"Go into the arts. I’m not kidding. The arts are not a way to make a living. They are a very human way of making life more bearable. Practicing an art, no matter how well or badly, is a way to make your soul grow, for heaven’s sake. Sing in the shower. Dance to the radio. Tell stories. Write a poem to a friend, even a lousy poem. Do it as well as you possibly can. You will get an enormous reward. You will have created something.

   - KV

“I mused for a few moments on the question of which was worse, to lead a life so boring that you are easily enchanted or a life so full of stimulus that you are easily bored. But then it occurred to me that musing is a pointless waste of anyone’s time…”
— Bill Bryson

Taken with Instagram

For all my fellow movie snobs out there the Koren ‘Spring, Summer, Fall, Winter” is a stunning must-see. Gorgeous.

In preparation of my weekend vacay to Beatnik mecca..

“It seemed like a matter of minutes when we began rolling in the foothills before Oakland and suddenly reached a height and saw stretched out ahead of us the fabulous white city of San Francisco on her eleven mystic hills with the blue Pacific and its advancing wall of potato-patch fog beyond, and smoke and goldenness in the late afternoon of time.”

- JK

“Live, travel, adventure, bless, and don’t be sorry.”
— jk, 1951

'Last Thoughts on Woody Guthrie'


There is this audio track I’ve listened to about 500 times.  It’s a poem that Bob Dylan wrote and reads aloud in honor of his musical mentor. The wisdom within those seven minutes is breathtaking. It makes sense out of life. 

I used his text as the framework for something I wrote a couple years ago, while at sea. 




Callin’ out “Judas!” in Newport,
Damn, that electric vibe.
Might think the son, of the Guthrie god would know better,
know how to stay out of style.
Keep to copying passages of that bootlegged bible,
dressing up like a scare crow in formal attire.
Crumblin’ oyster crackers, into lobster bisque soup,
it’s casual phrasing, alright, caught up in black tie truth.
You end up telling everybody something,
when you never let anyone get at you.
So, go on and purse your lips and get your kicks,
blow on that rusty ol’accordion stick,
smile with that poker face,
hide behind that wide brimmed hat.
See leather shoes, powdered makeup, and television sets.
Singing, “Ain’t there anyone here that knows how I feel?
Good God Almighty, that stuff aint real”,
but it only gets harder when you try and sell it back.
Playing the same game as the ones who set the mic up on your stage,
Ramblin’ Jack (Elliot and Kerouac)
A lean man holding up a heavy guitar like he were John Wayne,
and exhaling like an airbag,
except not there to save anyone.
You’re no rockabilly congressman,
not Jesus, Judas, Ma, or Pa.
Just a man who found a new last name. - ah,2006

————


'Last Thoughts on Woody Guthrie'


When yer head gets twisted and yer mind grows numb
When you think you’re too old, too young, too smart or too dumb
When yer laggin’ behind an’ losin’ yer pace
In a slow-motion crawl of life’s busy race
No matter what yer doing if you start givin’ up
If the wine don’t come to the top of yer cup
If the wind’s got you sideways with with one hand holdin’ on
And the other starts slipping and the feeling is gone…

Sanford & Son (Taken with Instagram)

"Where ya been?" 
                      - “Everywhere.”  


The only thing harder to achieve than my adoration is my undivided attention. Last night the @NatGeoChannel earned both with their series #taboo. 

In the episode, crews followed a man leading a double life.  In it’s self, having a hidden alter ego, a la Anthony Weiner, isn’t all that marginalizing anymore. We as a people have gotten used to that kind of stuff.

This was better. Far more strange, and far more rich. 

Here’s the synopsis: 

Minneapolis, MN, USA: “Adman” (Todd Waters’ hobo name) rides a freight train. Todd is a married, successful businessman with two grown children and a million-dollar home. His family know and support Adman’s desire to live two different lives.


It was a story about a guy who refused to accept a comfortable, acceptable, and therefore, painfully normal way of life. 


A few times a year he takes off. Leaving his credit cards, cash, and cellphone at home, relying instead on a rugged spirit to take him… well, where ever he ends up. 


To do this, he hops trains, and sleeps under bridges like the romanticized hobo’s of the 1930’s and 40’s did. 


It brought me back to the market I was working in prior to coming here, and the view I had from the window of my bureau. Two or three times a day, the Norfolk Southern line would race by, shaking the building, and interrupting the tracking that I would undoubtedly be doing whenever it passed. 


The train cars were tired and rusted, and therefore completely gorgeous to a weirdo like me. 


In the book I’ve been working on I wrote this of it’s daily passing;

But train hopping, she knew, was just another one of those romantic desolate notions, like cigarette smoke and southwestern nights spent in cheap motels. Ideas, that make for great descriptive literature, but actualized, would provide nothing more than certain devastation. She figured that to be the case for most artistic longings.






First off, I do not have Aspergers. I promise. But I may be of the breed that understands what this guy is doing, and perhaps why it is so important. Watching this story begs me to now wonder if this ‘devistation’ I wrote of is as certain as I had thought before. I mean, for me, yes. It probably is. The show didn’t forget to highlight the dangers of this kind of adventure. Most living in such a way do not do it by choice. Gangs who hang out by the rails are a constant threat, plus substance abuse and mental illness run rampant through these homeless camps. 






Still, there is something very beautiful about making this kind of choice. Maybe I have read too many books on 1940’s counter-culture, and have listened to too much Dylan, or have seen ‘Into the Wild’ one too many times.







Or maybe, it’s just the old-soul’d hope that life can go as deep as you want it to. 







Anyway, happy trails to Adman. 







And if you watch the show and get easily creeped out. Turn it off after this segment! I obviously did not and now have to wrestle with the fact that we share this world with people known as “Furries”. 






Eek. 

 




"Where ya been?" 
                      - “Everywhere.”  


The only thing harder to achieve than my adoration is my undivided attention. Last night the @NatGeoChannel earned both with their series #taboo. 

In the episode, crews followed a man leading a double life.  In it’s self, having a hidden alter ego, a la Anthony Weiner, isn’t all that marginalizing anymore. We as a people have gotten used to that kind of stuff.

This was better. Far more strange, and far more rich. 

Here’s the synopsis: 

Minneapolis, MN, USA: “Adman” (Todd Waters’ hobo name) rides a freight train. Todd is a married, successful businessman with two grown children and a million-dollar home. His family know and support Adman’s desire to live two different lives.


It was a story about a guy who refused to accept a comfortable, acceptable, and therefore, painfully normal way of life. 


A few times a year he takes off. Leaving his credit cards, cash, and cellphone at home, relying instead on a rugged spirit to take him… well, where ever he ends up. 


To do this, he hops trains, and sleeps under bridges like the romanticized hobo’s of the 1930’s and 40’s did. 


It brought me back to the market I was working in prior to coming here, and the view I had from the window of my bureau. Two or three times a day, the Norfolk Southern line would race by, shaking the building, and interrupting the tracking that I would undoubtedly be doing whenever it passed. 


The train cars were tired and rusted, and therefore completely gorgeous to a weirdo like me. 


In the book I’ve been working on I wrote this of it’s daily passing;

But train hopping, she knew, was just another one of those romantic desolate notions, like cigarette smoke and southwestern nights spent in cheap motels. Ideas, that make for great descriptive literature, but actualized, would provide nothing more than certain devastation. She figured that to be the case for most artistic longings.






First off, I do not have Aspergers. I promise. But I may be of the breed that understands what this guy is doing, and perhaps why it is so important. Watching this story begs me to now wonder if this ‘devistation’ I wrote of is as certain as I had thought before. I mean, for me, yes. It probably is. The show didn’t forget to highlight the dangers of this kind of adventure. Most living in such a way do not do it by choice. Gangs who hang out by the rails are a constant threat, plus substance abuse and mental illness run rampant through these homeless camps. 






Still, there is something very beautiful about making this kind of choice. Maybe I have read too many books on 1940’s counter-culture, and have listened to too much Dylan, or have seen ‘Into the Wild’ one too many times.







Or maybe, it’s just the old-soul’d hope that life can go as deep as you want it to. 







Anyway, happy trails to Adman. 







And if you watch the show and get easily creeped out. Turn it off after this segment! I obviously did not and now have to wrestle with the fact that we share this world with people known as “Furries”. 






Eek. 

 

"Where ya been?" 

                      - “Everywhere.”  



The only thing harder to achieve than my adoration is my undivided attention. Last night the @NatGeoChannel earned both with their series #taboo. 

In the episode, crews followed a man leading a double life.  In it’s self, having a hidden alter ego, a la Anthony Weiner, isn’t all that marginalizing anymore. We as a people have gotten used to that kind of stuff.

This was better. Far more strange, and far more rich. 

Here’s the synopsis: 


Minneapolis, MN, USA: “Adman” (Todd Waters’ hobo name) rides a freight train. Todd is a married, successful businessman with two grown children and a million-dollar home. His family know and support Adman’s desire to live two different lives.



It was a story about a guy who refused to accept a comfortable, acceptable, and therefore, painfully normal way of life. 

A few times a year he takes off. Leaving his credit cards, cash, and cellphone at home, relying instead on a rugged spirit to take him… well, where ever he ends up. 

To do this, he hops trains, and sleeps under bridges like the romanticized hobo’s of the 1930’s and 40’s did. 

It brought me back to the market I was working in prior to coming here, and the view I had from the window of my bureau. Two or three times a day, the Norfolk Southern line would race by, shaking the building, and interrupting the tracking that I would undoubtedly be doing whenever it passed. 

The train cars were tired and rusted, and therefore completely gorgeous to a weirdo like me. 

In the book I’ve been working on I wrote this of it’s daily passing;

But train hopping, she knew, was just another one of those romantic desolate notions, like cigarette smoke and southwestern nights spent in cheap motels. Ideas, that make for great descriptive literature, but actualized, would provide nothing more than certain devastation. She figured that to be the case for most artistic longings.
First off, I do not have Aspergers. I promise. But I may be of the breed that understands what this guy is doing, and perhaps why it is so important. Watching this story begs me to now wonder if this ‘devistation’ I wrote of is as certain as I had thought before. I mean, for me, yes. It probably is. The show didn’t forget to highlight the dangers of this kind of adventure. Most living in such a way do not do it by choice. Gangs who hang out by the rails are a constant threat, plus substance abuse and mental illness run rampant through these homeless camps. 
Still, there is something very beautiful about making this kind of choice. Maybe I have read too many books on 1940’s counter-culture, and have listened to too much Dylan, or have seen ‘Into the Wild’ one too many times.
Or maybe, it’s just the old-soul’d hope that life can go as deep as you want it to. 
Anyway, happy trails to Adman. 
And if you watch the show and get easily creeped out. Turn it off after this segment! I obviously did not and now have to wrestle with the fact that we share this world with people known as “Furries”. 
Eek. 
 
Firm believer that every girl should buy herself flowers once and a while = )  Firm believer that every girl should buy herself flowers once and a while = ) 

Firm believer that every girl should buy herself flowers once and a while = ) 

“What I am beginning to discover now is something beyond the novel and beyond the arbitrary
confines of the story, into the realms of revealed Picture, revelated prose, wild
form, man, wild form. Wild form’s the only form that holds what I have to say—my mind is
exploding to say something about every image and every memory in”
— J.K. June 5th, 1952. 

My afternoon off spent watching kites fly on a perfect hillside. Armed with pen, paper, and pages of inspiration.

"In Kerouac’s opinion a writer could no more reverse or revise his prose than a jazz musician could edit his riffs. When beginning to write a passage, an author should clear his mind of outlines, themes, and plots, and focus instead on the ‘jewel center’ of his obsession, letting the words flow out in a ‘sea of language.’ The crucial component in the creative process is the ‘moment of writing.’ ‘Blow! - now!’ he urged. ‘Tap … the song of yourself.’ "

- ‘Subterranean Kerouac’, 48

Walden vs. Walden. The irony of a chewed up book. (Taken with instagram)

Interior met exterior when I came upon these words;


“After all, we planted the fruit trees that nourished the bees. We tended the hives as they swelled with honey. We knew where that food came from, down to the square foot and sticky tiles.”


It read like poetry within Amtrak’s (always surprisingly great) ‘Arrive’. The article was by a hyperlocal foodie and titled, “Tasting Terroir” after a French term used to describe a taste that is “of the place.”


This passage resonated with recent thoughts I’ve been having about achieving a true ‘sense of place’ and tapped into more literal strides I’ve made to become a better localized consumer.


I figure, if you can’t write about Urban Agriculture on a city-bound train traveling through Dutch country, where can you?


What I really hope is that this farmers market renaissance we are seeing now, is not simply some encore of something past. This sad thought crossed my mind yesterday as I combed through the vendor tables at Eastern Market in East York. For a few moments the atmosphere made me feel like I was somewhere else, a foreigner lost in a crowded Asian market. A visitor from the Twilight Zone perhaps. But I realized, as much as I value sustainability, and fancy the idea of a life spent shoulder deep in fresh herbs and honey, I am a foreigner to it. Most of us today are.


Thankfully, the people behind the Urban Agricultural revival are of America’s most stubborn profession. They are holding on in dwindling numbers, and I bet I know why.


First. They feel a deep rooted responsibility. To their history, to our future.


Second. Well… Here, I planted my first
Herb/tomato garden last year when I was living in Virginia. Plucking that Rosemary or Basil to use in the kitchen was such an amazing feeling. Multiply my 5 plants by say, 5,257 and I can begin to understand the emotion of our nations growers.


Like the author of this article, they know the taste of ‘Terroir’.


I may only be an agricultural admirer, but travel, I do know a bit about. Especially (in this business) moving often and trying to quickly become a part of something. Trust me, to begin to know a place you must know it’s taste. Delicious and worth it.

As always, Dig in =)