Devised by Cosmic Boss
Sourced by parents
Aided by obstetrician
Nursed by pediatrician
Nurtured by nutritionist
Counseled by sexologist
Treated by orthopedist
Stressed by physiotherapist
Directed by dietician
Nudged by nephrologist
Nerved by neurologist    
Contained by cardiologist
Consoled by psychologist
Interspersed by dentist,
Sighted by ophthalmist
Conditioned by physiology
Terminated by mortuary
The inexorable Lifeline Express
Of hospitalized hospitality

“Keep on the Watch”​—The Hour of Judgment Has Arrived!

The information in this study article is based on the brochure Keep on the Watch! released at the district conventions that were held around the world during 2004/05.

“Keep on the watch . . . because you do not know on what day your Lord is coming.”​—MATTHEW 24:42.

1, 2. To what did Jesus fittingly liken his coming?

WHAT would you do if you knew that a thief was on the prowl, burglarizing homes in your neighborhood? To protect your loved ones and your valuables, you would keep alert, watchful. After all, a thief does not send a letter announcing when he is coming. On the contrary, he comes stealthily and unexpectedly.

2 On more than one occasion, Jesus used the ways of a thief as an illustration. (Luke 10:30; John 10:10) Regarding events that would occur during the time of the end and that would lead up to his coming to execute judgment, Jesus gave this warning: “Keep on the watch, therefore, because you do not know on what day your Lord is coming. But know one thing, that if the householder had known in what watch the thief was coming, he would have kept awake and not allowed his house to be broken into.” (Matthew 24:42, 43) So Jesus likened his coming to the arrival of a thief​—unexpected.

3, 4. (a) What is involved in heeding Jesus’ warning about his coming? (b) What questions arise?

3 The illustration was fitting, for the precise date of Jesus’ coming would not be known. Earlier, in the same prophecy, Jesus said: “Concerning that day and hour nobody knows, neither the angels of the heavens nor the Son, but only the Father.” (Matthew 24:36) Jesus, therefore, urged his listeners: “Prove yourselves ready.” (Matthew 24:44) Those heeding Jesus’ warning would be ready, conducting themselves properly, whenever he would come as Jehovah’s Executional Agent.

4 Some important questions arise: Is Jesus’ warning only for people of the world, or do true Christians also need to “keep on the watch”? Why is it urgent to “keep on the watch,” and what does this involve?

A Warning for Whom?

5. How do we know that the warning to “keep on the watch” applies to true Christians?

5 It is certainly true that the Lord’s coming will be thieflike to people of the world, who shut their ears to the warning of impending calamity. (2 Peter 3:3-7) However, what about true Christians? The apostle Paul wrote to fellow believers: “You yourselves know quite well that Jehovah’s day is coming exactly as a thief in the night.” (1 Thessalonians 5:2) There is no doubt in our minds that “Jehovah’s day is coming.” But does that minimize the need for us to keep on the watch? Notice that it was to his disciples that Jesus said: “At an hour that you do not think to be it, the Son of man is coming.” (Matthew 24:44) Earlier, when urging his disciples to seek continually the Kingdom, Jesus cautioned: “Keep ready, because at an hour that you do not think likely the Son of man is coming.” (Luke 12:31, 40) Is it not clear that Jesus had his followers in mind when he warned: “Keep on the watch”?

6. Why do we need to “keep on the watch”?

6 Why do we need to “keep on the watch” and “keep ready”? Jesus explained: “Two men will be in the field: one will be taken along and the other be abandoned; two women will be grinding at the hand mill: one will be taken along and the other be abandoned.” (Matthew 24:40, 41) Those who prove themselves ready will be “taken along,” or saved, when the ungodly world is destroyed. Others will be “abandoned” to destruction because they have been selfishly pursuing their own way of life. These may well include individuals who were once enlightened but who did not keep on the watch.

7. What does not knowing when the end will come allow us to do?

7 Not knowing the exact day of the end of this old system gives us the opportunity to demonstrate that we serve God out of a pure motive. How so? It may be that the end seems to be a long time in arriving. Sad to say, some Christians who feel this way have allowed their zeal for Jehovah’s service to cool off. Yet, by our dedication, we have without reservation presented ourselves to Jehovah to serve him. Those who know Jehovah realize that a last-minute display of zeal will not impress him. He sees what is in the heart.​—1 Samuel 16:7.

8. How does love for Jehovah move us to keep on the watch?

8 Because we truly love Jehovah, we find the greatest delight in doing his will. (Psalm 40:8; Matthew 26:39) And we want to serve Jehovah forever. That prospect is not less precious just because we must wait a little longer than we may have expected. Above all, we keep on the watch because we eagerly anticipate what Jehovah’s day will mean for the accomplishment of his purpose. Our earnest desire to please God moves us to apply the counsel of his Word and give his Kingdom first place in our life. (Matthew 6:33; 1 John 5:3) Let us consider how keeping on the watch should influence the decisions we make and the way we live our life each day.

Where Is Your Life Heading?

9. Why is there an urgent need for people of the world to wake up to the significance of our times?

9 Many people today recognize that serious problems and shocking events have become everyday occurrences, and they may not be pleased with the direction that their own life is taking. However, do they know the real meaning of world conditions? Do they realize that we are living in “the conclusion of the system of things”? (Matthew 24:3) Do they recognize that the prevalence of selfish, violent, even ungodly attitudes marks these times as “the last days”? (2 Timothy 3:1-5) There is an urgent need for them to wake up to the significance of all of this and to consider the way their life is heading.

10. What must we do to be sure that we are keeping on the watch?

10 What about us? Every day we face decisions that involve our employment, our health, our family, and our worship. We know what the Bible says, and we endeavor to apply it. Therefore, we do well to ask ourselves: ‘Have I allowed the anxieties of life to push me off course? Am I letting the world’s philosophies, its thinking, determine the choices I make?’ (Luke 21:34-36; Colossians 2:8) We need to continue to demonstrate that we trust in Jehovah with all our heart and not lean upon our own understanding. (Proverbs 3:5) In that way, we will keep “a firm hold on the real life”​—eternal life in God’s new world.​—1 Timothy 6:12, 19.

11-13. What can we learn from the examples of what happened (a) in the days of Noah? (b) in the days of Lot?

11 The Bible contains many warning examples that can help us to keep on the watch. Consider what happened in Noah’s day. Well in advance, God saw to it that warning was given. But apart from Noah and his household, people took no note. (2 Peter 2:5) Regarding this, Jesus said: “Just as the days of Noah were, so the presence of the Son of man will be. For as they were in those days before the flood, eating and drinking, men marrying and women being given in marriage, until the day that Noah entered into the ark; and they took no note until the flood came and swept them all away, so the presence of the Son of man will be.” (Matthew 24:37-39) What can we learn from that? If any of us are allowing mundane concerns​—even the normal activities of life—​to crowd out the spiritual activities that God urges us to keep in first place, we need to think seriously about our situation.​—Romans 14:17.

12 Think, too, about the days of Lot. The city of *****, where Lot and his family lived, was materially prosperous but morally bankrupt. Jehovah sent his angels to bring the place to ruin. The angels urged Lot and his family to flee from ***** and not to look back. Encouraged by the angels, they did leave the city. Lot’s wife, however, evidently could not let go of her feelings for her home in *****. Disobediently, she looked back, and for this she paid with her life. (Genesis 19:15-26) Prophetically, Jesus warned: “Remember the wife of Lot.” Are we acting on that warning?​—Luke 17:32.

13 Those who heeded divine warnings were spared. That was true of Noah and his family and of Lot and his daughters. (2 Peter 2:9) As we take to heart the warning in these examples, we are also encouraged by the message of deliverance contained therein for lovers of righteousness. That fills our heart with confident expectation of the fulfillment of God’s promise of “new heavens and a new earth” in which “righteousness is to dwell.”​—2 Peter 3:13.

‘The Hour of the Judgment Has Arrived’!

14, 15. (a) What does “the hour” of judgment include? (b) What is involved in ‘fearing God and giving him glory’?

14 As we keep on the watch, what can we expect? The book of Revelation outlines progressive steps in the fulfillment of God’s purpose. Acting on what it says is vital if we are to prove ourselves ready. The prophecy vividly describes events that would occur in “the Lord’s day,” which began when Christ was enthroned in heaven in 1914. (Revelation 1:10) Revelation alerts us to an angel who has been entrusted with “everlasting good news to declare.” He proclaims in a loud voice: “Fear God and give him glory, because the hour of the judgment by him has arrived.” (Revelation 14:6, 7) That “hour” of judgment is a brief period; it includes both the pronouncement and the execution of the judgments that are depicted in that prophecy. We are now living in that period.

15 Now, before the hour of judgment concludes, we are urged: “Fear God and give him glory.” What does this involve? Proper fear of God should cause us to turn away from badness. (Proverbs 8:13) If we honor God, we will listen to him with deep respect. We will not be too busy to read his Word, the Bible, regularly. We will not minimize his counsel to attend Christian meetings. (Hebrews 10:24, 25) We will cherish the privilege of proclaiming the good news of God’s Messianic Kingdom and will do so zealously. We will trust in Jehovah at all times and with our whole heart. (Psalm 62:8) Recognizing that Jehovah is the Universal Sovereign, we honor him by willingly submitting to him as the Sovereign of our life. Do you truly fear God and give him glory in all such ways?

16. Why can we say that the judgment against Babylon the Great stated at Revelation 14:8 has already been fulfilled?

16 Revelation chapter 14 goes on to describe further events that are to take place in the hour of judgment. Babylon the Great, the world empire of false religion, is mentioned first: “Another, a second angel, followed, saying: ‘She has fallen! Babylon the Great has fallen!’” (Revelation 14:8) Yes, from God’s viewpoint, Babylon the Great has already fallen. In 1919, Jehovah’s anointed servants were set free from the ******* of Babylonish doctrines and practices, which have dominated peoples and nations for millenniums. (Revelation 17:1, 15) They could henceforth devote themselves to promoting true worship. Global preaching of the good news of God’s Kingdom has taken place since then.​—Matthew 24:14.

17. What is involved in getting out of Babylon the Great?

17 That is not all there is to God’s judgment against Babylon the Great. Her final destruction is soon to come. (Revelation 18:21) With good reason, the Bible urges people everywhere: “Get out of her [Babylon the Great] . . . if you do not want to share with her in her sins.” (Revelation 18:4, 5) How do we get out of Babylon the Great? This involves more than just severing any ties with false religion. Babylonish influence is present in many popular celebrations and customs, in the world’s permissive attitude toward ***, in the promoting of entertainment involving spiritism, and much more. To keep on the watch, it is vital that both in our actions and in the desires of our heart, we give evidence that we are truly separate from Babylon the Great in every way.

18. In view of what is described at Revelation 14:9, 10, what are alert Christians careful to avoid?

18 At Revelation 14:9, 10, a further aspect of ‘the hour of judgment’ is described. Another angel says: “If anyone worships the wild beast and its image, and receives a mark on his forehead or upon his hand, he will also drink of the wine of the anger of God.” Why? “The wild beast and its image” are symbols of human rulership, which does not acknowledge Jehovah’s sovereignty. Alert Christians are careful not to allow themselves to be influenced or to be marked, in either attitude or action, as being in servitude to those who refuse to acknowledge the supreme sovereignty of the true God, Jehovah. Christians know that God’s Kingdom has already been set up in heaven, that it will put an end to all human rulerships, and that it will stand forever.​—Daniel 2:44.

Do Not Lose Your Sense of Urgency!

19, 20. (a) As we get deeper into the last days, what can we be certain that Satan will try to do? (b) What should we be determined to do?

19 As we get deeper into the last days, pressures and temptations will only intensify. As long as we are living in this old system and are plagued by our own imperfection, we are affected by such things as poor health, old age, the loss of loved ones, hurt feelings, disappointment in the face of apathy toward our efforts to preach God’s Word, and much more. Never forget that Satan would like nothing better than to exploit the pressures we face to induce us to give up​—to stop preaching the good news or to quit living by God’s standards. (Ephesians 6:11-13) This is not the time to lose our sense of urgency regarding the times in which we live!

20 Jesus knew that we would be under much pressure to give up, so he counseled us: “Keep on the watch . . . because you do not know on what day your Lord is coming.” (Matthew 24:42) Let us, then, keep ever alert to where we are in the stream of time. Let us be on guard against Satan’s ploys that could cause us to slow down or quit. Let us be resolved to preach the good news of God’s Kingdom with ever greater zeal and determination. By all means, let us keep our sense of urgency as we heed Jesus’ warning: “Keep on the watch.” Doing so, we will bring honor to Jehovah and will be among those in line for his eternal blessings.

GO TO JW.ORG AND LEARN

hospice is the admission
they bring morphine
the good stuff
it’s six months or less
a one way flight
of hosts and guests
now numb from the blast
there’s no turning back
it’s inside out
and your hardwiring  
is resiliently engaged  
to move you forward
into this final encounter
day after day
drinking red tea
with spoons and cups
of Bonanno and Kubler-Ross  
their ghosts slurp
with you -
in your prepped room
your James Dean role
now flickers with light
on the ceiling
and you dream
a third stage bargain
that your son had been hit
instead of you
with this wicked sickness
then coolly counseled
by your wife
that it was no dream
just your mind  
regulating - processing
you slump there
dying there
in front of a familiar wall
where you once taped
painted olives green
and sipped scotch
with your books
at night.

With our searching
searching the world
for the new
new opportunities
new relationships
new meditations
new spiritual paths..
These bring rewards
temporary with
unhappiness and
new searching..
The wise have
counseled that
we are what
we are seeking..
So our searching
seems as simple
stimulation for
locating our Self...!

I wonder that Moses could counsel You
Could argue with You and You would listen
I know no other God that would allow
For argument and pleading
For His subjects to speak and be heard
Do You know my prayers, O Lord?
Even to me they’re muddled and confused
Do You know what Your daughter needs?

Lord I am afraid to be Your servant
Because the masters You gave by birth-rite
Like to pull out the costumes and play
But to answer my confusion, they explain everything,
Their words and actions by saying, “WE ARE GOD.”
You said, “I AM WHO I AM.”
They are not who they are.

Send some rain?  Would You send some rain?
‘Cause the earth is dry and needs to drink again –
And Your daughter cries out for Your direction,
Discretion, and mercy.  There is no light
To lead me out of the dark
I have lost my way and am afraid
To search lest the way home …
Lead to them.

My sanity is not what it used to be, Lord.
Gentle kindness shushes me into quiet
But cannot soothe away the cracks in my brain.
She fears for her sanity but I wonder at mine
Contemplate how much sick I won’t be able to drain
From my cranium even when my body is aged
And legality bids me crawl out of this house to bitter freedom.

I am so tired, Lord.
I forget it sometimes when I don’t slow down
And then it soaks back in and I stare and stare
And contemplate how much I don’t have
And how little I have left for them to take.
I don’t know what will make me break:
No music?  No school?  No friends?  No escape to Your safe places?
But I remind myself here and now that I have always been melodramatic –
Haven’t I, Lord?  I tell myself that to puzzle it out and stall
The choking panic and confused tears that drill into me
And scratch their way bleeding up through my throat – I am TRAPPED –
But I’ve always been so silly
And they would add ungrateful and a liar
No one has the answers I cannot find the answers
Honor and obey, You said, but what if they’re wrong?
Am I right?  Am I right?!
I cannot speak cannot stand – I will melt into compliance and silence
And remind myself that I am wrong, a bad daughter
That I am above myself and that’s it’s just all in my head –
But the cycle will continue.

Lord, I’m so tired –
Of hopelessness and not planning for a future because
I don’t think I have one
I’m tired –
Of self-inducing apathy as a cure to panic like it were a drug
To slip into my veins till my heart’s pumped it through my dulling senses
Help me, please
I haven’t felt You in so long …

With lift-off intention I jumped to fly.
I was something like root grounded tree.

Taking flight was so absolutely hard,
though my guru counseled me.

With acquired and studied implements
I tried to cut each holding.

My intellect in truth was rather dull,
though Spirit bolding.

In hieroglyphic's manual page 222
I intuited hints, incantations true.

Here for scheming:
Fly-O  Fly-O  Fly Fly-O!

I recited that fortissimo for a week
in lucid dreaming.

Then my weighed body, my un-weighed soul
together I suppose remembered it simply,
that God had intimated flight for me
(gratuitously gave).

In classical mind's eye I spied
Icarus sploshing in a wave.

Entered in-- Ab-or-ig-inal Self.
Whoa, I said, hello!
shocked at that showing.

I know... I know... I know...
with ease -- be natural, just be still.

Unequivocally state
(this way make your start)
I need help.

so I believed it
I spoke it

and then I sailed and sailed away
with freedom, my heart.

Leading fashion stylists and casting directors have been directed by clients to avoid doing business with Trump Models, a company that promotes itself as “the brainstorm and vision of owner, Donald Trump”, several sources have told the Guardian.

Trump Models refused to comment, but according to its Twitter feed several models had made it on to the catwalk. News of such directives comes during New York fashion week, days after the president used Twitter to condemn the retailer Nordstrom for dropping his daughter Ivanka’s clothing brand, claiming poor sales.

According to one leading casting director who spoke to the Guardian on condition of anonymity, directives to avoid using models represented by Trump Modelsbegan last fall, before the presidential election. They then spread by “word of mouth”, the casting director said.

The effectiveness of any de facto boycott is hard to gauge. Trump Models, founded in 1999, is not considered a big player in the fashion business.

“It’s not a great agency, so it’s not such a big loss,” said the casting director, who was not authorised to speak on behalf of their client.

A French fashion stylist, who also requested anonymity, said she was reluctant to engage with a business that would put money in the pocket of the Trump family. When asked if they would use Trump models during fashion week, she replied simply: “Nooo!”

“People certainly look twice if a Trump model comes for a casting,” said another leading American stylist. “But a boycott wouldn’t necessarily be a big loss to the business.”

A third stylist, a prolific veteran in the industry, said he hoped there was a boycott on the Trump agency but added that “if there was a girl I wanted, I wouldn’t mind if she was represented by Attila the ***”.

On Thursday, the fashion website Refinery 29 reported that hairstylist Tim Aylward had vowed to stop working on jobs that involved “talent” from Trump Models.

Trump Models once represented first lady Melania Trump, and currently represents dozens of models from all over the world. It also runs a division for “legends”, including Paris Hilton and Carol Alt.

The agency, which claims to be at “the forefront of cultivating a wide range of innovative and vibrant talent which personify the trends of the fashion industry”, has faced claims of mismanagement.

Last year, Canadian model Rachel Blais told CNN some managers at the agency had encouraged her to skirt US visa laws. “As a model, one of the things you learn quite quickly is that … you shouldn’t ask too many questions,” Blais said. “If you want to work, you have to do as you’re told. Yet you’re kind of aware that it’s not legal.”

Last year, Canadian model Rachel Blais told CNN some managers at the agency had encouraged her to skirt US visa laws. “As a model, one of the things you learn quite quickly is that … you shouldn’t ask too many questions,” Blais said. “If you want to work, you have to do as you’re told. Yet you’re kind of aware that it’s not legal.”

Blais was also one of four women who described their experience with Trump Models to Mother Jones. The women said they were forced to live in squalor in a crowded apartment in the East Village of New York City.

The women said the apartment contained multiple bunks, for which models paid $1,600 each, and housed up to 11 people at a time. “We’re herded into these small spaces,” one former model said, saying the apartment “was like a sweatshop”.

The then vice presidential candidate Mike Pence told CNN he was “very confident that this business, like the other Trump businesses, has conformed to the laws of this country”.

In court papers filed in 2014, Trump model Alexia Palmer said she was promised full-time work and $75,000 a year. She sued after earning just $3,880 and some modest cash advances for 21 days of work over three years.

“That’s what slavery people do,” Palmer told ABC News in March 2016. “You work and don’t get no money.”

Trump attorney Alan Garten said allegations of being treated like a slave were “completely untrue” and said Palmer had simply not been in demand. The suit was dismissed. Laurence Rosen, a lawyer who represented Trump Models in the case, told the Guardian his firm “is not handling any other lawsuits or claims concerning model representation, nor am I aware that any such lawsuits or claims have been asserted” against Trump Models.

Shannon Coulter, of the Trump boycott movement #grabyourwallet, said Trump Models had not been added to its list of Trump-owned or affiliated businesses because it was not a consumer-facing business.

“What we’re seeing is that the Trump name is becoming truly toxic,” she said. “It seems that people can’t get away from the Trumps fast enough now. I think those casting directors and stylists are making the right call not doing business with them.”

Coulter rejected the suggestion that a boycott of Trump Models might end up hurting the working models it represents, rather than the owners of the business.

“When you chose not to do business with a company,” she said, “you chose to do business with other companies that do have employees, too, so I don’t put stock in that.”

Amid continued questions about Trump’s relationship with his business empire and how it fits with federal ethics regulations, Trump-owned fashion interests have suffered adverse publicity.

On Saturday, retailers Sears and Kmart removed 31 Trump Home items from their online product offerings to focus on more profitable items, a spokesman said. The collection includes furniture, lighting, bedding, mirrors and chandeliers.

Last week, retailer Nordstrom followed Macy’s and Neiman Marcus in dropping Ivanka Trump products. That prompted a furious response from Trump, whotweeted: “My daughter Ivanka has been treated so unfairly by @Nordstrom.”

Nordstrom justified its decision, reporting that online sales of Ivanka Trump products fell 26% in January year on year.

Within the fashion industry, there is speculation that while the performance of Ivanka Trump’s line was disappointing, it was not enough to merit being abruptly dropped.

At least part of the reasoning, they speculate, was pressure from other brands and labels carried by Nordstrom.

“We would not base a decision on that. Our decision was based on the performance of her brand which had been steadily declining over the year. We had discussions with Ivanka and her team and shared our decision with Ivanka personally in early January.”

However, Coulter said it was likely Nordstrom had faced pressure from other suppliers. “The Ivanka Trump sales were down but it’s possibly not the whole truth. There are studies that say boycotts work at the brand level, not the sales level, so probably both forces were at play.”

White House counselor Kellyanne Conway later urged the public to buy the Ivanka Trump brand – and faced widespread criticism that she had overstepped ethics regulations. The White House press secretary, Sean Spicer, said Conway had been “counseled”.

On Saturday, Trump said on Twitter that the media had “abused” his daughter.

In New York, protests against the Trump presidency have rippled through the fashion industry’s market week. Calvin Klein played David Bowie’s This is Not America and a Mexican immigrant designer for LRS Studio showed underwear that carried the message: “**** your wall”. Public School’s Dao-Yi Chow and Maxwell Osborne sent out red Trump-esque baseball hats spelling out: “Make America New York.”

Senior industry figures, including Vogue’s Anna Wintour and LVMH chief executive Bernard Arnault, have, however, held meetings with the president. Vogue plans to feature Melania Trump on its cover.

Designers including Dior and Ralph Lauren have dressed the first lady. Others, including Marc Jacobs, have said they will not.Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com | www.marieaustralia.com/cocktail-dresses

1
just a stone’s throw
from the gates to our village
is the washing place
at that secluded turn of the river
with scattered rocks
rocks some giant children of times long ago
must have played with and thrown about
as our own children
scatter sand about in the open grounds


2
and here at the washing place
here the young mother
sits on a rock
and plaits her hair
with her infant by her side;
and perhaps two women
wash and beat some clothes
and opposite, another
does her share of the work
her lower garments
rolled up to above her knees
and she wrings the clothes,
washes and wrings the clothes

And above, on the highest rock,
above on the rock lies our Village Pervert
always ready, always hiding
peeping down at the women as they work
Oh, our Village Pervert –
what shall we do with him?
we’ve thrown stones at him
the village kids spit at him
the men put him into the water
for over half an hour
the Village Elders have counseled him
and he has been refused food
and his parents have driven him out of home
But still he will not change
and he will be there on the rock
always eager to watch the women at work
always just a look at white flesh of an arm or leg
*Oh, what shall we do, what shall we do
with our Village Pervert?

She scheduled her death for November 3.
Her orphan hope,
If hope could still be cradled,
Was for a thin sweep of snow on the ground,
Maybe a bit of a howl out of the northwest,
(A dog whistle wind, her son Duncan called it,)

and,

If these fertile and malignant aliens at outpost
In her pancreas and liver,
If they held gracious,
Then she would attempt one last respite

and

She'd stand alone at winter’s edge
Inside the pencil sketch of a forest,
The oak and barren elms asleep,
Their crooked witch’s fingers
Scratching upward, thin and still,
If she could endure long enough,
She’d tempt a final plea,
To overwhelm the Carciginians

and

She would wake these slumbering giants
With her soft envy,  
She would beg the forest for its for secrets,
She would kneel and ask for the gift of a long nap,
Her wish to rise,
When all awake in spring again.

Of course in the end,
She bartered her desperation,,
Exchanged the ignominy of begging for her life,
For the crow’s caw,
The ivory of a full moon,
The damp step of a midnight in dew,
Her forest held her,
The wind whispered her name in soft repeat,
As she realized her eternity,
Her evermore,
Her head up, her heart insured.
Always this sheltered wood had counseled her,
She was careful to apologize,
Offer a traveler's grace,
It was her last goodbye.

O*ne-thirty in the morning, I'm creeping, ever-so-swiftly, to the entrance to my favorite public sculpture park. I don't like the sculptures, but I like their shadows. There's so much hidden meaning in what you see when you look at a shadow.... Thousands of years ago, the sun was worshiped as a life-giver - the ultimate source of everything man needs to survive: food, water, shelter, companionship.

     Shadows are the only thing that light will never reach.

     I don’t have an MP3 player, but I have music. Tonight, my playlist starts with Yellowcard’s *Lights and Sounds…I sing it lowly to myself as I approach the darkened rebar fence that acts as sentry, guard, arbiter, and jailer to the inanimate zoo they contain. Rebar is always rusty. My hands wrap themselves around two of the bars as I ready myself for the heave overboard.

     I’m over the motor gate, now, and I’m free. The police don’t patrol the park, and there are other cars populating the lot I parked in. Too many people work too late. A girl I know told me that the quality of one’s life is multiplied by two for every three hours of sleep one gets – she told me this at three a.m. after we’d painted the town red. Someone else told me that for every eight hours of sleep one loses in a week subtracts, roughly, a week from one’s life expectancy. If that’s true, and I was supposed to die at seventy, I’ll be dead at sixty. But, honestly? I don’t care how long I live. I’m ready to die now. I mean, I don’t want to die now – it isn’t my preference of events – but, I’m at peace with how I’ve lived my life; so if I do die, I’ll die happy…. What was I talking about? Right, “Too many people…” So, why, if they’re going to die (because even if we distract ourselves, like Mr. Ivan Ilyich, we will die), do they seek these self destructive courses through life? Staying up to finish the quarterly report; dying of hunger to lose some weight; falling asleep at work, and getting assigned more late-night work as punishment; buying things no one will see; dressing up to impress those that don’t matter; dying for that promotion; dying for that car; dying for that girl; dying for that guy….dying.

     I look at my hands as I walk into the shadows of trees and gazebos. Rebar is always rusty…and rust is always red. Now I look as though I’ve killed. My hands are the evidence that I’ve wrung the life out of an innocent metal gate-post. I’d like to plead insanity. I’ll take the ten years in solitary confinement, please.

     I pull a left, then a right, then a left, then a right, then a left, then a right…actually, I’m wandering – no, meandering – through the park, with Hans Zimmer’s Davey Jones Movement roaring in my head; I meander in time with the music. My feet take me to the places I like best. Places where the night looks back at you; where you have to force yourself to set your gaze. Try staring into pitch blackness sometime. It’s not a comfortable feeling. I’ve heard that darkness is where evil resides. I think darkness is misunderstood…like the nature of “evil.” Sit opposite a weird, 20th-century abstract three-dimensional art piece, and stare, hard, into the darkness at its heart. There are stories there. So many unanswered questions can be answered when you ask those things that can’t give you a tangible answer.

     I’ve counseled with the shadows; now for therapy: interpretive dance accompanied by a healthy dose of therapeutic screaming. I sing a lot. You never notice how quietly you have to sing in public until you really need to sing. That’s why there are shadows. They listen very intently, don’t think you’re strange, and soak all pain, pleasure, anger and fear you might sing to release. Something by Vampire Weekend is jamming in my head, and this time, I’m singing along….

     To the shadows.

     Snippets of opera pieces start fluttering through my head. Accompanied by Ugandan chants, and Pawnee ritual songs. And I’m dancing around the shadow of a fire.

     If you never felt pain, how would you know what pleasure felt like? So I celebrate it; by exhaling it in a chorus meant only for the stars, and shadows, and ghosts. I celebrate, dancing in the darkness, waving my arms at the veil of clouds and the stars behind them; I hop to one foot, and wobble in step with the music in my head, and the words on my lips. I hop to the other, and jump at the crescendo of sounds in my mind, those sounds flushing me clean of the hurt, and pain, and grief that plague every creature that may consider why he’s been hurt. In mid flight, I feel the brief weightlessness of flight, hovering in the heavens. Caught between the clouds and the shadows, I close my eyes, and leave my time of arrival a mystery to myself; the last of my cares escapes me, and as I touch the soft, dewed earth, I am delivered.

     Now I can commune, freely, with these dark places. Don’t Let Me Down, by the Stereophonics comes to mind. Have you ever been let down? Of course you have. You are every day. Every hour. I am. Every day, every hour. It’s life. I think we expect too much of ourselves…of others. That animal desire to improve ourselves and our conditions drives us to expect the impossible. And the animal desire to improve our chances of success in life tell us we’ve failed when we, well…fail. The pits of our souls know better, though. They see the whole instead of those precious few real failures. They’re as dark as night, herself. She’s listened to our hearts tear themselves apart. The weight of failure is overwhelming, but the shadows lend shoulders to bear the weight with us…to lighten the load. I’ve told them how it feels to be human, now they show me how it feels to not care.

      “Don’t Let Me Down”, they plead. The bluesy, wailing lyrics fit the moment: all of the emotion of celebration and sorrow wrapped into one tangled poem. My arms climb above my head, wrapping around themselves, snaking through the air, as I dance with the absence of light…as I embrace the objectivity that knows how to evade the sun.

      Wisdom, is wisdom, is wisdom; truth on the lips of the devil is still truth. And I’ve listened.

     Now those great, and wise shadows bear my weight effortlessly, and I can relax. I find myself exhausted, and legs give way to putty; I find myself flat on my back. Now I lie upon the grass, touched by the places where light never will.

      The color black is said to be so because it absorbs all the colors of the spectrum. That it takes, and never gives. Like Salt Lake. It’s said that anything that never gives, dies. Like Salt Lake. But can death die twice? How much more can shadows absorb than colors? What else can shadows absorb? I think black is a wonderful color. Like shadows. And they both give. To give by taking; what a wonderful idea…. They’ve filled a very hard niche to fill in this world.

      My legs and lungs compete in me, burning, exhausted, and happy. I let the veil slip from my face, and the shadows watch me smile; my big, goofy, elated grin thanking them for listening. There’s no fear in my gut, no depression crushing my chest. The doubt and loneliness and helplessness cannot touch me.

     I am the shadow of pain. The shadow of fear. The shadow of the pull and push of life.

     They will never reach me.

     The world would be a better place if we sung to the shadows instead of running from them. You can’t touch one, like you can people; but they can’t hurt you, either – like people can. Someone told me that you can’t depend on people, because they will always let you down. I think I’ll keep trusting, and sing when they do.

Oh Jalaluddin!
You counseled me to "Tear down this house"
My House

Because I Love you
I'm taking your advice
Tearing it down

Brick
by
Brick

Plank
by
Plank

I'll start from the outside
And work my way in

People will stop and stare
"Another crazy person" they'll observe
"He's gone mad" they'll whisper as I break down the walls
"He's a fool" they'll note as I bring down the chimney
"He's lost" they'll gossip as I break the foundation
"Stay away from him" they'll warn as I sit in the rubble

"Were they right all along" I'll ask again and again
"Did I make a mistake"
"Did I burn my life on a whim"
"How do I know"
"Is it possible to know"

It's a lonely place this one
In the ruins
Tired and hungry
Gathering energy to dig
With the Pickaxe You gave me at birth

Alone
Homeless
Afraid

I Surrender...

I’ve been told,
I’ve been warned
even before I comprehended human language
one should revere Text and Revelation
and should prize the Holy Book
I have been told
by Priest, High Priest, Highest Priest,
and Even Higher than Highest Priest,
and all these Declared Representatives of God on Earth
and I have been told to revere the name of God
(for some reason, these Declarers say God is a He;
they’ve had a look, I am to presume)
and to prostrate myself before the Divine Leader
and I’ve been told, advised, counseled, warned
what is right, what is just
and what is good, what is allowed
all boundaries delineated
in the Book
and I’ve been told
by parent, teacher, clerics, Holy Men and Holy Women
and I have been told by Institutions, Foundations of God
operating as Family Trusts on Planet Earth
and I’ve been told, sure –
but still I put aside
I put all away
for when I look within myself
when I look in quiet
at the world and what unfolds about
all I see is the unfolding of beauty
and so it is the unfolding of beauty that one witnesses
a beauty beyond word and symbol and book
an unfolding beyond dogma and theology
and rules and conventions
and so it is the beauty I see, that I witness
and beyond that and before that
there is nothing, nothing more than that nameless beauty

October bonfires for Autumn lesser pyromaniacs ,
with Oak , Hickory and Fall leaves , ashes floating
in the Black Moon night , they ride into star clusters
then fade out of sight
Locked in flames allure , counseled by fire , glowing
embers , hypnotic flickering light , running nightfall shadows o'er the hardwood lines  
Gardenia perfume , warm coats , our uncloaked breath mingling with sweet smoke , cricket songs , hand-made skewers with
bratwurst and marshmallows
Trading stories , relearning one another ,
growing stronger , warmer , drawn into the wavering glow , crackling
tinder , white ash flurry , kindling eventide mellow* ..

I've worn the bejeweled crown of a string doll prince worked with innumerable ploys and tricks .
Suffered the false admiration of the disingenuous , robbed blind by great thespians ..
Left my heart to fend for itself among insatiable howling packs of wolves ..
Offered my soul as a stepping stone for ungrateful friends with self centered inclinations and selective memories.
Knowingly trained my replacement without thought of vindication , counseled many fair weather associates in their moment of frailty who have long since forgotten my name and disavow any such deliberations.
I've repaired plumbing , installed HVAC systems , troubleshooted DIY malfeasance and performed every kind of home repair one could ever dream for free on behalf of family members that wouldn't **** on my burning corpse without charging me a fee !

The boy-king wanted to incinerate
A fell and meretricious thryrus.  
His grandfather would venerate
The same staff, terrified of curses.  
His mother’d slandered the drunk god,
But regretting feckless blasphemy
She counseled them to spare the rod,
Until they heard the divine decree.  
Once the summoned prophet had appeared,  
Blind, and clad in a frayed, goatskin cloak,  
The monarch sputtered “It’s cursed, weird,
And wrong, burn it down to ash and smoke!”
The former monarch begged, “Appease
Bromius with primeval rite,  
A lord who smites his enemies
A lord too terrible to fight.”
The daughter next, “His worshipers
Run mad, and slaughter their own kin,
Even children.   The god massacres
Those who dispute his origin”
The prophet lifted up the staff
And tore the ivy from its tip.  
“Rites, massacres, don’t make me laugh,
And immolation’s sponsorship.”
He swung the staff to test its heft,
And said, “I need a walking stick,  
The drunkard has no bacchics left,
****** the goatish lunatic.”
At this, the grandfather turned pale,
And the repentant mother winced.  
Matched severity cannot avail
If fear and butchery convinced.  
A proverb soothes the quondam king
And the dowager, “He frightens you,  
But moderation in each thing,
And that in moderation too.”

Not even twenty-four hour catharsis;
where at first rumination bred ruination.

The thirty-four degree one o' clock wind whispered "turn around, go back where you started."
The cloth of used, slightly misused sweater and unsanitary khakis counseled with the slogan,
"buy me, feel better."  
Dreary glimpses, averting eyes on community paths spoke most loudly, and most fluently, and quite simply said: alone.  

Mistrust and misuse and isolation undone quickly by steady river, parted clouds, and miscommunication.
The wispy whites of blind clouds says don't spread too thin, don't spread so sparse.
The screech of a gaggle of geese; the urge to speed through discomfort.  

Ruminate instead on steady sediment structures,
and the stranger's closed mouth smile and whole-hearted "hello."
All earthly and nudging and prodding to speak up again in class.

My little birdie, let's call her Donnie, didn’t die with me. She was the sky, the ocean, the air; always there; before there was me; before there was Lily and the schizophrenics she so dearly loved. She chose me through three miscarriages; clung to my slimy wet shoulder from birth in an old British town, and after my heart said, “**** it. I’m done.”

Donnie, who knew me well; whose laser eye cut through my survival shield. Who was there with the ******* and the priest in his long white gown, red, sputtering scooter, and bifocals that saw me before I slid under black sage bushes on Bleak Street. “We must learn to forgive,” he preached, as if he’d previewed the ****** fantasy with the teenage butcher and 12-inch blade; who dreamed of severed jugular veins; who knew their precise anatomical position from Biology 101; who raged through life buoyed by his noble struggle to overachieve, kick poverty in the *** and please his mother. She wanted him to be a shrink who performed lobotomies and lived in a mansion on the hill. But instead, he peddled anti-psychotics and sildenafil.

Donnie, who nixed my flirtation with cremation with her thesis on Casper’s Law. Who waxed poetic on the cycle of life and the critical role of clostridia in butyric fermentation. Who stoked my angst of guns and God; and the Talmud’s curse that justified subjugation of blacks for five hundred years, and gave us Jesus, blond and white with sky blue eyes, and prosperity preachers with a penchant for private jets, Bentleys and pews packed with faithful followers seeking salvation and eternal life but fearing death and the neighbor’s son with sagging jeans, snapbacks and kicks by Kanye West.

Donnie, who worshipped only supreme reality. Who scoffed at the devout deacons and their elegies of compassion after protracted nights of drunken bliss and fornication at the bordello. Who challenged me to read and think independently; and unlearn the trappings of blind faith in a deity unseen that failed to intervene when Baba and Phoebe were yoked, *****, chained, stripped of name, culture and natural identity; made to slog like two-legged mules in a land far, far away; for missionary masters who ****** black men in public for dissent, and threw black babies, naked, screaming, into giant, snapping jaws of bull gators for fun.

Donnie, who inspired me to explore the theory of applied nothingness; that nothing is something and everything is something and nothing; that nothing is the silence from which a baby’s scream emerges and to which it returns; that singular forces of expansion and compression move the universe to an inevitable state of oneness. That the world is the laboratory of the independent thinker who knows the only constant is change; whose mind is constantly moving and learning new tricks, not stuck in the static biblical paradigm of many interpretations, including that curse of Ham, that seismic slight of hand that shifted and redefined tectonic geopolitical plates of master and slave by race.

Donnie, who knew the moving mass of maggots feasting on my rotting flesh were merely spokes in the cycle of life and death. Who knew heaven was a myth like the devil; that both lived in me, on Earth, a duality that made me love and hate and share and steal that shiny red apple from the Korean grocery store on Utica Avenue, just for the thrill of it. Nonetheless, a part of me wanted to confess, just in case that nothingness theory was just applied ******* and John 3:16 was real. Just in case, mother, who prayed five times a day, and sent four-figure checks to Benny Hinn whom she’d never met, and gave me a black bible to help me find the Lord, was right all along. But a few Berettas and bump stocks intervened.

Donnie knew I was dead when the bullet split my head in two back in 2032 at Times Square. There would be no 2033; no ‘Happy New Year’ toast, no kisses, no cheer. Just rat-a-tat-tat, screams and mayhem on 42 Street. There were 175 dead at the scene when the giant ball completed its 60-second drop; New York City’s second worst mass killing in modern history. Children missing limbs; gaping holes in the chest of men that held beating hearts at 11:58 pm; chunks of brains, eyeballs and other human remains swimming in blood near headless victims. The three white terrorists did not discriminate. Every race felt the deadly force of guns meant for war but fiercely defended by Second Amendment zealots and the NRA.

I should have migrated to Tokyo back in ’85.

Donnie disagreed. She’d stayed connected to my departed, restless soul in the after-life. Together, we observed the protracted decomposition of my earthly shell in a loosely-sealed casket somewhere under the red clays of Georgia. Donnie, who knew I needed therapy after that morbidly brutal exit from the physical realm of palpable matter; back to the golden eternity of nothingness from whence I came. Who reminded me that my brief sojourn among the living was not inconsequential; that I’d left an indelible mark in my sphere of influence, real and virtual; that I’d found and used my gift of write for the greater good of preserving naked truths of humanity; that my ancestors were pleased, including my deceased mother, whose long position on pious options had filled the coffers of Benny Hinn and other preaching predators like pastor Mike at the Bootleg Church of Brooklyn; yet yielded nothing which is something as hitherto explained.

“Your mortal life unfolded exactly as nature intended,” Donnie counseled, in her infinite wisdom, adding, “even the biologically immortal pine will die when struck by lightning or swept by a tsunami or snapped like a toothpick by a giant tornado.”

“And those pines produce oxygen to support life on the red clays of Georgia, now uniformly enriched by your final contribution to the world.”

the numbers were in and it didn't look pretty
you people surrender your minds so easily
they dumb you down and you know it
they dumb you down and you let them
but it wasn’t exactly coercion either
basically the truth is we have many souls
most of them severe critics to be evaded
where they came from nobody knows
at the dawn of time a single drop of blood
fell on Mother Nature's pouting lips
then and there she was hooked forever
on the prodigality of infinite misuse
a million wasted ***** is no way to live
each one a potential productive manikin
random selection had done its worse
evil had survived the millennia just fine
well what any breathing human knows
is they can always do better next time
the point here is to insure a next time
it appeared that the world had been flushed
down the great stinking ***** pipe again
the old school mutates into the new school
goodbye old school
you have tried to become a national holiday
that no one feels the necessity to celebrate
needless to say the faculty weren't listening
and caroused down the lane into the woods
but it was too late for regret anyhow
the old school had initiated him
into the Clan of the Goat Poet
he sees where his next thought comes from
everything filled with clues is a clue itself
blindness is the human condition
idiocy is the subhuman condition
infantilism is the transhuman condition
anthropomorphism is the...somebody stop him
needless to say he dabbled in the grotesque
on a need to know basis so it was OK
I agree a cheap eruption of demagoguery
but you can't be free by hiding in a mirror
also I've been getting complaints
about vestigial blandness lately
my lawyers ****** & Bludgeon
had counseled caution in all things
so I lapsed into a 5 year walking coma
nothing to do but leave on the right note
with a casual wave and a simple **** it
in case you were wondering
everything is the way it is
so it would be believable

From "Engine of Didactic Beauty" available on Amazon

And how can you say I think nothing but of myself! Am I as narcissistic as my father?
When I memorize every detail garnered of those I speak with, on a daily basis. When I take their history and position into account when regarding their words?
When I often choose the phrases which will please them most? When I am counseled and skilled in only my words. My concern is often naught but for those I love, my own desires be ******. Though when they make appearance, I cannot reconcile them to silence.
It's true, I am a vain and pride thing, that regards herself as well when she speaks,
But I thought you knew better than that.

I know secret air
your wild ocean winds
  stabbing angels
pretending to be people.

I see stars dripping outside
every lonely window,

turn over my spirit
to soft whispers.

Darkness sings
stars fly falling
   still you ask me
to master white storm.

This part of me no longer craves bodies,

my walls begin rising
  nobody has time to undersand   what we all go through.

It's fine.
I'll keep it to myself.

My hard burn cry bolting for the galloping  green pastures.

Hoping to tune back in
to a station playing for
love and children.

My dust ghost space knows how to power ache flow hoping to find
  your running rainbow lips

promising eternal sunshine
for quiet pen minds.

Melt my waves
piece by piece.

Are there any eyes who love
my silent sun inside?

Nobody sees us when we turn back to mist,

fearless to remember
  the path of totality

when my solitary roots
slip down to be counseled
  by pure water

trembling still
  from underground sun

injected by honeycombs
  lying still in floating pools

I turn to you forgetting how to speak.

Vast sea taking my edge,

your calm waters making me forget

  I ever bled.

See "The soul crushing legacy of Billy Graham" in Rolling Stone magazine.

i want, said
a man
satisfaction got he immediate
day got he quick
without going through
dawn, got the lift up
skyward, never had
to work for a piece
so all men know
he's standing pat.

please,
another man said
was halted
found himself crumpled
broken-ribbed on her
fleshy bottomglass
stretched out
squished insectly
half of him went
with her, she reveled
in his missing half
slow pining gusts
they shook
and trembled
they whimpered beneath
a disgrace that was enough
to call himself counseled
but not enough
to call himself
a man.

Women are unkind.
They don't teach you this
In 9th grade biology
You have to learn it yourself

I was excited to see the temples
But it is actually the train station
That I remember from Kyoto
Finnish architects

Avoid the company of women
Counseled the Buddha
Still. Silent. Sitting.
Wise.

I also remember the jazz club in Tokyo
Rieko and Takahiro
Me sitting
Just one of the guys

              (I still tries)

the numbers were in and it didn't look pretty
you people surrender your minds so easily
they dumb you down and you know it
they dumb you down and you let them
but it wasn’t exactly coercion either
basically the truth is we have many souls
most of them severe critics to be evaded
where they came from nobody knows
at the dawn of time a single drop of blood
fell on Mother Nature's pouting lips
then and there she was hooked forever
on the prodigality of infinite missuse
a million wasted ***** is no way to live
each one a potential productive manikin
random selection had done its worse
evil had survived the millennia just fine
well what any breathing human knows
is they can always do better next time
the point here is to insure a next time
it appeared that the world had been flushed
down the great stinking ***** pipe again
the old school mutates into the new school
goodbye old school
you have tried to become a national holiday
that no one feels the necessity to celebrate
needless to say the faculty weren't listening
and caroused down the lane into the woods
but it was too late for regret anyhow
the old school had initiated him
into the Clan of the Goat Poet
he sees where his next thought comes from
everything filled with clues is a clue itself
blindness is the human condition
idiocy is the subhuman condition
infantilism is the transhuman condition
anthropomorphism is the...somebody stop him
needless to say he dabbled in the grotesque
on a need to know basis so it was OK
I agree a cheap eruption of demagoguery
but you can't be free by hiding in a mirror
also I've been getting complaints
about vestigial blandness lately
my lawyers ****** & Bludgeon
had counseled caution in all things
so I lapsed into a 5 year walking coma
nothing to do but leave on the right note
with a casual wave and a simple **** it
in case you were wondering
everything is the way it is
so it would be believable

From "Engine of Didactic Beauty" available on Amazon

Day #6: Salmon Idaho to Vernal Utah

I was the first motorcyclist to leave the next morning from an overly full parking lot.  It was 6:45 a.m., and you couldn’t fit even one more bike anywhere on the normally empty lot. Some late arrivals were now parked on the apron just across the road.  

After two cups of coffee and a biscuit in the hotel’s complimentary breakfast area, I said goodbye to Gene at the front desk and was on my way.  I had plenty of gas to make Mud Lake and decided I would stop at the ranger station there and see if Marie was still working the desk.  Marie had been a wealth of information over the last twenty years and had saved me countless hours of waiting in road construction delays by suggesting alternative routes.  

The ride on Rt#28 along the Western edge of the Beaverhead Mountains was both beautiful and isolated, and I had been riding it alone.  I counted only five cars during the entire length of its 121 miles.  I was once again amazed at what life had granted me to see, as I looked out toward Scott Peak (11,393 ft.) far off to the East.

I was not quite running on fumes but in need of gas as I pulled into Mud Lake.  I had my second mid-morning breakfast, an egg-salad sandwich and coffee, as I filled the bikes tank. Another meal that I pulled straight out of the cold chest at the gas station before turning left on highway Rt.#33 toward Rexburg and Driggs.  If I had to, I knew I could live forever on what these cold chests had inside. Some of my fondest memories had been while sharing a sandwich and a story with a fellow traveler who was also stopped for gas and some food.  Those accidental meetings were no accident and when the wind was at your back and your heart was open, your spirit could refill with all that was new.

After going through the beautiful Swan Valley and over Teton Pass to Jackson, I parked the bike and stopped for a real lunch.  The Eastern side of the Tetons has always been their most beautiful profile to me, and today did nothing to change that perception.  The view of Grand Teton as I passed through Victor and Driggs was as majestic as any time in my memory. The Swan Valley held proudly, in its rolling hills and Eastern perspective, what in many ways Jackson, because of overdevelopment, had lost looking West.

The ride over Teton Pass was more crowded than I expected. At almost 8500 feet, it was deceptive in the impression it gave as you climbed to the top. Although not high by Rocky Mountain standards, the view from its summit rivaled all but the mighty Glacier and Galena for majesty of landscape. It was late on a Monday morning, and there was a constant stream of cars and trucks headed both East and West.  It was another reminder of why I often bypassed Jackson even with its immense beauty.  It had become yet another example of what money tried to buy, and then control, when it reached beyond its borders. After another stop for gas, and a quick lunch at the Pearl Street Deli, I planned to be on my way.

Town was crowded as always with another day’s allotment of the two million people who would enter Yellowstone through the South entrance this year. The boardwalk surrounding the square in the center of town was full, as the patrons pushed and shoved to get their mountain souvenirs. They searched in desperation for something that they could take home, while at the same time leaving nothing of themselves behind.  So much of store-bought travel was like that with only the stain of trespassing footsteps to mark the places where they thought they had been.

                                           A Pity, Really

The tuna at The Pearl Street Deli was as good as I had remembered, and it was not quite 3:00 pm when I remounted the bike and headed south on Rt. #89 toward Hoback Junction.  Thank God my travels today would take me East at the split where Rt.#89 went West and Rt.#191 headed to the southeast. There had been road construction all the way from Jackson, and it would continue on Rt.#89 for at least another twenty miles.  I enthusiastically headed the other way on Rt.#191.

Once I veered left on Rt. #191, the road opened up, and I was again traveling alone.  My thoughts reached out to the Flaming Gorge basin and the road along its Western edge.  This was a new road for me, as before I had always stayed on Rt.#191 along its Eastern shore.  Today, I took a short ride West on interstate #80 before getting on Rt.#530, which connected Green River with Manila. Many times, I had heard of the beauty of this road, but once there, nothing could have prepared me for the things that I saw.

Where the eastern route was straight, and cut right through the canyon, the western side was a continuous series of turns dropping over two thousand feet, as it wound through one of the most beautiful gorges I had ever seen.  If you can only do it once, take the western route.  Just say a quick prayer of thanks for safe travel as you look across its depths.  It will remain in the memory of that day and what in your mind it will always be.

Where two state routes converged, #43 & #44, Manila was the seat of Daggett County Utah and the gateway to Kings Peak, the highest mountain in the state at 13,528 ft.  As much as people raved and boasted about the canyons further South, I had always believed that northeastern Utah’s canyons were special and unique.  The Uinta Mountains never left me unchanged as they disappeared into the Wasatch.

Through their power, my mind and soul came together in the union of all they taught me. For that I have been thankful knowing that these mountains bestowed blessings only when all homage had been paid. I looked to the West, as I reconnected with Rt.#191 and headed toward the old Utah town of Vernal where I would stop for the night.

It was a sportsman’s paradise and one of the only towns of its size in the country without a railroad.  Not founded by Mormons, like most of the state, it had regional air service to Denver but not Salt Lake.  The implied meaning here was that Salt Lake was not the center of the universe, and intention would always trump direction and bend it to its will. The Mormons were not going to control this remote Utah town, as it looked toward Denver and the east for what it could not find looking west.

Vernal was another of those hidden jewels attached to my charm bracelet of the West.  It was a place that I could live happily in and would be proud to do so. Maybe in this life —but most probably not. Either way, I had vicariously left big parts of myself there over the years, and it now sheltered and claimed those things as its own.

Vicarious, Being The Lasting Attribute Of All Important Travel

The sun was drifting behind the Ouray Indian Reservation to my West, as I pulled into town for the night.  Peaceful and quiet on a Monday evening, Vernal was not in a hurry to do what you expected but brought out more of what was expected in you.  The town had within it a great symmetry of purpose and a grace in its quiet undertaking of the things that made life worthwhile — and your place in it secure.  

I remembered a friend of mine, Walt Mullen, who told me years ago that he could get lost in the northern hills of Vernal and stay forever. Walt was a bear hunter, but he was just as happy when he had nothing to show after a week in the high-country. He truly understood the magic that existed along these trails and ancient beachheads where the dinosaurs once roamed.  

He told me he still felt their presence when he was alone with himself in the mountains while at the same time maintaining his connection to everything else. Inside its landscape, with the power to change all that you were before, thoughts weighed heavier in the Uinta Mountains. With every message you cried out into the canyons and rivers, the echo’s they sent back were ominous and large.

I thought about Walt, as I sat outside my motel room in Vernal reading Mari Sandoz’s, seminal work, ‘Crazy Horse — Strange Man of The Oglala.’  I wondered if Crazy Horse had ever been this far west.  I like to think that maybe he and the great Chief Joseph, of the Nez Perce, had ‘counseled’ here, trying to preserve a way of life, that in our attempted destruction, we never understood.

After dinner, I fell asleep thinking about what it would take to get my wife Kathryn to relocate here.  I knew she would fall in love with this town once she got a chance to know it. As I woke up, I realized again that to get a true city girl to leave her friends and family, just to live out a lifelong wish of her husband, would again be realized only in my dreams.  She understood my dreams, and she loved me for them — but she had dreams of her own.

It’s funny how two people, so much in love, could have entirely different dreams.  After 37 years of marriage, our understanding of who we were as a couple only increased with the respect and independence that we allowed each other.  Kathy truly understood my feelings for the West.  

Understood yes, but her feelings for the things that were important in her life were hers and hers alone.  I tried to respect that, as we lived in a shared appreciation of what we had accomplished together.   I thought about her constantly and wished that she were here with me tonight like she had been so many times before.

       Kathryn Loved The West — But Only To Visit