Big Expression. BC559.

BC559. Biggest Expression.

Lee bender

 

    The title, in fact, a remnant of a bare-knuckled tattoo. A way in which I described a way to win the world, on the personal level of course, is just, is honest, and just is. With a small clan, roving most corners and crevices of this earth, there is an underground, fevered and frothing, chomping at the bit. Making their lives happen in the manner in which they best see fit, with full-on intent. Armed with many journaled scribing’s, many figured and featured mantras, and a multitude of actions promoting a healthier balance. “Just live” “life won’t wait”, “every second counts” and so many other simplistics to guide one’s self through the murk of technology and past the broken clocks called progress, left endless and of disassembled dreams. The walk, alone, is a practice. Bullets of new to duck and dodge, marketing ploys aimed at the dissuasion of ethic for their own pampered beliefs, not yours. 

·      And what about you and the you-ness? Your kids and our fastidious youth? 

      Our approach, our footsteps, evolved to fall in love, not simply in line. They take into consideration the ever passing violence of time, the harsh current we live amongst its constant wake. As if the tail wags the dog. There is no rewind of life and redo’s are simply second impressions left to losing out from hurried others continually moving forward. 

      The intent here is for a life coalesced with the evolved traditions of yestermorrow. The practices that sustained life for myriad of generations, ones that kept humans human and continually evolving towards greater cooperation, guided understanding, and the eventual acceptance that we are all one.  

    Pictured below is the house I was raised in, the house I grew into the person I am today in, where I learned most of the things I now deem important. This location in near the Indiana line is where I laid on my back on clear night huddled with my grandmother, watching a meteor shower overhead and from that, the importance of  accessible dark places for all to see the stars and experience the depth of forever. This is where I learned to take another’s life. To plant a seed to scale fish, and dress a deer. Ultimately, to give thanks and a hair or tobacco offering in appreciation, to say a little written “peace” to the soul that once inhabited the being – plant or animal, now released back into the ether.

 

     While it doesn’t take coming from this to experience this, it is up to you when you are ready to release some of the extra and soak up the immediate, ask all the questions and keep asking as this world, this experience right now is of endless knowledge. Quit the job you hate, find love in the things you decide to do, and provide a service to others equally enthralled with making more for themselves.

ringers on

 letter sent, autumnal by chance - sound the synthesizer. days of war, nights of love - crime think, I think. atlanta, cornered, and portland. one brisk escape - Jacob miller. I'm a natty. arm bones through America, windowless empowerment, continual growth and she said "      ." a whole hell of a lot. "coming or going, always on the way." 

too much psilo for a microdose. welcomed and explains the reggae. color splotching/shifting text colors

to note, 

the last few weeks have been a fun-run rampant, entwined with eighth grade shenanigans. hiding born love as neutral innocence and actively masqueraded. new again, wander again. details not avail yet or ever, its ours... 

shoulder is on ache. sleep did something to it, maybe the mattress here at 9339 n Geneva. while not consistent over the three months I've been here, it does come often. complaining when I don't feel it necessary. I'm in a bit of pain. maybe from yesterdays zooming and hopping on bikes down trails.

yesterdays ramp through forest park with Stevie was epic. lots of photos and videos, jumping things, surfing trees, skidding most the way through it all. springville trail down to leif and saltzman back to the parked cars..

last night in lettered form

tabor up! and hot cacaolate. I've been here before though its been years and obsolete, a quickness out of nowhere. able, we banked backside as the owl. quick glimpse up crooked streets, a carve shattered loose with plied light from mist-wet posts set. side-lit, an old fashion get to know ya with trouble penning now as if no words are left to suffice. eighty years in an evenings of a few hours. hat on hat off with something stuck in the thermos lid, cued up to peel off, played it cool yet missed out on half. left, I wondered - the same.

interstitial cystitis

a friend asked I write a bio for a piece she's including in her publication. for what its worth, posting incase I need to revisit.

     Held high, including some of the untethered, Lee comes from a lost and cleft-left field, against the grain and with the wind, yet a steadied follow-film and finding the rhythms. An approach often only acted upon by the fly pitched to the wall, further waiting, as the traveler or a dayglow witness. With one forced-hand, more than fevered, the contrasting-vowelled sounds upon syllabic-steppe he bears only feel favorable in your clear low-rumbled stretch of voice, best said hushed, cemetery-still and obituarily aloud.

im not obsessed with death, I just needed the sounds those words make. dare ya to record yourself reading this and listening to the gurgled bubble nature and plied rapids. 

lost at sea. 

december of '16

she framed herself, swimming and clothed, inside the swing-set, one moon east, hungry and low. he tried to find the courage, caged behind cowering eyes. She held something powerful over most she crossed tragic paths with. her unwavering intelligence is what always got him most. spanning back to an atlanta that doesnt exist anymore, one gentrified seaboard ave, beside the tracks and inked six layers deep, his arm needled and wiped forever. he told the tattooer, a friend named dave, the seriffs have to look like this, its her hand writing from an envelope she'd written previous, licked close and put off to the postal worker. then from a yet unknown san francisco and cross country to the south. see, they met one night on a hooded walk, both young and she recovering from some bad bacteria caught in another country. he, beckoned and broke-necked, admittedly grasped at straws, clung-to and held on to every glimpse mentionable. there was always new orleans too. crossing the mississip at night and with the same endeared clamor. a bit quieter over there and away from one royal street, a quarter-side mardi gras. his first, twice. 15 years later, expelled, we shared the saved letters,  a carpet-rented bedroom floor in wilder, far from anything they knew previous, conflicting stories of the last time they had seen one another, sf valencia street, pre-gent leaving herbivore, now closed, on bike 03 vs 131 center st santa cruz ca post an oregonia road trip. a reminiscent argument they laughed at in wonder. penned repacked and shelved.

a sheet out from under set the scene. headin west, again.

entry level anvil press

the conversation seemed as long as the fires though I wanted more. she said, I think we lost everything but we still don't even know, the communication, understandably, is the pits. and I felt I fell a little further for her and her family. I don't think I know anyones thats packed up, husband, kid, and self and split in 5 minutes time after days worth of curiosity. 30 years of journals, all of my art, all of the tapestries, linens and homemade toys for my child... "maybe they're safe, you never know" again she squeezed.
I, parked in an uphill fashion, staring into the trees so familiar to her Santa Cruz mountain home, close to where I lived twenty years prior and I was familiar, (maybe) gone with the wind. dust upon alba rd and left to sift. through muffled holdings of a sleeping baby, I caught the names of some streams, some gulches, some hills we had recently walked just this past July fourth. all places, I in wonder, lost track of through conversation and where it went.
my feet, bare, slide freely across the hardwood floor, and she, a two time evacuee, born without walls or a roof over her head is starting again, again. incomprehensible. Offered the everythings I have but with a laughing heart, she verbally shrugged a reminder that she's resourceful and has been from birth and said with a a tinge of accent still left over from the country of her first days on spaceship earth.
we must have really met in 2012 when she proposed

present precincts

sit back, eyes latched, and listen. ask of yourself, what do you hear is yet natural and why does it feel. how different is the sound of the humming passing cars versus the crashing waves oceanic and where lies a veiled separation amongst the two. cars human and maybe more-so, the sound is similar to thunder, the pushing of air molecular. sure some rubbered tires grip of friction. sound of the heat-energy? at the foot of my bed, a map of my dreams, sharpied soft contours of slow-bent freeways, zigging and zagging, to borrow of the Gonzales. even here, trees natural still planted by us dictate the actions realized by invisible wind and how she howls, past screens made by many, over the shoulders of my own, crossing ears, crossing hairs. a kid screams as jets leave. daycare around the corner like emeric pratts oakland, some second story looking over recess five days a week. I smiled at it then, I smile at it now. no use for natural because what is? wheres the limits and who's left to draw it? the line in the sand sparks right angles, farming fueled war with the invention of fences. to reevaluate that map, marked with printed inky here and there lines. where your marks mark the intersection of four plains, X, Y, Z, and illegal, their private property. "I was born a little to late to see the dream they called America." Jeff Ott.

from a recent Insta post, a shared photo of a fading tattoo

then, she wrote a short letter, such, like this and it read “i’ll never forget you”. placed it upon what was once one of our pillows on our bed and left while i was dutifully at work. herself, the dog (surely passed now) and half of our things that kept a collection of dust, seemed to have woke up and walked through the door in an exiting fashion. we tied redwood branches to walls and decorated the inside of our place with the out-doors of things. lost-rocks as prudent art, carefully woven eucalyptus twigs masqueraded as painting, and a multi-millennia old Ohlone grinding stone, rightfully, in our side-yard.

-

this... it’s been a storied life, like most others, with drastic ups, caustic downs, familial reminders and concussed memories that stay a winters-lit for years that morph and resonate into those lost-slot decades. given-up seconds that tip-toe a sly-like dance amidst the brackish violence of passing time. “...left on the cutting room floor, she said...”

-

a friend of nearly ten years, tonight, asked me if i’d ever been to indiana. simply and coyishly, all i could do was grin and feverishly reflect. how i ended up on the subject of my first love was photographic in nature and needled into my wrist by justin bell // san jose-2002. a man, now, with a different name, as a deed i traded for a cross-california tom waits-style ride in to reno, a crashed wedding and another introduction to some small small world to later discover. dan will read this // amber might. i love ya both.

-

the tattoo has been cleft and cut with precision for some dust to titanium surgery, been timber-framed and lodged with splintered eastern-white pine while cutting mortis and tenons with draw-knives in northern vermont, survived a high-pipe burn or two on a motorbike while riding and reaching down to warm the wind-chilled hands, say mountainous colorado (where fuzz is flicking trains), the eastern sierras (a range young and wind-beat) and the everywhere-elsewheres we went. it’s left worn-well and remains a long welcome. one day from day one.

the breakdown // the laughter

The countess stepped past, followed by canine, her heeler blue in tow and I, boldly hiding, behind the nervous bowl still clingingly warm and of an early sidewalk-side breakfast.

Contemplating mutualistic subject matter, she with smiled-eye wrinkles, partially covered with a loose fitting morning mask, but also, welcomingly and partially not, seemed caustically at ease.

Under the spell of some sunday seven a.m. dog walk repeats, I, of childlike fascination with the morning light cascading through needley leaves - rays that equally share in time, masquerading around 'til midday as longer shadows now shortening, find a depth worthy of wander.

Warmth anew, replacing yesterdays reptilian cool and I listened, I clung, to the sound of every step that never ceased or stopped, yet a lifetime crept amongst a flash-bang blink and disheveled the air all around.

Vast and far off, it wasn't the green-wonder that crashed with a burn that struck like nostalgic bolts of expected summer lightning that shook yesterdays surely cured foundation, what she simply said and kept pace in passing was "I wrote about you" and left it at that.

Their steps continued with the crash of metal-leashed clasps, off up and into the eastern and still wet with dew park, walking, again, around the sun rising, perforating the glistening saint johns trailside trees.

They left the "now" with no room for question and I could have dropped my cinnamon-oaty spoon in the old sidewalk sap and collective dirt and never caressed even a care.

The obsessive attraction here lies, not amongst the endless pastures of some wild life wonder, but aside the silent spruce and dug firred speculative.

Some writer written and "about you".

punctured veil

post-solstice, the summer light rhythmically fading to less lengthy days, creeps upon with new noise at the shared position of the sun. six am now isn't what six am was just a month ago. while with the barking crows, ravenous and of breakfast, in comes the slow-to-approach-the-days, the onslaught of back-up beeps, responsible horns of trains and cars alike, through that thin and brackish railed tunnel, under your trapped mask of treedom. as in the heat escaping a cool camped fire, bending waves of light audience and heard audio, the first marks of rain fell by seven-thirty, finding way, a maze, from cloud down to tea, to book, to a lazily shaved head atop a poison oak'd body basked in a stringent tea tree oil. I stooped-it again to revisit a new friend, only old in seconds per say. maybe she'd be walking that heeler in the rain, I thought, but I only lasted as long as I could. this book cost money ya know. a clean yellow flannel and wet wool socks crept back amongst the noble grey light and between the jams. class in ten, tea is near gone and definitely lost the heat energy. maybe another Tuesday morning, the Pogues, maybe the crows, maybe I don't really care yet curious. most don't think that we don't see light but only the vibrating "things" the waves of radiation bounces off of. nothing new, nothing shy of surreal, but a theme from yesterdays spilled over psilo trip, a red automobile flanked by an old blue house and of full sun. even reading proved difficult with that swayed mind.

moon board for BC555.

okay, as an assignment for class, I had to make a mood board. Todd, John, Mark G, Russia, a Honda, and Zio.

augusunday

reading handled for the research and capstone class. fairly interesting in that an outline for a research question, proper, is as laid out as it is. makes sense but similar to understanding that theres ore of a process than I knew. neat read, new words. that author uses "vexed" a lot. seeming every other page and sometimes twice per page.

this morning was rampant sleep. didn't crack the lids til 630 somehow. after an early (11p) exit of the day. 7.5 works well no doubt. cat crept in middle night. pulled the drying towel from yesterday off the door and closed it to keep the bruce out. maybe mornings cloud-cover kept me asleep. I need to quit sleeping with the books on my bed that I do, the covers, the blanket, and sheets were hard to pull around... nah, just sleep more still I suppose.

reading the craft of research right now for class that starts tomorrow, the interesting one mentioned above. apparently its of note enough to mention here twice since the tick tock of the analog clock isn't as notable as it better be. my relationship, fevered, with time and its passing.

woke up to planks and boxed breathing. 4/4/4/4. inhale hold exhale hold. dr. huberman has a 22 minute youtube video that speaks to respiratory health and gaseous exchange in which only the last 4 minutes are actually of the advertised topic.

daily, I loot my neighbor's, Beth and yet to meet her, rosemary. just a sprig for my water, to hang in my fan to freshen the rooms air. I've yet to cook with it here, I've yet to even cook here.

viral inhospitality

three words to regain the rant.

FUCK jim jones.

now this, 

How a yesterday was burnt to the ground. Resourced and extracted minerals to build the same devices that took me out. The mental, the physical, the screen time was absurd. Even wrote that I didn’t write, fell asleep immediately after. Twenty to ten july three-ohh. Perfect vision. 

Went weight lifting this morning and hammered out a final project for HN375. Shoulders feel good and great to visit Annette. Traded coffee for breakfast. I feel she won, but great to share both time and a meal. Brekky at 8am 550 NE Fargo #4. Hadnt seen her in years and she opened up with “im moving back to Minnie.” Not a matter of not making it here, more so a matter quality of life. A topic Im familiar with to say the least. To boast felt shameful but we all owe it to ourselves to celebrate the lives we are happy with. Annette, if you read this, im sorry and wish you the best and you know this. Onward // upward. 

I feel I want to write more, I feel ive got more but im oddly sleepy and slogging through six different ten-minute video uploads to youtube for HN375/Dr. Leone’s class, a fun one soon to be over. Shes extended her reach to our class to help see us through, too kind. 

Cant lie, im stumbling through these keystrokes to find a wave to catch but im not able. So, while im waiting for videos to upload,,,, ill figure it out.

1.    Need to restructure and clean up my resume. US Oly skate team manager. Sunday mandatory. Line up with USFS as well. Need new REI disco card.

2.    I need gasoline, light came on post-annetes. First tank since arriving in pdx. Just means ive ridden my bike heaps.

3.    Bonnie falls, north west of Scapoose ore, or anywhere on that stream really, might be my local cold plunge. I may find a spot to hit while riding too, theres a trail to get the bicycle out on from there to Veronia. 

4.    Would like to reinstitute a more regimented fasting...regiment. Since the move up here, since covid started really. The subconscious stressors of/from that have ridiculously somehow called for me to eat more and with the month of june being recovery from a wreck, I have sort of lost some fitness, endurance, strength. Time to tighten up.

5.    Need to build the desk for the room. Money is there but the motivation isn’t? screws, Masonite, ply, 2x’s. its that easy. Schematics are done, material list is added up. and I need to listen to more of the Violent Femmes. But theres pink Floyd and Bjork. Another option is to throw away the things that necessitate a desk but my backs hurting from this bed-perched slouch. I’ll need a chair too.

6.    Finish uploading the last two videos. Seems to be taking about 10-13 minutes per 10-minute video when not using any other bandwidth on my computer which is why im writing this in word and ill copy paste, which always feels like I’m being driven to the top of a hil and let loose to bomb down, totally undeserving of the free gravitational ride. Cant explain the connection to writing in blogspot but regardless. 

Sorry, poor grammar here. One day, maybe tomorrow or maybe never, it will be of importance. 

I need to write:

1.    Agualuna

2.    Tim

3.    Russ

4.    Taylor

and some others I'm sure of it. 

one harmonized left and lost language

a sun still slung so low, we're coming for ya, keeping pace. one slow expansion, one gamed expression. we never tend to the fact of an idea in that we don't see light, we make some sense of what it illuminates once an entangled dance reigns a vibratory stimulus. often with music, little waves, of lyric'd language I don't understand, some praise-ish chants unfamiliar. sincere human voices as fortunate instrumentation.

Yesterday, bike rides with Stevie. he said, I think it gets gnarly, the trail between blackberry bushes and so I stepped into my bike anyhow. twenty seconds later, before I was able to clip into my pedals, I hit a football sized rock, still half submerged in dirt and it bounced me off my line, towards the hillside. abort mission and too the left where I was met with thorns and a decreasing gradiant down to the train tracks about seven feet below where I had been. meet gravity. I jumped and revisited using my acl-less knees. sitting there, half stunned I just jumped down a small cliffside I heard Stevie ask where I went.
reclaiming my reality, feeling myself out and knowing I was alright, just a bit bloodied from the thorn war above, I found a trail up to where my bike still laid and gathered it along wth the normalcy of place, the trail. right, theres that. my two-wheeled partner was glad to not be carrying me up out of there, we laughed a child-like laugh and pressed on, stand by me style down the tracks in search of a youth most leave behind come their early twenties.
Following the spilled railroad rocks held in place by the paralleling train tracks, sorta above sorta beside, we came across Portlands secret beach, some cement slabs where building once stood and a clever tribe of skateboarders tried to reclaim by building our well known ramps, boxes, and rails. a DIY spot rendered DIT or did it themselves. no defunct, the city or land owner said nope, and destructed evolution. In the name of a water front boardwalk I'm told.
Some discovery, a better-feeling knee, and the underside of the St Johns bridge, a quick opt for forest park, some grounds already covered, familiarity didn't necessarily win but it did sound nice. Once up top, I fell over there too.

I get it, I don't get it.

7a. N. Portland.