato mold, the squelch and slap
Of soggy peat, the curt cuts of an edge
Through living roots awaken in my head.
But I've no spade to follow men like them.
Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pen rests.
I'll dig with it.
- from Death of a Naturalist (1966)
Friday, January 29, 2010
Thursday, January 28, 2010
R.I.P. J.D. Salinger
"That's the whole trouble. You can't ever find a place that's nice and peaceful, because there isn't any. You may think there is, but once you get there, when you're not looking, somebody'll sneak up and write "Fuck you" right under your nose."- J.D. Salinger
Monday, January 18, 2010
Smith Rock in December
On December 18 and 19 we went rock climbing at Smith Rock. Although I didn't take too many pictures and I missed the most memorable parts of the trip, I still captured a few pictures that are interesting to compare to the past Smith trips I have been on.
Carter, Peter, and Sam
Sam on a pretty difficult climb
Carter near the crux
A more experienced Charlie
Carter, Peter, and Sam
Sam on a pretty difficult climb
Carter near the crux
A more experienced Charlie
Long Exposure Pictures
A ten second exposure of Charlie
A ten second exposure of Portland which reminds me of Gothom City
Both of these were taken without a tripod. Something I should maybe get.
Train Hopping
Tonight Charlie and I had nothing to do.We took a few 10 sec long exposure pictures of Portland around the Vista bridge. After awhile we became bored, drove, and then got out of our cars and started walking. We were so bored that we switched off calling friends but no one answered so we continued walking. We came upon a freight train in the Northwest area of Portland that blocked our way toward the river. After a bit Charlie hopped on and off but as we walked away I decided we had to go back and ride it. We jumped on and rode it for five minutes. We were cold and scared. I worried about what could happen as I thought about Paranoid Park which is a book by Blake Nelson that we had to read in school and a movie by Gus Van Sant. We rode undisturbed and eventually decided to jump off. Maybe someday I will get on again and stay a bit longer for the ride wherever it takes me.
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