Dear Friends, I have simplified the true story of
the Grand Canyon of Arizona by leaving out the
plethora of scientific details, & the various theories
of scholars about its formation! Presenting here the
more popular version for your kind appreciation!
Therefore, I have used only a part of my Notes on
the subject. Kindly don’t forget to read Part Two
later, for the total story. No need to comment in
a hurry! Thanks, -Raj.

STORY OF THE GRAND CANYON IN
VERSE : PART ONE- BY RAJ NANDY

              BACKGROUND
Our unique planet earth on which we reside,
Remains restless and dynamic, which in its
bowels it hides!
Titanic forces have been at work since our planets
formation; (App. 4.5 billion years ago)
Tectonic plates collided shaping continents,
along with quakes and volcanic eruptions!
Mighty glaciers had formed and receded, while
forces of nature did shape,
When mighty Himalayas and the Rockies rose
up, as we see them on date!
Several species evolved and of multifarious kind,
Leaving a trail of geological mysteries behind!
Geologists have tried to figure out what caused
the rugged Rockies to rise,
From miles below the surface of the earth,
stretching across 3000 miles;
Across New Mexico, Colorado, Wyoming and
Montana, all the way up into North Canada;
To become the longest mountain chain of
North America!
The Geologists speculate that the heavier
Pacific Oceanic Plate, had moved northwest
under the North American Plate;
And as a result of this geological seduction
and embrace,
A split had opened up in the American West!
Such mountain building activity or ‘Orogeny’,
Had occurred in several phases during Earth’s
evolving history!
But mostly it occurred during the ‘Age of the
Dinosaurs’ in the Mesozoic Age,
Around 100 to 200 million years hence!
Now cutting across million years of Geological
History,
I come to the Colorado Plateau to commence
my Grand Canyon Story!

THE COLORADO PLATEAU
The awesome forces which raised the Rocky
Mountain Chains, also raised the Colorado
Plateau at a later time once again!
But during the Plateau’s gradual rise there was
surprisingly no devastation,
As the well preserved sedimentary layers rose
up with the Plateau without deformation!
Like an elevator traveling upwards this Plateau
gradually rose,
Along with its several embedded rock layers,
with which it was composed!
The Plateau is scattered over an area of some
1300,000 square mile as we know;
Going clockwise it covers Arizona, Utah, Colorado,
and the State of New Mexico!
Within this rugged area are located the Grand
Canyon, Grand Staircase, Bryce and Zion Canyon,
Arches, National Bridges, Monument Valley,
Glen Canyon, and Lake Powell.
It was Major John Wesley Powell a Geologist,
a brave solder and an explorer,
Who during the 19th century had mapped the
entire Grand Canyon area;
By sailing down the treacherous rapid infested
and uncharted Colorado River!
During the American Civil War Powell’s right
hand was amputated,
God bless his soul for the work he had initiated!
(The area from Bryce Canyon down to the Grand Canyon
is referred to as the ‘Grand Staircase’ due to the existing
land features!)

THE SOUTHERN RIM OF THE PLATEAU
Standing near the edge of more easily accessible
Southern Rim, one gets captivated by the sculptured
beauty and brilliant colors of sedimentary rock layers;
Which also captivated the imagination of tourists,
geologists, painters and explorers!
Geologists have opined, that till 80 million years, this
area was inundated by the Sea several times;
By dating the limestone and marine fossils on the
top Kaibab Limestone Layer they now find!
The lowest rock basement of this Plateau the
Vishnu Schist, dated as a third of our Earth’s
total age, still exists! (Dated as 1.5 billion years.)
Yet the dominant color of the layers of the
Canyon is of a reddish kind,
Due to iron deposits in the layers that we find!
Standing on the edge of the Southern Rim one
is struck by the grand panoramic view and its
macro immensity !
Gazing into a 1500 meter deep gorge carved into
nearby horizontal sedimentary rocks, - a stark
reality,
Where Man becomes aware of his own micro
fragility!
These layers were deposited 500 million years ago,
Prior to the elevation of the Colorado Plateau!
Viewing this testament to Nature’s magnificence,
Man loses himself for a while, to become transfixed
in space and time!
Though there are other deeper canyons in this
world we know, but none are more impressive
or grander;
So Major Powell named it the ‘Grand Canyon’,
which had also made him to wonder!

GRAND CANYON AND THE COLORADO RIVER
The Grand Canyon stretches from Lake Powell near
Utah-Arizona boarder right up to Lake Mead,
Is around 277 miles long with a max width of 18 miles,
and a max depth of around 6000 feet!
The Canyon proper is located in the northwestern
portion of Arizona, in the midst of the Grand Canyon
National Park,
Where the Colorado River bisects this Park into
Northern and Southern halves!
The Northern Rim is a 1000 feet higher and is ideal
for rafters, trekkers, and cliff climbers.
The better connected South Rim has around 5 million
visitors annually!
But the affluent few with lesser time, visit the glass-
bottom horseshoe shaped ‘Skywalk’ in the western
section, in Hualapai Indian Reservation territory!

             CONCLUDING PART ONE :
The question that intrigue Geologists and the visitors
alike, is how the Colorado River did shape,
The mighty Canyon through this great depth?
Before giving you the answer in Part Two
I must pause here to quote,
Lines from the poem “Grand Canyon” which
Lisa A Williams once wrote; -
“I look to the depths far, far below,
To crevices and caverns formed long ago.
To twisting trails, ledges steep,
Winding rivers with pools so deep! ..........
Cascades of color with each sunrise,
Golden walls with lavender hues,
Shades of pink and smoky blues.
Rainbows of stone, dance in fading light,
Lengthening shadows, with approaching
night . …………….
A brush in hand the painter can see,
The miracle of nature and all it can be.
Trying to capture the beauty of age,
Seems impossible with human gauge!
So much to take in, the eyes try to behold,
An ancient image of creation so bold.
Formed by ice and melting snow,
An artist’s canvas sketched long ago!”
-  by Lisa A Williams.

Dear readers, later in the second part of this
story,
I shall conclude by telling you how the
Colorado River in all its pristine glory,
Carved out this vast Canyon through million
years of our Earth’s History!
Part two will be posted later after a break
surely,
Thanks for reading patiently, from Raj Nandy
of New Delhi.
*ALL COPYRIGHTS ARE WITH THE AUTHOR ONLY

I dream of going far away.
Plunging into the grandeur
And the vastness
Of the world.
I am ready to leave this place;
I am ready, I say,
To be away.

I will write and draw,
And take drugs with strangers.
I will sleep on the beach,
Bathe in rivers,
And plunge into nature,
Away from four walls,
From screens and cars,
And toward greenery and stars;
Splendid laughter and epiphanies
Spilling from the ether,
Behind trees and over mountains,
In the silent water of calm lakes,
And in the crimson sky
Of some northwestern twilight.

I will wander abandoned roads
And drink coffee in midnight diners
Thousands of miles from home,
For the road beckons,
And the moon never waits.

The wanderlust of youth
Is nothing to waste.

We met up again, somewhere in a dense cloud of smoke
I had been gone for a while, frozen in Alaskan ice
But we picked up where we assumed we would

"Nice to see you, *******"
It was nice to see you to, even though you are
a rotten *******, we get along because of it

Madness kept us drinking, and I was still flush
So from the first light of the morning,
when we scrapped the crust from our eyes
we stayed hydrated
and out of jail this time.

Maybe next time
we might finally be burned alive.

Driving East
Sun setting at my back
Lyrics pushing at my ears
with a chill in the air
I think of home.
Sometimes I feel lost, but I know
exactly where I am
It always feels wrong when
the sun sets to my back
And I'm going the other way.

‘Abá Cloak or mantle; a rough, coarse shirt.[1][2]
Ábádih
‘Abbás AR: عباس lion
‘Abdu’l-Bahá AR: عباس افندی Servant of Glory Title of ‘Abbás Effendi, the eldest son and successor of Bahá'u'lláh, meaning Servant of Bahá (Glory), i.e., Servant of Bahá'u'lláh. He preferred this title over others because it emphasized His servitude to Bahá'u'lláh.
‘Abdu’l-Hamid AR:  عبد الحميد servant of the All-Laudable
‘Abdu’l-Husayn AR:  عبد الحسين servant of Husayn
‘Abdu’lláh AR: عبد الله servant of God
Abhá AR: أبهى Most Glorious, All-Glorious A superlative form of the word Bahá’, "glory", or "glorious"; a form of the Greatest Name of God.
Abhá Beauty AR: جمال ابها A title of Bahá'u'lláh. See also Blessed Beauty.
Abhá Kingdom Most Glorious Kingdom The next stage of existence, or "the next world", i.e. the world of the afterlife.
Abjad system A numerological system, i.e. a system assigning a numerical value to letters, which creates a new layer of meaning in Scripture. For instance, the value of the word Bahá’ in the Abjad system is nine, lending that number a special significance.
Abu’l-Faḍl AR:  ابوالفضل father of virtue
‘Adasíyyih A village near the Jordan River where some early Baha'is lived, working as farmers at ‘Abdu’l-Bahá's request.
Adhan AR: أَذَان announcement[3] Also Azán. Muslim call to prayer.[2]
Ádhirbáyján FA: آذربایجان Also Azerbaijan. A region in northwestern Iran.[4]
Afnán AR: ﺍﻓﻨﺎﻥ twigs The maternal relatives of the Báb; used as a surname by their descendants.
Aghsán AR: ﺍﻏﺼﺎﻥ branches The male descendants of Bahá'u'lláh; has particular implications not only for the disposition of endowments but also for the succession of authority following the passing of Bahá’u’lláh and of his son ‘Abdu’l-Bahá.
A.H. After Hijirah. Date of Muḥammad’s migration from Mecca to Medina, and basis of Islamic chronology.[2]
‘Ahd
Aḥmad AR: أحمد to thank, to praise An Arabic given name from the same root as the name Muhammad.
Aḥsá’í AR: أحسائي from Ahsáʼ An Arabic demonym referring to a native of the Ahsáʼ region in eastern Saudi Arabia.
Ahváz FA: اهواز the Khuzi people A region in southwestern Iran.
‘Akká AR: عكّا A penal colony of the Ottoman Empire (now part of northern Israel) to which Bahá'u'lláh was banished by Sultan 'Abdu'l-'Aziz.
Akbar AR: اكبر great Great, or greater. See Alláh-u-Akbar, Ghusn-i-Akbar.[2]
‘Alá’ AR: علاء loftiness The nineteenth month of the Bahá’í calendar; the month of fasting.
Alí
Alláh-u-Abhá AR: الله أبهى God is Most Glorious A form of the Greatest Name of God. Commonly used as a greeting by Bahá'ís. Repeating Alláh-u-Abhá 95 times a day is a law binding on all Bahá'ís, as written by Bahá'u'lláh in the Kitáb-i-Aqdas.
Alláh-u-Akbar AR: ٱللَّٰهُ أَكْبَرُ God is Most Great
Alváh
Alváḥ-i-Saláṭín
Amatu'l-Bahá AR: امةالبهاء Maidservant of Glory Title of Rúhíyyih Khanum, the wife of Shoghi Effendi, meaning Maidservant of Bahá (Glory), i.e., Maidservant of Bahá'u'lláh.
Amín
Amír lord, prince, commander, governor[2] Also Ameer, Emir. The word originally signified a military commander, but very early came to be extended to anyone bearing rule.[5]
Amru’lláh
Anzalí
Áqá FA: آقا Sir, mister, master Also Aga, Agha. A dignitary or lord; used generally as a term of respect.[6] Title given by Bahá’u’lláh to ‘Abdu’l-Bahá (translated as "Master").[2]
Aqdas FA: اقدس‎ most holy Most Holy. Used in the title of the Kitáb-i-Aqdas.
‘Arabistán A former Arab Emirate that now forms part of the Iranian province of Khuzestan.
Aṣl-i-Kullu'l-Khayr AR: أﺻﻞ ﻛﻞ ﺍﻟﺨﻴﺮ words of wisdom A tablet of Bahá’u’lláh published in Tablets of Bahá’u’lláh.
Asmá’ AR: اسماء names The ninth month of the Bahá’í calendar.
‘Avájiq FA: آواجیق The westernmost city in Iran, located in the province of West Ádhirbáyján.
Ayádí
Áyah AR: آية verse, sign, miracle Also Ayat. A verse, esp. of the Qur'án.
Ayyám-i-Há AR:  ايام الهاء days of Há A period of four or five intercalary days in the Bahá’í calendar, celebrated by Bahá'ís as a Festival marked by charity, hospitality and rejoicing.
Azal
‘Aẓam AR: اعظم greatest[2] See Ghusn-i-‘Aẓam.
‘Aẓamat AR: عظمة grandeur The fourth month of the Bahá’í calendar.
‘Azíz
B
Term Source Meaning Definition
Báb, The AR: باب door, gate Title assumed by Mírzá ‘Alí-Muḥammad after the declaration of His Mission as the promised Qá'im (or Mihdí/Mahdi) in Shíráz in May 1844.[2] A Manifestation of God whose dispensation preceded that of Bahá'u'lláh, and who foretold His coming. Founder of the Bábí religion.
Bábí AR: بابی of the gate A follower of the Báb, or an adjective used in relating something or someone to the Bábí religion.
Bábí religion The religion established by the Báb.
Bábu'l-Báb AR: باب الباب gate of the gate Title of Mullá Ḥusayn-i-Bushru'i, the first person to profess belief in the Báb.
Baghdád AR: مدينة بغداد bestowed by God[7] Also Bagdad.[8] The capital city of Iraq, to which Bahá’u’lláh was exiled in 1853. He took up residence and lived there for the greater part of a decade. His House in the Karkh sector of the city is a site of pilgrimage, although it was destroyed in 2013; a garden in the city's Rusafa sector was the site of the events celebrated during Riḍván.
Bahá’ AR: أبهى glory, splendour The Greatest Name of God, meaning "glory", or "glorious". The first month of the Bahá’í calendar. Title by which Bahá’u’lláh (Mírzá Ḥusayn-‘Alí) is designated.[2]
Bahá’í AR: بهائی of glory A follower of Bahá'u'lláh, or an adjective used in relating something or someone to the Bahá’í Faith. It is important to note that "Bahá’í" is not a noun meaning the religion as a whole; i.e. "She is a member of the Bahá'í Faith" rather than "She is a member of Bahá'í".
Bahá’í Faith The religion established by Bahá'u'lláh.
Bahá'u'lláh AR: بهاء الله Glory of God The Founder of the Bahá'í Faith, the Manifestation of God for this age.
Bahíyyih Bahíyyih Khánum, “Greatest Holy Leaf” (born Fáṭimih Sulṭán, 1846–15 July 1932)
Bahjí AR: البهجة delight A site outside the city of ‘Akká where Bahá'u'lláh spent His final years, in the Mansion of Bahjí.
Bait al-Adl AR: بيت العدل House of Justice Also Baytu’l-’Adl. The House of Justice, an elected legislative institution ordained by Bahá'u'lláh.
Bait al-Adl al-Azam AR: بيت العدل الأعظم House of Justice Also Baytu’l-’Adl-i-A’ẓam. The Universal House of Justice, also referred to as the Supreme House of Justice, the elected institution that currently serves as the head of the Bahá'í Faith.
Balúchistán FA: بلوچستان Southwestern province of Pakistan
Bandar-‘Abbás FA: بندرعباس A port city and capital of Hurmúzgán Province on the southern Persian Gulf coast of Írán
Baqíyyatu’lláh Remnant of God Title applied both to the Báb and to Bahá’u’lláh.[2]
Bárfurúsh FA: بارفروش a town in Mázindarán, now known as Bábul (Babol)
Bayán AR: بیان‎ exposition, utterance, explanation Title given by the Báb to His Revelation, particularly to His Books, and especially to two of His major works: The Persian Bayán and the Arabic Bayán.[2]
Bayt AR: بيت house, building
Big Honorary title; lower title than Khán.[2]
Bírjand FA: بیرجند city in eastern Írán
Bishárát AR: ﺍﻟﻄﺮﺍﺯﺍﺕ good news, glad-tidings A tablet of Bahá’u’lláh published in Tablets of Bahá’u’lláh.
Bukhárá FA: بخارا city in Uzbekistan
Burújird FA: بروجرد Capital city of the province of Luristán, place of the governorship of Mírzá Buzurg
Búshihr FA: بوشهر Iranian city (once the primary port of Írán) and province on the Persian Gulf.
Búshrúyih FA: بشرويه a town in Khurásán, 55 km NE of Ṭabas and 70 km WSW of Tún. It is the birthplace of Mullá Ḥusayn, first disciple of the Báb.
C
Term Source Meaning Definition
Caravanserai FA: کاروانسرای caravan palace An inn for caravans, i.e. groups of traders, pilgrims or other travellers, engaged in long-distance travel.[2][9]
Chihár-Vádí FA: چهار وادی four valleys “Four Valleys” by Bahá’u’lláh. Addressed to Shaykh ‘Abdu’r-Raḥmán-i-Karkútí.
Chihríq FA: چهریق Fortress in Kurdish Ádhirbáyján, designated by the Báb as Jabal-i-Shadíd (the Grievous Mountain)
D
Term Source Meaning Definition
Dárúghih FA: داروغه high constable[2]
Darvísh FA: درویش seeking doors; beggar Also Dervish. A Muslim mystic, often a hermit or ascetic who wanders the land carrying a begging bowl (kashkúl). Equivalent to the Arabic faqír.[10]
Dawlih state, government[2] See Vakilu'd-Dawlih.
E
Term Source Meaning Definition
Effendi FA: افندي master A title of nobility.
F
Term Source Meaning Definition
Fárán Pers. small village in Ardistán
Farmán FA: فرمان order, command, royal decree[2] Also Firmán. An edict given by a sovereign, particularly for decrees, grants, passports, etc.[11]
Farrásh FA: فرش footman, lictor, attendant[2]
Farrásh-Báshí FA: فراش باشی The head farrásh.[2]
Fárs FA: فارس a southern province of Írán, from which the name Persia derives.
Farsakh FA: فرسخ Unit of measurement. Its length differs in different parts of the country according to the nature of the ground, the local interpretation of the term being the distance which a laden mule will walk in the hour, which varies from three to four miles. Arabicised from the old Persian “parsang,” and supposed to be derived from pieces of stone (sang) placed on the roadside.[2][12]
Fiḍál AR: فضال grace The fourth day of the week in the Bahá’í calendar, corresponding to Tuesday.
G
Term Source Meaning Definition
Ganjih FA: گنجه (Ganjeh) city (2nd largest) in Ádharbayján. It was named Elisabethpol in the Russian Empire period.
Ghuṣn-i-A‘ẓám FA: غصن اعظم Most Great or Greatest Branch, i.e. ‘Abdu’l-Bahá.
Ghuṣn-i-Akbar FA: غصن اکبر Greater Branch, i.e. Mírzá Muḥammad-‘Ali. Also The Chosen Branch, i.e. Shoghi Effendi.
Gílán FA: گیلان a northern province of Írán on the Caspian Sea.
H
Term Source Meaning Definition
Ḥadíth AR: حديث occurring, happening, taking place
Ḥájí AR: حاج Also Hajji, Hadji. A Muslim who has made the Hajj, i.e. pilgrimage.[2][13]
Ḥajj AR: حج setting out Also Hadj. The Muslim rite of pilgrimage to the holy city of Mecca.[13]
Hamadán FA: همدان Hamadán city in Írán, 144 km NE Kirmánsháh. Originally Ecbatana of the ancient Medes.
Ḥaydar-‘Alí AR: حيدر علي noted early Bahá’í, born into Shaykhí family of Iṣfahán. Known as the “Angel of Carmel”.
Haykal AR: هيكل temple; large building, edifice
Himmat-Ábád FA: همت اباد city in Raḍawí Khurásán Ústán Province, Írán
Howdah AR: هودج A litter carried by a camel, mule, horse, or elephant for travelling purposes.[2]
Ḥusayn AR: الحسين (diminutive form of Haṣan “Good”) Name of the third Imám, Ḥusayn.
Huvaydar village north of the city Ba‘qúba, which is 60 km NE of Baghdád
I
Term Source Meaning Definition
Ibráhím AR: إِبْرَاهِيْمُ A given name referring to Abraham, Patriarch of the people of Israel.
‘Idál AR: عدال justice The fifth day of the week in the Bahá’í calendar, corresponding to Wednesday.
Íl clan[2]
‘Ilm AR: علم knowledge The twelfth month of the Bahá’í calendar.
Imám AR: إمام leader A Muslim religious leader; specifically, the title of the twelve shí’ah successors of Muḥammad.[2]
Imám-Jum’ih FA: امام جمعه Friday leader The leading imám in a town or city; chief of the mullás, who recites the Friday prayer for the sovereign.[2]
Imám-Zádih FA: امامزاده The tomb or shrine of an imám; or, a descendant of an imám.[2]
Iqán AR: الإيقان certitude being sure, knowing for certain; certitude. Also refers to the book, the Kitáb-i-Íqán.
Irán FA: ایران Írán, the kingdom of Persia proper. Derives from the name Aryán ("of the Iranians"), the self-identifier used by ancient Iranian peoples.
‘Iráq-i-‘Ajam FA: عراقِ عجم Persian ‘Iráq. ‘Iráq between the 11th to 19th centuries consisted of two neighbouring regions: Arabic Iraq (‘Iráq-i ‘Arab) and Persian Iraq (‘Iráq-i ‘Ajam). Arabic Iraq = ancient Babylonia (now central-southern Iraq), and Persian Iraq = ancient Media (now central-western Iran). The two regions were separated by the Zagros Mountains.
Iṣfahán FA: اصفهان Persian city 340 km south of Ṭihrán.
‘Ishqábád FA: عشق آباد Ashkhabad/Ashgabat; capital of Turkmenistan, known as the “City of Love”. A strong Bahá'í community developed there in the time of ‘Abdu’l-Bahá.
Ishráqát AR: ﺍﻻﺷﺮﺍﻗﺎﺕ radiance; radiation, eradiation, emanation; illumination A tablet of Bahá’u’lláh published in Tablets of Bahá’u’lláh.
Ishtihárd a village 69 km SE of Qazvín and 54 km SW of Karaj
Islám AR: الاسلام submission, resignation, reconciliation (to the will of God in every age)
Ismá‘ílíyyih AR: الإسماعيلية Isma’ilism (Ismá‘ílí sect)—branch of Shí‘a Islám that followed the Imám succession through the eldest son.
Istarábád FA: أستاراباد See Astarábád: “City of Mules”, on south eastern Caspian Sea border of Írán. Since 1937 called Gúrgán (Gorgán).
Istijlál AR: استجلال majesty The sixth day of the week in the Bahá’í calendar, corresponding to Thursday.
Istiqlál AR: استقلال independence The seventh day of the week in the Bahá’í calendar, corresponding to Friday.
‘Izzat AR: عزة might The tenth month of the Bahá’í calendar.
J
Term Source Meaning Definition
Jalál AR: جلال glory The second month of the Bahá’í calendar. Also the first day of the Bahá'í week, corresponding to Saturday.
Jamál AR: جمال beauty The third month of the Bahá’í calendar. Also the second day of the Bahá'í week, corresponding to Sunday.
Jamál-i-Mubárak FA: جمال مبارک “The Blessed Beauty” Title used by some Bahá’ís for Bahá’u’lláh.
Jásb FA: جاسب rural district, Markazí Province, Írán
Jubbih AR: جبيه Also Jubba. A cloth cloak or upper coat.[2][12]
K
Term Source Meaning Definition
Ka‘bih AR: كَعْبَة cube Also Kaaba, Ka'ba, Kaabeh. An ancient shrine at Mecca; the most holy shrine of Islam, located at the center of Islam's most important mosque, the Masjid al-Haram.[2][14]
Kad-Khudá FA: کدخدا Chief of a ward or parish in a town; headman of a village.[2]
Kalantar FA: کلانتر mayor[2]
Kalím FA: کلیم one who discourses[2]
Kalimát AR: كلمات words The eighth month of the Bahá’í calendar.
Kalímát-i-Firdawsíyyih AR: ﺍﻟﻜﻠﻤﺎﺕ ﺍﻟﻔﺮﺩﻭﺳﻴﺔ words of paradise A tablet of Bahá’u’lláh published in Tablets of Bahá’u’lláh.
Kamál AR: كمال perfection The ninth month of the Bahá’í calendar. Also the third day of the Bahá'í week, corresponding to Monday.
Karand FA: کارند A village about 100 km SE of Ṭihrán.
Karbilá AR: كربلاء Also Karbala, Kerbela. A ****’ite holy city in ‘Iráq where the Imám Ḥusayn was murdered and buried, and where His Shrine is located.[15]
Karbilá’í AR: کربلایی A Muslim who has performed the pilgrimage to Karbilá.
Káshán FA: کاشان One of the oldest cities of Írán, located in north central Persia.[16]
Kawthar AR: ٱلكَوْثَر abundant, plentiful Name of a lake or river in Paradise that Muḥammad saw on his mystic night journey (Qur’án, surah 108).
Kázim AR: ٱلْكَاظِم “One who suppresses his passion or anger”. The title of the seventh Imám of the Shí‘ih.
Kirmán FA: کرمان capital city of Kirmán province, Írán
Kirmánsháh FA: کرمانشاه Province and city in western Írán.
Khán AR: خان caravanserai A roadside inn where travelers (caravaners) could rest and recover from their day's journey.[9]
Khán-i-'Avámid FA: خان آوامید The caravanserai in ‘Akká where Bahá'u'lláh used to receive guests, and later the site for a Bahá'í school.
Khanúm FA:  خانم lady, Madame, Mrs. An honorific title given to women of high social status.
Khurásán FA: خراسان sunrise; orient Province in the north-eastern part of Írán until 2004—replaced by North Khurásán, South Khurásán and Razavi (Raḍawí) Khurásán Provinces.
Khuy FA: خوی (Khoy) city in and the capital of Khoy County, West Azerbaijan Province, Írán
Kitáb AR: الكتاب book A book.
Kitáb-i-‘Ahd FA: کتاب عهدی Book of the Covenant Testament of Bahá’u’lláh, designated by Him as His “Most Great Tablet”
Kitáb-i-Aqdas FA: کتاب اقدس The Most Holy Book by Bahá’u’lláh, written in Arabic
Kitáb-i-Íqán FA: کتاب ایقان Book of Certitude by Bahá’u’lláh
Kull-i-Shay’ AR: كل شىء all things The 361-year supercycle of the Bahá’í calendar, which consists of 19 Váḥids.
Kurdistán FA: کوردستان Greater Kurdistan, a roughly defined geo-cultural historical region wherein the Kurdish people form a prominent majority population and Kurdish culture, languages and national identity have historically been based.
L
Term Source Meaning Definition
Láhíján FA: لاهیجان Caspian sea resort in and the capital of Láhíján County
Lár FA: لار city in province of Fárs
Lawḥ AR: ﻟﻮﺡ board, blackboard
Luristán FA: لرستان a province and an area in western Írán in the Zagros Mountains
M
Term Source Meaning Definition
Maḥbúbu’sh-Shuhadá’ AR­: محبوب الشهداء Beloved of Martyrs Mírzá Muḥammad-Ḥusayn. Brother of Mírzá Muḥammad-Ḥasan, both from Iṣfahán.
Maḥmúd AR: محمود praised, commendable, laudable, praiseworthy A common Arabic name; a form of the name Muḥammad.
Mákú FA: ماکو a city in the West Azerbaijan Province, Írán
Maláyir FA: ملایر city SSE of Ḥamdán, Írán
Maqám FA: مقام site, location
Marághih FA: مراغه city 75 km south of Tabriz, Ádhirbáyján
Marḥabá AR: مرحبا welcome, well done A customary expression of greeting or welcome.
Masá’il AR: مسائل questions The fifteenth month of the Bahá’í calendar.
Mashhad FA: مشهد‎ place of assembly place where a martyr or hero died; religious shrine venerated by the people, especially the tomb of a saint
Mashíyyat AR: مشية will The eleventh month of the Bahá’í calendar.
Mashriqu’l-Adhkár AR: مشرق اﻻذكار Dawning-place of the praises, prayers, remembrances or mentions of God Title for a purpose-built Bahá’í House of Worship.
Mázindarán FA: مازندران A province in northern Írán, on the Caspian Sea. Ancient stronghold of the Parthian and Sassanian Empires, and the ancestral home of Bahá’u’lláh.
Merv FA: مرو‎ Also: Marv. Ancient city located on the Silk Road near the modern-day city of Mary, Turkmenistan.
Mihdí AR: ٱلْمَهْدِيّ‎ One who guides aright, the Guided One. A title of the Twelfth (expected) Imám or Qá’im. Mírzá Mihdí (“The Purest Branch”)
Mílán FA: میلان A village 23 km SW Tabríz, in Ádhirbáyján.
Mírzá FA: میرزا of noble lineage Derived from amírzádeh, meaning child of the Amír or child of the ruler. A term of respect which generally indicates a literate person. When used at the end of a name, it denotes a prince.[17]
Mishkín-Qalam FA: مشكین قلم One of the nineteen Apostles of Bahá'u'lláh, and famous calligrapher of 19th century Persia.
Mithqal AR: مثقال‎ Also Miskal. A unit of weight commonly used in Persia.[12]
Muḥammad AR: مُحَمَّد praised, commendable, laudable Also Mohammed. A common Arabic name, referring to the Prophet of Islam.
Muḥammarih Former name of Persian city Khurramshahr
Mujtahid AR: مُجْتَهِد‎ one who strives or one who exerts himself A mujtahid in contemporary Írán is now called an áyatu’lláh.
Mulk AR: ملك dominion The eighteenth month of the Bahá’í calendar.
Mullá FA: ملا A member of the Muslim clergy.
Munírih FA: منیره luminous, radiant Munírih Khánum, wife of ‘Abdu’l-Bahá (mid 1848–28 April 1938)
Mustagháth AR: مستغث the one called upon for help Used as the name of God by the Báb.
N
Term Source Meaning Definition
Nabíl
Najaf
Najaf-Ábá­d FA: نجف‌آباد A city in Iran's Isfahan Province.
Náqiḍín opposers, violators Covenant-breakers.
Násiri'd-Dín FA: ناصرالدین شاه Protector/Defender of the Faith
Naw-Rúz FA: نوروز new day The new year of the Bahá’í calendar, falling on the day of the spring equinox, i.e. the day on which the sun enters the constellation of Aries as viewed from Tehran.
Nayríz FA: نی‌ریز‎ A city in Iran's Fars Province, southeast of Shíráz, and the site of a major struggle between Bábís and authorities under the Qajar dynasty.
Níshábúr FA: نیشابور A city in northeastern Iran's Razavi Khorasan province, and former capital of Khorasan Province.
Núr AR: نور light The fifth month of the Bahá’í calendar. Also
P
Term Source Meaning Definition
Pahlaví, Pahlawí belonging to a city; a citizen
Q
Term Source Meaning Definition
Qádí AR: قادی judge A civil, criminal, or ecclesiastical judge.[2]
Qádíyán AR: قادیان City in Punjab, India. The birthplace of Mirza Ghulam Ahmad, founder of the Ahmadiyya sect of Islam.
Qá’im FA: قائم He Who shall arise Title designating the Promised One of Islám.[2]
Qalyán FA: قالیان hookah A pipe for smoking through water.[2]
Qamṣar village 25 km south of Káshán, Írán
Qawl AR: قول speech The fourteenth month of the Bahá’í calendar.
Qayyúm permanent, lasting, stable Superlative of Qá’im [the Báb], the Most Great One Who will arise [Bahá’u’lláh]
Qayyúmu'l-Asmá The Báb's commentary on the Qur'an's Surih of Joseph, characterized by Bahá'u'lláh as "the first, the greatest, and mightiest of all books" in the Bábí Dispensation.
Qazvín a city 140 km NW of Ṭihrán.
Qiblih AR: قبلة Also Qibla, Qiblah. The direction to which people turn in prayer; especially Mecca, the Qiblih of all Muslims.[2][18]
Qúchán city and capital of Qúchán County
Quddús The Most Holy
Qudrat AR: قدرة power The thirteenth month of the Bahá’í calendar.
Qum holy city 130 km SSW of Ṭihrán, location of the Shrine of Ma’ṣúmih, the sister of Imám Riṣá, the eighth Imám
Qur’án AR: الۡقُرۡآنۡ recitation, reading, the word
Qurbán AR: قربان sacrifice[2]
Qurratu'l-ʿAyn A title of Táhirih, meaning Solace of the Eyes.
R
Term Source Meaning Definition
Rafsinján city and council in Kirmán province, Írán
Rahím merciful, compassionate one of the names (ar-Raḥím) of God
Raḥmán merciful, compassionate (God)
Raḥmat AR: رحمة mercy The sixth month of the Bahá’í calendar.
Rasht city in province of Gílán
Rawḥání good, agreeable, clean and pure (place)
Riḍván AR: رضوان paradise The "King of Festivals" of the Bahá’í Faith, commemorating Bahá'u'lláh's 1863 declaration that He was a Manifestation of God, in the Garden of Ridván outside Baghdad. Also used literally in other contexts, to mean "paradise".
Rúḥu’lláh Spirit of God A designation Muslims use for Jesus. Son of Mírzá ‘Alí-Muḥammad-i-Varqá
S
Term Source Meaning Definition
Sabzivár F­A: سبزوار city in Khurásán Province
Sadratu’l-Muntahá AR: سِدْرَة ٱلْمُنْتَهَىٰ‎ Lote Tree of the Farthest Boundary Symbolically, the Lote tree in the Seventh Heaven; the utmost extremity, a boundary which no one can pass.
Ṣáḥibu’z-Zamán FA: صاحب زمان Lord of the Age One of the titles of the promised Qá’im.[2]
Sárí FA: ساری A town in eastern Mázindarán province. (GPB p. 40)
Sháh FA: شاه king, emperor, sovereign, monarch, prince A title given to the emperors and kings of Persia and other societies under Persian influence.
Sháhansháh FA: شاهنشاه‎ king of kings The full title of Persian emperors since the Achaemenid dynasty.
Shahíd AR: شهيد martyr Singular form.[2]
Shahmirzád FA: شهميرزاد‎ A town in the province of Semnan, 170 km east of Ṭihrán, Írán.
Sháhrúd FA: شاهرود a mighty river; name of a river Name of a crossroad city 330 km NE of Teheran. Also: a type of lute (musical instrument); the thickest cord of a musical instrument.
Sharaf AR: شرف honour The sixteenth month of the Bahá’í calendar.
Shaykh AR: شیخ A learned man; generally used for elders, chiefs, professors, or heads of dervish orders.
Shaykhu’l-Islám AR: شيخ الإسلام Head of a religious court, appointed to every large city by the king or ruler.[2]
Shí’ih AR: شِيعَة‎ followers, i.e. of Ali Of or relating to Shia/****'ih Islam, the second largest branch of Islam.
Shíráz FA: شیراز‎ The capital of Fars province, Iran; birthplace of the Báb, and the site of His Declaration.
Shuhada AR: الشهداء martyrs Plural form.[2]
Shushtar
Simnán FA: سمنان‎ A province in northern Iran.
Sísán FA: سیسان Seysan, Sisan-e Qadim. A village in Eastern Ádhirbáyján province, Iran.
Sístán FA: سیستان‎ land of the Saka A historical and geographical region in eastern Iran and Southern Afghanistan; known in ancient times as Sakastan.
Síyáh-Chál FA: سیاه چال‎ black pit The dungeon south east of the palace of the Sháh and near the Sabzih-Maydán in Tehran in which Bahá'u'lláh was incarcerated for some months in 1852. It was originally built as a reservoir, storing water for the public baths nearby. In the Persian language, "Síyáh-chál" (Persian: سیاه چال, literally "black pit") is the common name for a dungeon.
Siyyid AR: سيد‎ A descendant of the Prophet Muhammad.[2]
Súfí AR: ٱلصُّوفِيَّة‎ one who wears wool Of, or relating to the mystical practice of Islam.
Sulaymán AR: سُليمان Solomon An Arabic given name referring to Solomon, King of Israel and son of King David.
Sulaymániyyih AR: السليمانية‎ A town in Kurdish Iraq. Bahá’u’lláh resided as a dervish in the mountains surrounding the town from 1854 to 1856.
Sulṭán AR: سلطان sovereignty The seventeenth month of the Bahá’í calendar.
Sulṭán-Ábád
Sulṭánu’sh-Shuhadá’ AR: سلطان الشهداء King of Martyrs A title given to Mírzá Muḥammad-Ḥasan of Isfahan.
Sunní AR: أهل السنة people of the sunnah, i.e. majority tradition Of or relating to Sunni Islam, the largest branch of Islam.
Súrih AR: سورة tablet, chapter Also: Surah, Súriy. A tablet, or letter. The chapters of the Qur'an are known as súrihs or surahs.[2]
Súriy-i-Ghuṣn AR: سورة الهيكل Tablet of the Branch Also: Súratu’l-Ghuṣn. A tablet of Bahá’u’lláh in which He confirms a high station for ‘Abdu’l-Bahá.
Súriy-i-Haykal AR: سورة الهيكل Tablet of the Temple Also: Súratu’l-Haykal. A tablet of Bahá’u’lláh published in Summons of the Lord of Hosts, which includes his messages addressed to five world leaders: Pope Pius IX, Napoleon III, Czar Alexander II, Queen Victoria, and Násiri'd-Dín Sháh.
Súriy-i-Mulúk AR: سورة الملوك Tablet of the Kings Also: Súratu’l-Mulúk. A tablet of Bahá’u’lláh published in Summons of the Lord of Hosts, addressed collectively to the monarchs of the East and the West.
Súriy-i-Ra'ís AR: سورة الرئيس Tablet of the Chief Also: Súratu’l-Ra'ís. A tablet of Bahá’u’lláh published in Summons of the Lord of Hosts, addressed to ‘Alí Páshá, the Ottoman Prime Minister.
T
Term Source Meaning Definition
Tabríz FA: تبریز flowing hot capital of Ádharbayján Province, Írán.
Ṭáhirih FA: طاهره‎ clean, pure; chaste, modest, virtuous The pure one
Tajallíyát AR: ﺍﻟﺘﺠﻠﻴﺎﺕ lustre, brightness, brilliancy, effulgence A tablet of Bahá’u’lláh published in Tablets of Bahá’u’lláh.
Tákur FA: تاكور village 40 km south of Núr and 47.5 km NE of Afjihin. It is Bahá’u’lláh’s ancestral home.
Ṭarázát AR: ﺍﻟﻄﺮﺍﺯﺍﺕ ornaments A royal robe, or rich dress ornamented with embroidery. Name of a tablet of Bahá’u’lláh published in Tablets of Bahá’u’lláh.
Tarbíyat FA: تربيت education, upbringing, teaching, instruction, pedagogy The name of a group of Bahá’í schools established in Ṭihrán around the turn of the 20th century.
Ṭashkand FA: تاشکند city of stones; place on a hill Tashkent, capital of Uzbekistan
Tawhid AR: توحيد‎ unification, union, combination, fusion Oneness of God, the most important article of faith in Islam.
Thurayyá AR: الثريا The Pleiades; a star cluster once seen and described by the Prophet Muhammad. Used as a female given name (Soraya).
Ṭihrán FA: تهران‎ a warm place; Tir's abode; bottom of the mountain Tehran/Teheran, capital of Írán, birthplace of Bahá’u’lláh.
Túman A sum of money equivalent to a dollar.[2][12]
U
Term Source Meaning Definition
‘Ulamá AR: أولاما knowers Also Ulema. Learned men of Islam, i.e. theologians, canon lawyers, professors, muftis, etc; a council of the learned, especially in a Muslim state.[19]
Urúmíyyih FA: ارومیه water town Also Urmia, Orumiyeh. City in West Ádharbáyján Province, Írán, located near the lake of the same name.[4]
Ustád FA: اوستاد master A master craftsman.
V
Term Source Meaning Definition
Vaḥíd FA: وحید alone, solitary Superlative form of ‘waḥada’, to be alone. Numerical value of 28.
Váḥid FA: واحد unity The 19-year cycle of the Bahá’í calendar.
Valí-‘Ahd FA: ولیعهد heir to the throne[2] A crown prince, or chosen successor.
Varqá FA: ورقا Dove
Vazír FA: وزیر burden-bearer, helper[20] Also Vizier, Vizir, Wazír. The chief minister and representative of the caliph, and later, of the head of state of the Persian and Ottoman Empires.[20]
W
Y
Term Source Meaning Definition
Yá ‘Alíyyu’l-‘Alá “O Thou the Exalted of the Exalted” or “O Thou the Exalted, the Most Exalted”. A form of the name of the Báb, used as an invocation.
Yá Alláhu'l-Mustagháth AR: يا الله المستغث “O God, He Who is invoked” or “O Thou God Who art invoked”
Yá Bahá’u’l-Abhá AR: يا بهاء الأبهى “O Glory of the All-Glorious” or “O Thou the Glory of the Most Glorious”. A form of the name of Bahá’u’lláh, used as an invocation.
Yaḥyá AR: يحيى John A common Arabic given name, referring to John the Baptist.
Yazd A province and city in central Írán, notable as the primary centre of the Persian Zoroastrian population.
Z
Term Source Meaning Definition
Zádih son of;[2] descendant of Also Zadeh, Zada. A common patronymic suffix.
Zanján Also Zenján.[21] City between Qazvín and Tabríz, home of Ḥujjat; site of a major battle in which Bábís were massacred.
Zaynu’l-Muqarrabín “the Ornament of the Near Ones” or “the Ornament of the favoured”

Justin I forgive you, won’t you call me, your birthday must be coming soon we haven’t spoken since we moved our family into the desert. I just pray you’re not seeking cotton fever yet again, chasing the dragon, or at the very least eating school buses while falling into ‘H’ before you find yourself in bed drunk again, and on Ambien too. Dead too soon. You’ve always wondered why I didn’t introduce you to Ryan, my other incredibly dear and brotherly friend. Well wonder none more, he’s in a padded room at Mt. Sinai in Lakeview or perhaps Northwestern’s adult care unit, there was talk or at least I imagined he could make it to Lakeside Manor right there East of Foster. So it’s clemency, peace of mind, and something to loosen the edge off your back, something to let you fall, something to set your pain at weightless your mind at I-Don’t-Have-To-Give-A-****-Anymore, my friend where have you been? Where have you taken yourself? Please drag yourself back at least a half-step, reverse your position and engineer an out please. I can’t begin to accept losing both of my brothers to two versions of the same disease.

Oh, my love
your eyes are not "plain blue"
they are the ocean waves on a cloudless day
outlined by the zaffre atmosphere
a field of bluebonnets speckled with green leaves
like the world floating in space

oh, my love
your eyes are not "just brown"
they are the earth after it rains
dense and brimming with life
they are dark chocolate cake drizzled with honey
they are espresso stained pages you brought home
from the coffee shop you frequent

oh, my love
your eyes are not "simply green"
they are spring's first bud
they are foot deep in a lake
they are a northwestern forest
as emerald as your mother's ring

oh, my love
you are so much more

On the banks of the Sentinel River
A man locals knew as ‘The Boss’
Worked the controls of the drawbridge
Directing the through-trains across

The boss man was cheerful and helpful
Always whistling or singing a song
His gaze was both twinkling and piercing
His handshake both friendly and strong

His daily routine at the river
Saw the bridge back and forth from the edge
So the ships could pass freely beside it
As he watched from his post on the ledge

And then when a train neared the river
He remotely connected the link
Exact in the duties he carried
Of protecting the train from the drink

On the banks of the Sentinel River
A man locals knew as ‘The Boss’
Worked the controls of the drawbridge
Directing the through-trains across

The boss man was cheerful and helpful
Always whistling or singing a song
His gaze was both twinkling and piercing
His handshake both friendly and strong

His daily routine at the river
Saw the bridge back and forth from the edge
So the ships could pass freely beside it
As he watched from his post on the ledge

And then when a train neared the river
He remotely connected the link
Exact in the duties he carried
Of protecting the train from the drink

He held onto that train-saving lever
With a ruthless and desperate hold
‘Father?’ he heard from the drawbridge
The blood in his veins running cold

‘Junior?’ he yelled through the downpour
‘You must run son, like never before!’
But the warning he shouted to save him
Was drowned out by the oncoming roar

To go rescue his son on the drawbridge
Would never leave time to get back
To re-lock in the hand-governed lever
To save those in the train on the track

But to barter a life of perfection
In exchange for this train full of fools
Was too much to expect of a father
It was heartless and mean; it was cruel!

But a train full of people would perish
If he opted the life of his son
Two hundred and forty-nine humans
As compared to the loss of just one!

He could picture his son by the window
Looking out at the lights of the train
May I go to the bridge to meet Father?
To walk him back home, in the rain.

His firstborn was gentle and thoughtful
Compliant no matter the task
Most eager and willing to please him
Obeying whatever was asked

He took one last second to ponder
But his conscience, it already knew
He held tight to that hand-governed lever
And let the Northwestern roll through

Not a soul on the train saw his body
As it fell to its watery grave
Not a soul on the train heard his father
Mourn the son that he’d wanted to save

If you can imagine this father
Then think of our Father above
And we fools here on earth that He rescued
Done all in the name of His love!

I rub my face with my hands like a blind man hugs walls with his fingertips, trying to find a comfortable position to cradle the weight of my skull in my open palm.

I think it’s heavy from exhaustion.

I scratch my head and with an exasperated “****...” I forget why else it could be heavyneverminditwasapathy.

That’s the first time I ever... ****...

…

That’sthefirsttime I’ve ever played with word breaks! Carson would be proud.

I wish my cheeks were made of clay. When I use my forearms as kickstands, godfuckingdamnitIneedtostoplosingmythoughts, (What the **** spell check, you tell me my word break play times are not words but “godfuckingdamnitIneedtostoplosingmythoughts” is a word?) my fists press my flesh like putty, it molds around my knuckles, but when I move them, gravity drags them back down.

Gravity’s a *****.

**** poetry.

I’m tired and I want my **** clay face so I have to put in the effort to make myself see correctly after smushing my cheek fat so far towards my forehead that my eyes look nearly shut.

I should stop doing that.

Oils from my hands and all that ya know? I don’t want any more pockmarks.

Woah spell check, it’s pockmarks?

Huh... pockmarks. I guess that does make more sense than potmarks.

Carson would probably know, she thinks in words. The last time I thought in words was for fifteen minutes a year ago last week while sitting next to Carson at a sloppily painted table with patchwork chairs.

I couldn’t write anything down though, she had my laptop.

My nose itches, but I should probably find something a bit more poetic to add to this stanza. Then again, Carson might think that this whole streamofconsciencething was cool, not my style, out there for me. So I’ll stick with it. Carson gets so proud when I start branching out.

Yayyyyyy.... branching out... I’m thinking “**** this apathy,” but I don’t care enough to do anything about it.

Not at 2:03 AM in one of the four lounge rooms on the third floor of West Fairchild, Northwestern University, Evanston, IL. I should probably change the title now...




****.

I need to stop coughing. I need to get this phlegm thing figured out. I can feel the oils I’m leaving on my face...

It’s like a moist towelette just lifted away from my cheek, like a feather.

I don’t think Carson likes feathers. They seem too... ****... They seem too....

Ethereal! Yeah, ethereal. Ethereal sounds too scholarly.

It’s not worth the effort to think of something else.

Yeah, I’m not tired, it’s the apathy.

By morning it will just be exhaustion, I care too much about their...

This girl doesn’t eat, and she hates herself, so I play lifeguard and keep an eye on her as the day goes by, and I feel stupid for choosing to not respond to her text messages, and then for lying about not seeing them, but I’m too tired to care more.

Yeah, that’s it.

I’m too tired to care.

That’s not apathy right?

I forced open my eyes and gazed out the 6:00am window. The dense fog outside drew in through my nostrils, into my lung tissue, my blood cells, my bone marrow. I felt lifeless and numb within my treasured goose-down sleeping bag; my thoughts utterly separate from my exhausted body. My spirit hovers above, looking at this depleted bag of bones with bloodshot bagged eyes an ever thinning hairline.
Cursing under my breath, I sat up and rubbed my swollen eyes. My bag slipped from my shoulders and the December breeze took its place, affectionately stroking my back and neck with its sharp icy nails. I shivered, swearing. I was awake.
I stood, my comfort and warmth dropped to the floor, exposing my malnourished, pale coffin. I was proud of my body, my own personal ******* to the average soft bellied spineless American. I inspected the ***** mirror on the wall, confused. Who was the shaggy, slit-eyed disgrace looking back at me? I made a few faces, trying to recognize myself again. I looked old; I got sentimental and wondered where the years went. Then I realized I’d be thinking that for the rest of my life. I picked some brown dead skin off my face, brushed my malformed teeth and tried to spit out the window. White minty bubble **** sprayed everywhere.
In a bit, I was in the kitchen pouring some foul-smelling Maxwell into my coffee cup. Coffee is wintertime *******; my only weapon to protect myself from sideways rain and frozen knuckles. It also killed the morning-hater in me, that dark eyed scowling bitter kid that comes out once in a while.
I slid outside, the bitter wind wrapped around my face and filtered through my blood. My irises twitched with the passing cars, crawling pedestrians, vibrating leaves, and the moving earth around me. I keep my head down, weaving and turning my shoulders, maneuvering to my stop. As I walked, I studied the weathered cracks on the pavement, and related with them. They were weathered; soon, they would have to be replaced. I feel that way sometimes.
Seattle’s masculinity was obscured by deathly gray that December morning. The buildings looked like the ancient tombstones of some ancient breed of megatherium.  The triumphant northwestern giant, bustling with so many brisk Asians, a few defeated  Juggalos, some quite possibly successful businessmen (where do they go home to?) and loads of beautiful women, who walk with quick steps, uncomfortable glances, and brisk movements. Seattle in the morning was something I never loved. Everybody seems to get self-righteous, and forget their humanity at home.
I waited for my bus on a bench, invisibly observing everyone around me. I sometimes felt as If they all felt me inspecting them, knowing something I didn’t, some secret, information that I had just missed. I just liked to look at their solemn eyes. Look into their glazed eyes. I never have to speak to anyone that way. I quickly stab into their eyes and I have their tender souls in my hands.
I didn’t have to wait long until my bus crawled out of the fog and hissed to a stop, the hiss bringing me back to reality. The beast opened its doors with an earsplitting pop. As I loaded my bike, eyes down, I overheard a father making his goodbyes to his college son. I smiled, and wished I could say goodbye to my dad again.
And then the bus jolted forward, and my life jolted forward, and that morning was behind me.

girl swirls dreams in her drink.
boy spills ink on the carpet.

they swing below an oak;
laugh and dream, kiss and consider.
their feet curl, intertwine,
touch along the fallen leaves.

in hands and time
is the condensation of what is said to be true love.
only they don’t know.

later that night;
they drink and cuss, they fight and ****.
their feet curl, intertwine,
play at the end of the sheets.

they warm.
boy writes librettos,
girl reads them,
together they cook delicious dishes.

girl disappears into the distance,
one day.
& boy spirits away,
to the elephant burial grounds.

days,
months,
years later, they run into eachother on the streets
of a northwestern city.
smile mostly,
say not much.

boy has his poetry.
girl has her *******.

Who even are you anymore?
Hiding under small orange
bottles are letters from a former
life, a former name and address
in former envelopes and former
handwriting, former pen
smudges and former doodles
on the folds. Save yourself.
Save yourself first.

Swipe, snap, flint on stone
to make sparks that make
flame that make fires that
make light and heat and
allow drawing of deeper
features than really exist
with shadows moving in
erratic fashions, swinging
back and forth between
the you that was farther
from death and the you
that is much, much closer.

Giving is hard. Taking
is the easiest thing you
can do so long as you
can run fast enough to
escape the guilt that is
falling on you like trees
in a northwestern forest
with gravel crunching
sound of logging trucks
not too distant grinding
their way up small roads
and wind blowing through
trees that are deceptively
deciduous and shaking.

I'm judging you for
just about everything.
I am hard like feverish
breaths in a sweaty
freezing bedroom that
belonged to someone
else who bled in all the
corners and licked all
the walls and is reaching
out from the breathless
past to steal yours too.

It's just you and me
here, you can tell me
anything, I promise I
will hold all your secrets
like they're crystal glasses
that belonged to your
grandmother's grandmother
and made their way here
smuggled in a suitcase
with pulled out gold
teeth and brown plaid
blankets folded neatly
such that none of the
corners stuck out the side.

Sneakers sinking
into mossy muddy
backyard ground,
you extend arms
up and grab the
lowest branch of
the tallest tree and
pull yourself up
to sit atop and look
down at all the people,
holding your fingers to
your eye and squishing
their heads between.

My bitter dishes cry
To be cleaned as they sit
In crusted contempt
With reds that bleed their seething
Lack of clarity
My friends
With smiles half baked and
Eyes shuddering
Sip more and in deeper gulps
Their lives are swallowed
By the brew
But I'm not as lost
As I once thought my mind
In aching desperation fleeted
Angelic drawls to wrap
The dusty shoulders
Keep their hunched secrets heavy
Till they break
And if three breaths could save the world, they may in fact expand
Those minds and hearts to unite
Where shallow thoughts of ego driven
Madness clings like smog upon
Our horizon
But they travel
These dreams of fresher air and
To the forests of the northwestern
Drizzle drenched streets they wander
We're not so hopeless as if to rot
In the shoes we bought last year
I'd rather beg to smile
Then wrap myself in the scowls of
Empty presidents that died for sorrows they began

i am young and wish to be
younger, old and wish to be senile. i have
blond hair and wish it auburn. i have company
and wish to be alone.

there are things that gallop all over my
neurons and leave muddy footprints
in my thoughts. unholy things that should
be stricken, and i encourage them.
i shudder when i leave the shower
because other people have stepped on the mat.
my hair is usually *****.

i throw pennies into the fountain
and think oh if i had no money,
if i had some. i wish for an envelope
to mail me somewhere in northwestern
greenland, lay on the ice and
stare into the brilliance of death.

Like every youngblood in love
I want to write something
that gets away from me,
the next Great American _,
sprawls like the city I live in.

Still these Northwestern scapes're contained
by rivers, valleys alike, and mountain range.
these lands are fertile, the soil tangible,
dig your fists deep, bring up handfuls,
the people tenable, shrouded in the times,
still waiting awhile whilst consumed with fever.
Feverous of injustice as done by Evil.

Amongst all these radicals and activists,
must wax progressive: hell, I can fix this.

Crack the can, a forty down to sixteen,
still the same American Malt I've been in.
No poems but my belly's getting swollen.
I don't wanna write no odes to bottles.
If I'm drinkin' in heaven I haven't the heart in
which to dwell upon our...

A sprawling poem leaves lines undone
to be penned in, in half-heart, without
a care that I gave them.

I've seen the best m-
Oh what have I seen?
What I knew, nothing new
just the cacophony of windy trees.
But'cha wait for these moments
when it's clear.

I remember how you introduced me to your family, pulling me at the wrist, nudging me to shake hands.
Later I shook hands with a doctor and acted like an adult when everyone began using words that were confusing for me but hurt all the same.

You wore plastic jewelry and grinned when I grew bold enough to wear my favorite turquoise pants to school.
You called them, “suitably academic” and shoved me with your shoulder.
Later in the after, I bought red slacks and yellow jeans and wore them angrily to class as if that would make you say my name again.

Two years with a school counselor and I would still mumble northwestern states like I’d never even paid enough attention to specifics.
Like I didn’t know the shape of the town or the photo of the front of the building.

I would pretend until I couldn’t remember either.
Were you in Oregon or Idaho? Could I not call because of long distance fees (lie) or because I was too lazy (lie)?
I learned that denial is a degenerative form of coping and years later I bought a pair of purple pants and felt guilty that they made me happy.

I was angry that even if the earth hadn’t swallowed you up by then, you wouldn’t understand the significance of things like bright colors and pants and dumb homemade beads anymore.

Fall
I
I've had one to many summers,
And now they've lost their luster.
Fall, however, I've just discovered
And the amber, the gold, forever!

II
Here I wait for Autumn.
September's trees will die.
October comes, and will hide the sun,
under gray blue skies.

III

She sounds a simple ringing tone,
Rife with wind and reeling reeds.
It is calm, cool and moans
With subtle singing needs.
The trees, they fight and fail
The winds will wound their worth,
The leaves will burn, below we learn
The chant of, “Autumn’s Birth”

As the skies start to singe and sear,
And slowly lower, linking the earth and sky-
That sunset to those trees that wept
With their leaves aflame, We must cry,
“Some will seek the sun in the summer,
Some seek the sights and scents of spring
Others will welcome warmth in winter,
But what does our Autumn Bring?
Well, those who tend towards tenuous things
Will find their fantasies fulfilled in fall,
All that they do, meaning to you
Is to feel that Autumnal call-
That of the leaves that fall.”

IV
'Twas a fine fall day, perfect for reflection.
Autumnal hues gently layered the scene.
My Lady and I traveled no particular direction;
Enchanted by nature's artistic perceptions,
We stared awestruck at the trees.


V
This period, Fall (As in Autumn),
restlessly breeds feelings.

Noted: The red, adorned northwestern
festival found wild colour.This Autumn,
colors gathered- Celebrations of the
Indian Season.

The Fall has undergone sorrow states,
(Associated? Death.)
echo the thick mid-autumn leaves.

Starlight
                                           fluttering over
                               the great euphoric episode of
                                                Victoria!
Cosm­os being packaged in the mail,
on its way now from Britain,
Sitar dancer on the inner harbor
jingling end time tunes to the ears
of the grateful.
Today is WEIRD!
Everyone is shaking hands and waving from Summertime fields,
                                 laughs escape the rooftops,
                          Owls begin to wear brighter colors.
                                Near August, post three day
                                  Northwestern Monsoon
                                THUNDER    R a-T-T-linG
                                          Double Decker
                                          past romances
                              on highways approaching
                                        The BC capital!
Articles topic the Utopian evidence
of the current generation
nearing Post Capitalist society.
All peoples smile still!
(Wouldn't that be something?)
Telescopes discovered Kepler 452b!
Another world, very much like our
own (I wonder if I'll see it one day)
Round-frame black hole glasses
Enamel downtown in golden tint,
solidifying this happiness!
                            The day is a colorful child
                            bestowing chalk drawings
                                 upon the asphalt.
            His Years 'round the garbage corner now.
                     India crafts a crown of laurel
                           For the innocent youth!
Sin predates them by centuries and wars, ***** and outta-lucks, paycheck to paycheck psychological warfare with the Western planet!
             But they're predisposed to the silent decade of
                                   internal purity,
              that BIG BIBLE BOOK has granted em'
              A get outta hell free card for some
                                 ####   a-years.

(While Virginia Hampton Roads Bridge-Tunnel 2011 mind-flash nostalgia permeates in my adult brain.

While North Carolina Top Sail Atlantic
sea salt stings thru my nostrils,
body boarding few miles away from
boardwalks with a nighttime view of
Milky Way Forever! (Age 14)

While Seattle shimmers aluminum skyscraper lights, Emerald City Winter where outside my hotel window I focus on
the Space Needle distantly blinking
the spirit of
Edward E. Carlson and John Graham, Jr.
up up up to Dharmakaya!
That improv performance near Pike Place Market with Charisma, Julie N Severen! SPONTANEOUS WISECRACKS BEING PAID TO BE SPONTANEOUS WISECRACKS.

While Seminyak, Southeastern Orient, Is hailed with cloud-formt waterfalls, and I watch, containing the inexpressible joy of that particular moment. Mind relapsed to whispers of Dakini,
(Contentedness possible in adulthood after all!)

                                   Celestial energy rebounds
                 thru all entities on the sidewalk including myself.
                  delivering metaphysical felicity to all future loves
                   who find occasional joys in the cycle of living.
                         Who make more of themselves than
                                 tying their shoes to sleep.

Rocks from the gravel road jab through my converse
As I do figure 8s through fields of black eyed Susan’s and purple flowers whose names I do not know
My eyes meet dark forests full of old trash
Beer cans and water bottles
Or they witness bees butterflies and dragonflies
It’s these moments that make me understand this music even more
Because in my mind it produces pictures of wheat fields and Pacific Northwestern forests
Montana mountains and maybe a ship just barely on the horizon
It’s these moments I exist outside of ideology and struggle
Outside of theory and praxis
Bushes instead of barricades
Grass brushing against my feet instead of city concrete
It reminds me of other songs
Of old Kentucky Anarchists
Of bread and roses
I am always so hesitant to leave these fields and forests
Because while I’m there I don’t have to say a thing to or for anyone
I don’t have anywhere to be except there
And no one to impress or disappoint
So I trade my Bella Ciaos for “3 a.m.”s
Freedom in theory for freedom in actuality
No matter how fleeting
And then
When I feel the time is right
I simply go back home

You are still far away
Through smoky haze
Of northwestern streets
On avenues where redwoods once
Grew and may still through the
Cold concrete when
All my dreams lead back to you
And I have since been gone away
Through the same haze
Oh better days come so slowly
Waiting to escape to
A home in the cityscape

My eyes open in the dim light
You are not there
Old engine oil in my ears
and red tape on the walls and the
Peephole

I am in every cheap hotel across the country
Anything could be outside of my door
I could be in a small town in Idaho
An inlet on the coastal northwestern shore
Minutes from the beach on the southeastern coast
The glorious place where the plains give way to mesas
I am all those places
the ones I've been and will go to someday
Scouting
Searching
Finding my way back to you
Before the diesel fills my mind
And my thoughts leave the rest of me behind
And so at the designated hour
My movement will be swift
My stillness will be complete
Non-doing
Ever prepared

A discount soundboard,
rust chipping away the corners,
with a fresh coat of Pabst-stained rings
orbiting it's various dials,
is the solicitous reward of my uncle's will
for my third year production.

My daughter camp around me,
lining themselves on the far side
of this short room;
a phase of white walls
and even whiter light,
sagging their AM eyes
to cocoon into their sleeping bags,
shield themselves
from the permanent fixtures,
cuddle with themselves
while I slide volume controls.

Forest calls spliced to the ambiance
of last winter's ****, synchronized
to the wet thuds of my friend's face
pulping repeatedly into a tree.
We shot heavy boots in this scene;
snow crunching viciously
as his mangled body was dragged off frame.

I twist rotary knobs,
clumsily from finger grease,
as the captured rumblings of far off traffic
corrupts a month's work of sequencing.

Nature had retreated
from this Northwestern city,
had left only the rustling of pine needles
and useless silence
for the making of this movie.

Day #4: Cody To Saint Mary’s

After breakfast in the Irma’s great dining hall, I left Cody in the quiet stillness of a Saturday morning. The dream I had last night about Indian summer camps now pointed the way toward things that I could once again understand. If there was another road to rival, or better, the Beartooth Highway, it would be the one that I would ride this morning.

It was 8:45 a.m., and I was headed northwest out of Cody to The Chief Joseph Highway. It is almost impossible to describe this road without having ridden or driven over it at least once. I was the first motorcyclist to ever ride its elevated curves and valleys on its inauguration over ten years ago. It opened that day, also a Saturday, at eight, and I got there two hours early to make sure the flagman would position me at the front of the line. I wanted to be the first to go through while paying homage to the great Nez Perce Chief. I will forever remember the honor of being the first motorist of any kind to have gone up and over this incredible road.

The ascent, over Dead Indian Pass at the summit, reminded me once again that the past is never truly dead if the present is to be alive. The illusion of what was, is, and will be, is captured only in the moment of their present affirmation. The magic is in living within the confirmation of what is.

The Chief Joseph Highway was, and is, the greatest road that I have ever ridden. I have always considered it a great personal gift to me — being the first one to have experienced what cannot fully be described. Ending in either Cooke City or Cody, the choice of direction was yours. The towns were not as different from each other as you would be from your previous self when you arrived at either location at the end of your ride.

It turned severely in both directions, as it rose or descended in elevation, letting you see both ends from almost anywhere you began. It was a road for sure but of all the roads in my history, both present and before, this one was a metaphor to neither the life I had led, nor the life I seek. This road was a metaphor to the life I lead.

A metaphor to the life I lead

It teased you with its false endings, always hiding just one more hairpin as you corrected and violently pulled the bike back to center while leaning as hard as you could to the other side. While footpegs were dragging on both sides of the bike your spirit and vision of yourself had never been so clear. You now realized you were going more than seventy in a turn designed for maximum speeds of forty and below.

To die on this road would make a mockery of life almost anywhere else. To live on this roadcreated a new standard where risk would be essential, and, if you dared, you gambled away all security and previous limits for what it taught.

It was noon as I entered Cooke City again wondering if that same buffalo would be standing at Tower Junction to make sure that I turned right this time, as I headed north toward Glacier National Park. Turning right at Tower Junction would take me past Druid Peak and through the north entrance of Yellowstone at Mammoth Hot Springs and the town of Gardiner Montana. Wyoming and Montana kept trading places as the road would wind and unfold. Neither state wanted to give up to the other the soul of the returning prodigal which in the end neither could win … and neither could ever lose!

From Gardiner, Rt #89 curved and wound its way through the Paradise Valley to Livingston and the great open expanse of Montana beyond. The road, through the lush farmlands of the valley, quieted and settled my spirit, as it allowed me the time to reorient and revalue all the things I had just seen.

I thought about the number of times it almost ended along this road when a deer or elk had crossed my path in either the early morning or evening hours. I continued on both thankful and secure knowing in my heart that when the end finally came, it would not be while riding on two-wheels. It was something that was made known to me in a vision that I had years ago, and an assurance that I took not for granted, as I rode grateful and alone through these magnificent hills.

The ride to Livingston along Montana Rt.# 89 was dotted with rich working farms on both sides of the road. The sun was at its highest as I entered town, and I stopped quickly for gas and some food at the first station I found. There were seven good hours of daylight left, and I still had at least three hundred miles to go.

I was now more than an hour north of Livingston, and the sign that announced White Sulphur Springs brought back memories and a old warning. It flashed my memory back to the doe elk that came up from the creek-bed almost twenty years ago, brushing the rear of the bike and almost causing us to crash. I can still hear my daughter screaming “DAAAD,”as she saw the elk before I did.

I dropped the bike down a gear as I took a long circular look around. As I passed the spot of our near impact on the south side of town, I said a prayer for forgiveness. I asked to be judged kindly by the animals that I loved and to become even more visible to the things I couldn’t see.

The ride through the Lewis and Clark National Forest was beautiful and serene, as two hawks and a lone coyote bade me farewell, and I exited the park through Monarch at its northern end. There were now less than five hours of daylight left, and the East entrance to Glacier National Park at St. Mary’s was still two hundred miles away. An easy ride under most circumstances, but the Northern Rockies were never normal, and their unpredictability was another of the many reasons as to why I loved them so. Cody, and my conflicted feelings while there, seemed only a distant memory. Distant, but connected, like the friends and loved ones I had forgotten to call.

At Dupoyer Montana, I was compelled to stop. Not enticed or persuaded, not called out to or invited — but compelled! A Bar that had existed on the east side of this road, heading north, for as long as anyone could remember, Ranger Jacks, was now closed. I sat for the longest time staring at the weathered and dilapidated board siding and the real estate sign on the old front swinging door that said Commercial Opportunity. My mind harkened back to the first time I stopped into ‘Jacks,’ while heading south from Calgary and Lake Louise. My best friend, Dave Hill, had been with me, and we both sidled up to the bar, which ran down the entire left side of the interior and ordered a beer. Jack just looked at the two of us for the longest time.

It Wasn’t A Look It Was A Stare

Bearded and toothless, he had a stare that encompassed all the hate and vile within it that he held for his customers. His patrons were the locals and also those traveling to and from places unknown to him but never safe from his disgust. He neither liked the place that he was in nor any of those his customers had told him about.

Jack Was An Equal-Opportunity Hater!

He reminded both Dave and I of why we traveled to locations that took us outside and beyond what we already knew. We promised each other, as we walked back to the bike, that no matter how bad life ever got we would never turn out to be like him. Jack was both a repudiation of the past and a denial of the future with the way he constantly refused to live in the moment. He was physically and spiritually everything we were trying to escape. He did however continue to die in the moment, and it was a death he performed in front of his customers … over, and over, and over again.

As I sat on the bike, staring at the closed bar, a woman and her daughter got out of a car with Texas license plates. The mother smiled as she watched me taking one last look and said: “Are you going to buy it, it’s for sale you know?” I said “no, but I had been in it many times when it was still open.” She said: “That must have been a real experience” as she walked back to her car. It was a real experience back then for sure, and one that she, or any other accidental tourist headed north or south on Rt. #89, will never know. I will probably never regret going in there again, but I feel fortunate that I had the chance to do it those many times before.

Who Am I Kidding, I’d Do It Again In A Heartbeat

I would never pass through Dupoyer Montana, the town where Lewis and Clark had their only hostile encounter (Two Medicine Fight) with Indians, without stopping at Ranger Jacksfor a beer. It was one of those windows into the beyond that are found in the most unlikely of places, and I was profoundly changed every time that I walked in, and then out of, his crumbling front door. Jack never said hello or bid you goodbye. He just stared at you as something that offended him, and when you looked back at his dead and bloodshot eyes, and for reasons still unexplained, you felt instantly free.

In The Strangest And Clearest Of Ways … I’ll Miss Him

It was a short ride from Dupoyer to East Glacier, as the sun settled behind the Lewis Rangeshowing everything in its half-light as only twilight can. I once again thought of the Blackfeet and how defiant they remained until the very end. Being this far North, they had the least contact with white men, and were dominant against the other tribes because of their access to Canadian guns. When they learned that the U.S. Government proposed to arm their mortal enemies, the Shoshones and the Nez Perce, their animosity for all white invaders only heightened and strengthened their resolve to fight. I felt the distant heat of their blood as I crossed over Rt. #2 in Browning and said a quick prayer to all that they had seen and to a fury deep within their culture that time could not ****.

It was almost dark, as I rode the extreme curves of Glacier Park Road toward the east entrance from Browning. As I arrived in St Mary’s, I turned left into the Park and found that the gatehouse was still manned. Although being almost 9:00 p.m., the guard was still willing to let me through. She said that the road would remain open all night for its entire fifty-three-mile length, but that there was construction and mud at the very top near Logan Pass.

Construction, no guardrails, the mud and the dark, and over 6600 feet of altitude evoked the Sour Spirit Deity of the Blackfeet to come out of the lake and whisper to me in a voice that the Park guard could not hear “Not tonight Wana Hin Gle. Tonight you must remain with the lesser among us across the lake with the spirit killers — and then tomorrow you may cross.”

Dutifully I listened, because again from inside, I could feel its truth. Wana Hin Gle was the name the Oglala Sioux had given me years before, It means — He Who Happens Now.

In my many years of mountain travel I have crossed both Galena and Beartooth Passes in the dark. Both times, I was lucky to make it through unharmed. I thanked this great and lonesome Spirit who had chosen to protect me tonight and then circled back through the gatehouse and along the east side of the lake to the lodge.

The Desk Clerk Said, NO ROOMS!

As I pulled up in front of the St Mary’s Lodge & Resort, I noticed the parking lot was full. It was not a good sign for one with no reservation and for one who had not planned on staying on this side of the park for the night. The Chinese- American girl behind the desk confirmed what I was fearing most with her words … “Sorry Sir, We’re Full.”

When I asked if she expected any cancellations she emphatically said: “No chance,” and that there were three campers in the parking lot who had inquired before me, all hoping for the same thing. I was now 4th on the priority list for a potential room that might become available. Not likely on this warm summer weekend, and not surprising either, as all around me the tourists scurried in their pursuit of leisure, as tourists normally did.

I looked at the huge lobby with its two TV monitors and oversized leather sofas and chairs. I asked the clerk at the desk if I could spend the night sitting there, reading, and waiting for the sun to come back up. I reminded her that I was on a motorcycle and that it was too dangerous for me to cross Logan Pass in the dark. She said “sure,” and the restaurant stayed open until ten if I had not yet had dinner. “Try the grilled lake trout,” she said, “it’s my favorite for sure. They get them right out of St. Mary’s Lake daily, and you can watch the fishermen pull in their catch from most of our rooms that face the lake.”

I felt obligated to give the hotel some business for allowing me to freeload in their lobby, so off to the restaurant I went. There was a direct access door to the restaurant from the far corner of the main lobby where my gear was, and my waiter (from Detroit) was both terrific and fast. He told me about his depressed flooring business back in Michigan and how, with the economy so weak, he had decided a steady job for the summer was the way to go.

We talked at length about his first impressions of the Northern Rockies and about how much his life had changed since he arrived last month. He had been over the mountain at least seven times and had crossed it in both directions as recently as last night. I asked him, with the road construction, what a night-crossing was currently like? and he responded: “Pretty scary, even in a Jeep.” He then said, “I can’t even imagine crossing over on a motorcycle, in the dark, with no guardrails, and having to navigate through the construction zone for those eight miles just before the top.” I sat for another hour drinking coffee and wondered about what life on top of the Going To The Sun Road must be like at this late hour.

The Lake Trout Had Been More Than Good

After I finished dinner, I walked back into the lobby and found a large comfortable leather chair with a long rustic coffee table in front. Knowing now that I had made the right decision to stay, I pulled the coffee table up close to the chair and stretched my legs out in front. It was now almost midnight, and the only noise that could be heard in the entire hotel was the kitchen staff going home for the night. Within fifteen minutes, I was off to sleep. It had been a long ride from Cody, and I think I was more tired than I wanted to admit. I started these rides in my early twenties. And now forty years later, my memory still tried to accomplish what my body long ago abandoned.

At 2:00 a.m., a security guard came over and nudged my left shoulder. “Mr Behm, we’ve just had a room open up and we could check you in if you’re still interested.” The thought of unpacking the bike in the dark, and for just four hours of sleep in a bed, was of no interest to me at this late hour. I thanked him for his consideration but told him I was fine just where I was. He then said: “Whatever’s best for you sir,” and went on with his rounds.

My dreams that night, were strange, with that almost real quality that happens when the lines between where you have come from and where you are going become blurred. I had visions of Blackfeet women fishing in the lake out back and of their warrior husbands returning with fresh ponies from a raid upon the Nez Perce. The sounds of the conquering braves were so real that they woke me, or was it the early morning kitchen staff beginning their breakfast shift? It was 5:15 a.m., and I knew I would never know for sure — but the difference didn’t matter when the imagery remained the same.

Differences never mattered when the images were the same



Day #5 (A.M.): Glacier To Columbia Falls

As I opened my eyes and looked out from the dark corner of the lobby, I saw CNN on the monitor across the room. The sound had been muted all night, but in the copy running across the bottom of the screen it said: “Less than twenty-four hours until the U.S. defaults.”  For weeks, Congress had been debating on whether or not to raise the debt ceiling and even as remote as it was here in northwestern Montana, I still could not escape the reality of what it meant. I had a quick breakfast of eggs, biscuits, and gravy, before I headed back to the mountain. The guard station at the entrance was unattended, so I vowed to make a twenty-dollar donation to the first charity I came across — I hoped it would be Native American.

I headed west on The Going To The Sun Road and crossed Glacier at dawn. It created a memory on that Sunday morning that will live inside me forever. It was a road that embodied the qualities of all lesser roads, while it stood proudly alone because of where it could take you and the way going there would make you feel. Its standards, in addition to its altitude, were higher than most comfort zones allowed. It wasn’t so much the road itself but where it was. Human belief and ingenuity had built a road over something that before was almost impossible to even walk across. Many times, as you rounded a blind turn on Logan Pass, you experienced the sensation of flying, and you had to look beneath you to make sure that your wheels were still on the ground.

The road climbed into the clouds as I rounded the West side of the lake. It felt more like flying, or being in a jet liner, when combined with the tactile adventure of knowing I was on two-wheels. Being on two-wheels was always my first choice and had been my consummate and life affirming mode of travel since the age of sixteen.

Today would be another one of those ‘it wasn’t possible to happen’ days. But it did, and it happened in a way that even after so many blessed trips like this, I was not ready for. I felt in my soul I would never see a morning like this again, but then I also knew beyond the borders of self-limitation, and from what past experience had taught me, that I absolutely would.

So Many ‘Once In A Lifetime’ Moments Have Been Joyous Repetition

My life has been blessed because I have been given so many of these moments. Unlike anything else that has happened, these life-altering events have spoken to me directly cutting through all learned experience that has tried in vain to keep them out. The beauty of what they have shown is beyond my ability to describe, and the tears running down my face were from knowing that at least during these moments, my vision had been clear.

I knew that times like these were in a very real way a preparation to die. Life’s highest moments often exposed a new awareness for how short life was. Only by looking through these windows, into a world beyond, would we no longer fear death’s approach.

I leaned forward to pat the motorcycle’s tank as we began our ascent. In a strange but no less real way, it was only the bike that truly understood what was about to happen. It had been developed for just this purpose and now would get to perform at its highest level. The fuel Injection, and linked disk brakes, were a real comfort this close to the edge, and I couldn’t have been riding anything better for what I was about to do.

I also couldn’t have been in a better place at this stage of my life in the summer of 2011. Things had been changing very fast during this past year, and I decided to bend to that will rather than to fight what came unwanted and in many ways unknown. I knew that today would provide more answers, highlighting the new questions that I searched for, and the ones on this mountaintop seemed only a promise away.

Glaciers promise!

I thought about the many bear encounters, and attacks, that had happened in both Glacier and Yellowstone during this past summer. As I passed the entry point to Granite Park Chalet, I couldn’t help but think about the tragic deaths of Julie Helgeson and Michelle Koons on that hot August night back in 1967. They both fell prey to the fatality that nature could bring. The vagaries of chance, and a bad camping choice, led to their both being mauled and then killed by the same rogue Grizzly in different sections of the park.

They were warned against camping where they did, but bear attacks had been almost unheard of — so they went ahead. How many times had I decided to risk something, like crossing Beartooth or Galena Pass at night, when I had been warned against it, but still went ahead? How many times had coming so close to the edge brought everything else in my life into clear focus?

1967 Was The Year I Started My Exploration Of The West

The ride down the western side of The Going To the Sun Road was a mystery wrapped inside the eternal magic of this mountain highway in the sky. Even the long line of construction traffic couldn’t dampen my excitement, as I looked off to the South into the great expanse that only the Grand Canyon could rival for sheer majesty. Snow was on the upper half of Mount’s Stimson (10,142 ft.), James (9,575 ft.) and Jackson (10,052), and all progress was slow (20 mph). Out of nowhere, a bicyclist passed me on the extreme outside and exposed edge of the road. I prayed for his safety, as he skirted to within three feet of where the roadended and that other world, that the Blackfeet sing about, began. Its exposed border held no promises and separated all that we knew from what we oftentimes feared the most.

I am sure he understood what crossing Logan Pass meant, no matter the vehicle, and from the look in his eyes I could tell he was in a place that no story of mine would ever tell. He waved quickly as he passed on my left side. I waved back with the universal thumbs-upsign, and in a way that is only understood by those who cross mountains … we were brothers on that day.



Day # 5: (P.M.) Columbia Falls to Salmon Idaho

The turnaround point of the road was always hard. What was all forward and in front of me yesterday was consumed by the thought of returning today. The ride back could take you down the same path, or down a different road, but when your destination was the same place that you started from, your arrival was greeted in some ways with the anti-****** of having been there, and done that, before.

I tried everything I knew to fool my psyche into a renewed phase of discovery. All the while though, there was this knowing that surrounded my thoughts. It contained a reality that was totally hidden within the fantasy of the trip out. It was more honest I reminded myself, and once I made peace with it, the return trip would become even more intriguing than the ride up until now. When you knew you were down to just a few days and counting, each day took on a special reverence that the trip out always seemed to lack.

In truth, the route you planned for your return had more significance than the one before. Where before it was direct and one-dimensional, the return had to cover two destinations — the trip out only had to cover one. The route back also had to match the geography with the timing of what you asked for inside of yourself. The trip out only had to inspire and amuse.

The trip south on Rt.#35 along the east side of Flathead Lake was short but couldn’t be measured by its distance. It was an exquisitely gorgeous stretch of road that took less than an hour to travel but would take more than a lifetime to remember. The ripples that blew eastward across the lake in my direction created the very smallest of whitecaps, as the two cranes that sat in the middle of the lake took off for a destination unknown. I had never seen Flathead Lake from this side before and had always chosen Rt.#93 on the western side for all previous trips South. That trip took you through Elmo and was a ride I thought to be unmatched until I entered Rt.#35 this morning. This truly was the more beautiful ride, and I was thankful for its visual newness. It triggered inside of me my oldest feelings of being so connected, while at the same time, being so alone.

As I connected again with my old friend Rt.# 93, the National Bison Range sat off to my west. The most noble of wild creatures, they were now forced to live in contained wander where before they had covered, by the millions, both our country and our imagination. I thought again about their intrinsic connection to Native America and the perfection that existed within that union.

The path of the Great Bison was also the Indian’s path. The direction they chose was one and the same. It had purpose and reason — as well as the majesty of its promise. It was often unspoken except in the songs before the night of the hunt and in the stories that were told around the fire on the night after. It needed no further explanation. The beauty within its harmony was something that just worked, and words were a poor substitute for a story that only their true connection would tell.

This ‘Road’ Still Contained That Eternal Connection In Now Paved Over Hoofprints Of Dignity Lost

The Bitteroot Range called out to me in my right ear, but there would be no answer today. Today, I would head South through the college town of Missoula toward the Beaverhead Mountains and then Rt.#28 through the Targhee National Forest. I arrived in Missoula in the brightest of sunshine. The temperature was over ninety-degrees as I parked the bike in front of the Missoula Club. A fixture in this college town for many years, the Missoula Club was both a college bar and city landmark. It needed no historic certification to underline its importance. Ask any resident or traveler, past or present, have you been to the Missoula Club? and you’ll viscerally feel their answer. It’s not beloved by everyone … just by those who have always understood that places like this have fallen into the back drawer of America’s history. Often, their memory being all that’s left.

The hamburger was just like I expected, and as I ate at the bar, I limited myself to just one mug of local brew. One beer is all that I allowed myself when riding. I knew that I still had 150 more miles to go, and I was approaching that time of day when the animals came out and crossed the road to drink. In most cases, the roads had been built to follow the rivers, streams, and later railroads, and they acted as an unnatural barrier between the safety of the forest and the water that the animals living there so desperately needed. Their crossing was a nightly ritual and was as certain as the rising of the sun and then the moon. I respected its importance, and I tried to schedule my rides around the danger it often presented — but not today.

After paying the bartender, I took a slow and circuitous ride around town. Missoula was one of those western towns that I could happily live in, and I secretly hoped that before my time ran out that I would. The University of Montana was entrenched solidly and peacefully against the mountain this afternoon as I extended my greeting. It would be on my very short list of schools to teach at if I were ever lucky enough to make choices like that again.

Dying In The Classroom, After Having Lived So Strongly, Had An Appeal Of Transference That I Find Hard To Explain

The historic Wilma Theatre, by the bridge, said adieu as I re-pointed the bike South toward the Idaho border. I thought about the great traveling shows, like Hope and Crosby, that had played here before the Second World War. Embedded in the burgundy fabric of its giant curtain were stories that today few other places could tell. It sat proudly along the banks of the Clark Fork River, its past a time capsule that only the river could tell. Historic theatres have always been a favorite of mine, and like the Missoula Club, the Wilma was another example of past glory that was being replaced by banks, nail salons, and fast-food restaurants almost wherever you looked.

Thankfully, Not In Missoula

Both my spirit and stomach were now full, as I passed through the towns of Hamilton and Darby on my way to Sula at the state line. I was forced to stop at the train crossing in Sulajust past the old and closed Sula High School on the North edge of town. The train was still half a mile away to my East, as I put the kickstand down on the bike and got off for a closer look. The bones of the old school contained stories that had never been told. Over the clanging of the oncoming train, I thought I heard the laughter of teenagers as they rushed through the locked and now darkened halls. Shadowy figures passed by the window over the front door on the second floor, and in the glare of the mid-afternoon sun it appeared that they were waving at me. Was I again the victim of too much anticipation and fresh air or was I just dreaming to myself in broad daylight again?

As I Dreamed In Broad Daylight, I Spat Into The Wind Of Another Time

I waited for twenty-minutes, counting the cars of the mighty Santa Fe Line, as it headed West into the Pacific time zone and the lands where the great Chief Joseph and Nez Perce roamed. The brakeman waved as his car slowly crossed in front of my stopped motorcycle — each of us envying the other for something neither of us truly understood.

The train now gone … a bell signaled it was safe to cross the tracks. I looked to my right one more time and saw the caboose only two hundred yards down the line. Wondering if it was occupied, and if they were looking back at me, I waved one more time. I then flipped my visor down and headed on my way happy for what the train had brought me but sad in what its short presence had taken away.

As I entered the Salmon & Challis National Forest, I was already thinking about Italian food and the great little restaurant within walking distance of my motel. I always spent my nights in Salmon at the Stagecoach Inn. It was on the left side of Rt. #93, just before the bridge, where you made a hard left turn before you entered town. The motel’s main attraction was that it was built right against the Western bank of the Salmon River. I got a room in the back on the ground floor and could see the ducks and ducklings as they walked along the bank. It was only a short walk into town from the front of the motel and less than a half a block going in the other direction for great Italian food.

The motel parking lot was full, with motorcycles, as I arrived, because this was Sturgis Week in South Dakota. As I watched the many groups of clustered riders congregate outside as they cleaned their bikes, I was reminded again of why I rode. I rode to be alone with myself and with the West that had dominated my thoughts and dreams for so many years. I wondered what they saw in their group pilgrimage toward acceptance? I wondered if they ever experienced the feeling of leaving in the morning and truly not knowing where they would end up that night. The Sturgis Rally would attract more than a million riders many of whom hauled their motorcycles thousands of miles behind pickups or in trailers. Most would never experience, because of sheer masquerade and fantasy, what they had originally set out on two-wheels to find.

I Feel Bad For Them As They Wave At Me Through Their Shared Reluctance

They seemed to feel, but not understand, what this one rider alone, and in no hurry to clean his ***** motorcycle, represented. I had always liked the way a touring bike looked when covered with road-dirt. It wore the recognition of its miles like a badge of honor. As it sat faithfully alone in some distant motel parking lot, night after night, it waited in proud silence for its rider to return. I cleaned only the windshield, lights, and turn signals, as I bedded the Goldwing down before I started out for dinner. As I left, I promised her that tomorrow would be even better than today. It was something that I always said to her at night. As she sat there in her glorified patina and watched me walk away, she already knew what tomorrow would bring.

The Veal Marsala was excellent at the tiny restaurant by the motel. It was still not quite seven o’clock, and I decided to take a slow walk through the town. It was summer and the river was quiet, its power deceptive in its passing. I watched three kayakers pass below me as I crossed the bridge and headed East into Salmon. Most everything was closed for the evening except for the few bars and restaurants that lit up the main street of this old river town. It took less than fifteen minutes to complete my visitation, and I found myself re-crossing the bridge and headed back to the motel.

There were now even more motorcycles in the parking lot than before, and I told myself that it had been a stroke of good fortune that I had arrived early. If I had been shut out for a room in Salmon, the chances of getting one in Challis, sixty miles further south, would have been much worse. As small as Salmon was, Challis was much smaller, and in all the years of trying, I had never had much luck there in securing a room.

I knew I would sleep soundly that night, as I listened to the gentle sounds of a now peaceful river running past my open sliding doors. Less than twenty-yards away, I was not at all misled by its tranquility. It cut through the darkness of a Western Idaho Sunday night like Teddy Roosevelt patrolled the great Halls of Congress.

Running Softly, But Carrying Within It A Sleeping Defiance

I had seen its fury in late Spring, as it carried the great waters from on high to the oceans below. I have rafted its white currents in late May and watched a doctor from Kalispell lose his life in its turbulence. In remembrance, I said a short prayer to his departed spirit before drifting off to sleep.

Faded trees
and foggy hills
of misty blue
and morning pills

and pastel soap
in a broken bowl
my splattered mirror
who eats my soul

an empty fridge
a broken lamp
moldy, mildew,
Northwestern damp

wrists against
my seam-ripped sleeve
this is what it's
like to grieve.

I was a small soul; my family was too.
Life in the adjacent northwestern was deviant, souls had nowhere to go.
Livelihood is grim in the old-green warm.
God will provide, my mom said.

My parents ambitioned a greater life for me and my brothers.
It's the classic fable- an alluring call of intergalactic aliens.
We packed our things and headed towards the Big Apple
God will provide, my mom said.

I came to the US when I was 8, I did not know my fate.
Mouths moved differently to what I thought was great.
We possess nothing, our family was afraid.
God will provide, my mom said.

We slept on the floor; the nights were cold.
Alone, me and my brothers were.
The American dream is towards where we go.
God did provide, my mom said.