Ophiocordyceps Unilateralis

There were black flies buzzing about my head, when you and I gave a slight wave of recognition. I haven’t seen you in a long while. I’d really been hoping never to see you again- now that we were done with college, and upon leaving we mutually decided not remark any sort of goodbye. So it was, that we’d passed from each other’s lives.

But in this unexpected encounter, we have ruffled the undergrowth of the land I’d now decided to reclaim in peace. It was where I’d laid out to dry the spot cleaned fibers of my youth, and shook out the dust against the side of the old college apartment.

I knew looks on my back, so I was twitchy, walking the hiking trail stalked by my old friends- the benevolent and righteous observers.”You’d better get mean too boo”, and so it was then in my head the last time we spoke.

Since then I’ve become aware that calcified grudges are hardest to weed from the garden.

We were all just kids then, but old enough for my own paranoia to seep in to the fungal tissue of my brain, like spores which make good on their promise in age. In the growing moss on the spinal column, and raised heartbeat as we pass one another, there is a certain sickness in the growing mass which hopes to spread. But I know that no one will ever truly win this war of my own imagining.

 

I know there is no parade in the city, nor felled opponent at high noon in the desert.

Rather, there is a quiet field of black mushrooms, come up out of the ground, in the spot where our mutual hatred silently slipped past one day in July outside the library.

-RSD.

 

 

 

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Great Camp Sagamore, and other Visitations of the Past

In the morning, in Prozac dreams, I have known myself to go to war. The fields of battle used to move and speak to me. I knew them as friends, from when I was younger than I am now. At the end of our time together, none of them ever said goodbye, even though I wasn’t planning on doing it myself. It still hurt. I am still a child, and a bitter one at that.

I’m back at Great Camp Sagamore, where I started my college days years ago. It is an almost untarnished, well-polished, and immaculately maintained memory. But there too- is the salt of my old forms of warfare. I have held many grudges since then. It is seeping through bulkheads. At night, the rivets begin to loosen, and the outer hull ripples with the passing of undetected icebergs.
You will never get your revenge, but that doesn’t stop me from wanting it. Scratches and scrapes against the bottom paint. I’m waiting for the boiler room to flood, ear against the floor where below the ice echoes like sonar into the deep. I like to imagine the reverberation of my calamity can be heard for miles around, though I am sure it is nothing more than the blip of a plane splashing down into the Pacific, and the victor makes a token of rocking the wings, before turning into the sun.

We wore sneakers in the long dew-covered grass at the beginning. Remembering my former self from those early college days is like stepping into the dawn. Like the faithful old mornings here at Sagamore. Step outside, and you are in it- you re filled with a strange sort of hope. But then, where to now Sir? Calls the mate. You can do anything but you could also do nothing, so sayith the Lord, or something to that degree. I was never one for scripture, though it has been filling my uncertainties like caulk in a rotten bilge for some time now.
We used to lay on the stained old pool table in the basement of the dorm hall, talking of nothing, and flirting of even less. But in the years that followed, happy college days became a curdled memory and coagulated with a great deal of mutual rage.
I wish we’d known it sooner, before I waltzed over to her house four years later, and divided I wanted to incite the truth out of her. I was not to be disappointed of what followed. And I was no longer alone in my tarnished memory of myself, though I think it had been that way for a long while before then.

The sky turns a more pleasant shade of blue over the great camp, as the true morning comes on. The sky is free of planes, the lakes free of ocean liners and icebergs. Only the black flies encircle my head like dive-bombers. A quaint reminder of the cost of the war I’ve been waging, and the strain on the economy of my being I have wrought in myself.

 

Thoughts On the Music My Father Used to Listen to When He Was Once My Age, or Thereabouts.

Give up on that 70’s and 80’s music , like giving up on your weekend plans. Listening to words is something not typically associated with your miscellaneous habits, of which have existed since Shaker Heights and the jumping off the water fall and the mob bombings in your hometown.

Cleveland Ohio, where the suicidal men in station wagons are discovered by you and your friends parked late at night nestled with a 12 gauge, and children have been known to shoot out the windows of their neighbors garage. House of your stepfather, House of the golden child, and smiling 35mm film snapshots. You left quite a paper trail on the outskirts of your youthful rebellion. I’m somewhere up on the fourth floor, in the creaking night with my brother watching television. We called several times, staying up till someone got home, scared to death of burglars and God knows what else.

It was only later, when I’d grown up a little, and you’d left my mother and were living in the next town over, that I thought of your childhood home while sitting on the porch my own- the one we now had to sell. There is no third or forth floor, just the second floor and the basement, my humble monetarist by the sea in the face o your Gothic cathedral. Still, both places are quiet enough now that their children have grown and left. Walking through my empty childhood bedroom is like walking through a crypt on the second floor. I imagine it must be similar for you. What was it then, that drove you to such lengths to run away? I am at the top of the stairwell outside what used to be yours and my mother’s bedroom. Is it wise to linger in places such as these?

The abbey beneath the mountain has a voice all its own. What did the voice of your parents house tell you? Did it recall dreams of your teenage parties, girlfriends, and adventures? Did it make the rift in you that you sought to fill with a new family, new friends, and new children? Or was there something unsaid in the product of the soil, the broken lawn mower in the shed, and the waterlogged firewood by the porch? Maybe it was simply the act of questioning what mystery lay within the locked doors upstairs, where you once lay prone on the roof smoking cigarettes with your brother. They are not evil spirits, certainly, but the poltergeist in us all has an innate longing for the past, and will do anything to make it so.

“Guy Cotten” in Yellow

The St Ives fisherman’s co-operative at the end of the wharf near Smeaton’s Pier sits quiet compared to the ice cream shops and fish and chips shops. In the windows are things attuned to the casual visitor. A few days after I went I read about the shop, which had been there since the 1920’s. Back then they used to sell oilskins and heavy waxed boots. The air held a perpetual musk of linseed oil and paraffin. Today they sell sweatshirts and a few raincoats. Fisherman’s tackle is in the corner by the door. The ceiling is low. I have to duck a little under the rafters.
At first through the threshold I am alone. Its only after I start wandering around that a thin man in his mit to late 60’s emerges from some secret place in the shop. I could have sworn it wasn’t big enough to hide anyone, and yet as if from the woodwork he was there in the corner, watching me intently. I think he believed I might try to steal something.
I’d come in originally looking for a yellow nautical rain slicker, the kind that the oyster farmers I see setting up coolers on Water Street back home wear under large overalls in high visibility orange. Sometimes I wish I had their job. Even in the summer heat under the rubber gear I pass by them and hear their weathered voices laughing with a vitality that my day job seems to suppress in me.
I grew up on the water. My grandfather taught me to sail and signed me up for sailing camp, but I quit around the time I turned sixteen. However, now that I’m older and he passed away, breathing the salt air in deep comes with dreams of those few times when I was younger and sky was grey, and I remember the sea really being something wild. I picture myself running with the waves in a two man racing dingy, the spray dripping off my yellow lifejacket that seems to strain with me against the wind and the pull of the sheet. If I close my eyes on a bus or a train I can sometimes feel the rhythmic thrashing of the waves on the hull when it missed the valley beneath the crest and shuttered along the beam.
The co-op is quiet compared to the busy street. It’s early summer in Cornwall and the weather has been clear since I arrived in England. I haven’t yet found myself in need of a raincoat. I’m flipping through the yellow coats on the rack with nautical striped lined hoods and attractive zippers when the guy says in a quiet abruptness, “Those-re all ladies jackets”.
“Yah hard to tell right away sometimes”. I notice I’m slurring my words a little, trying to sound like there’s a dryness in my throat from the salt air. He doesn’t say anything, or he doesn’t hear me. I pull from the rack on the far left side away from the window a plain looking baggy yellow jacket- the spitting image of what the fisherman at home wear. It’s a highlighter yellow, but I call it “hi-vis” when I pull it from the rack and bring it to the man’s attention.
“This looks like a real one” I say, pausing a little, hoping hill fill the void in my knowledge which really only goes so far as “this looks like a real one”.
“yeh, it’s a proper rain jacket. Has the fused seams rather than stitched”. He handles the rubberized fabric and instantly finds an example, but falls quiet again.
“How’s fishing around here?” I start, “I’m from a coastal town like here. I’ve got a friend who’s an oyster farmer who told me there’s no money in it anymore. All the fish are gone.” I’m trying hard to sound like I know what I’m talking about. It’s only half true. I do know someone in oyster farming, but we’ve never really talked about her work, and don’t know how related if at all that is to the fishing industry. I just know you can’t just buy a proper fisherman’s rain slicker without knowing something about the sea. I check and recheck my record. I could mention that I used to sail, but that was in sailing camp, and these guys didn’t start in any sort of summer camp. The man in the co-op certainty didn’t I think. Did he fish? Does he just work here? There are deep crests of wrinkles on his forehead and his hair is cut short and out of the way. His face is laconic, which only serves to alert me to how much mine gives away. I’m curling my toes in my boots and sweating in my t-shirt. He had me pegged from the moment I walked in. I just know it.
“There’re still some little boats around that still go out with nets,” He says. “ And the big trawlers make the money. It’s the medium fishermen” He doesn’t finish his sentence. I assume he means, “It’s the in between sized fishing ventures that failed”. I ask him if he did any fishing himself and he says. “A little, yes”.
I buy the jacket. It’s a baggy medium. “Probably to fit a sweater under” I say in front of him to myself, but I know it’s made for someone of a different build. He thanks me for my fifty and I walk out into the cloudless sun of St. Ives with the yellow rubber folded under my arm. In the harbor it is low tide, and a small fleet of boats lays beached waiting for the water to come back in. Their lines run entrenched in the sand, crisscrossing small channels of salt water, which run from pools at the base of the crowded break wall. Beyond the many beach goers lying amongst the boats, the coastal waters reflect back an empty and unbroken blue.

hladová zeď

The ancient Soviet pipes,
Left the water tasting
Strongly of Iron
from the kitchen sink.

The old TV tower, like a monolith
Alien in the sky over
The Jewish quarter,
And the medieval city.
The cluttered old cemetery.

Night bus like a chariot.
They’ll sell you water
For a few Crowns, but coffee is free.

My home is somewhere far off,
An old house near but not on
The coast. Where it is quiet most days,
And nothing spits waves high above the trees.
There is no hunger wall, no old fortification,
Climbing the hill.

When the shock wore off,
My boot socks had worn through
Leaving blisters on my feet.
I can still taste moldy cheese,
The day after I left.
Like broadcasts set high into the stratosphere,
Linger in the air
Of decades and centuries prior.
Or at least, so says my guidebook
Of the Charles Bridge.

Ironwoods

10382302_10204384985254981_8932963122963137300_oMy name, like courage, held in the drifting lights
that faded away from the kitchen as we woke up.
Backseat, waiting for your train.
Strong aversions to how things had gone sour
held out like pockets on the eastern front.

I’d been here before, retracing felled ground, examining foothills and farmhouse nests, reclaiming my own life.
The one that had proven its foundation and faith.
A vaulted ceiling gathers soot like a well loved collection
of coffee mugs in the cupboard
and socks in the drawer.

Where the floor rattles a little with the switching on of the air conditioning, and where shadows and cracked pavement climb steep up Ironwood,
Is where summer peace grew like sea grass
holding in the shoreline, like you held me
On foggy nights,
Soft by the seaside,
For years of green.
Waves like the wild
You motioned to show me,
the courage in the calm of your mists.

I Waterlogged the Electric Kettle

Board games on the coffee table with the dual innocence where we once were as children,

but now soiled skin.

There’s too much baggage in our collective bedrooms. So start anew at six and seven. Benefits of skipping the younger years, maybe fashion someone that will share in your condition.

Throw open the sash after Christmas, a spring cleaning of sons. I should have noticed sooner,

but you covered your bases, assured me of the unchanging nature of things. I remember your embrace when I left for Ireland at the airport.

But of course it’s changing. And you knew that even then, since November or before. You delayed me- got to me first. Before I was standing at the sink, holding the electric kettle under the tap, when I noticed and forgot the water running cool over my hands.

The thought came then.

Replaced.

Replaced.

Replaced.

Word Association

Though the the street sleeper isn’t moving, his paperback lies beside him.

I have a paperback on music theory in my bag.

It is always late in the German supermarket, always an hour before closing.

Processed food can bring you home for a time.

I read somewhere that GIs in the 40s would trade all of their rations for Coca Cola,

to bring them home.

The sake drunk on the last night of the Yamato brought them home.

Ten-Go, like drunk nights with you in the light of the dorm room, talking of adolescent histories.

Was it the same theme? The same needless things young people say? In the drunk night between the watertight compartments. Shut in when she rolled to  port.

The water rumbling like my insides, gurgling through the catwalks and over causeways.

You know-

It’s been some time since I’ve seen the ocean.

Since Galway I think.

I was alone then- I stayed the night, and walked to the harbor in the hour before my train.

It was the closest I’d felt to home.

Freighter- Clyde Puffer.

Lost Liner- Empress of Ireland

Fairey Swordfish biplane- high above that miserable wreck brandishing an Iron Cross,

cresting the waves to make one last run before the Germans scuttle her.

Carry me back, in some form or another to when peace is declared,

and the Atlantic is hushed,

when I find my way back to where I am from.

Arthur Kill Ship Graveyard

Take to your holds, your windswept hovels and your ships quarters. Below deck, down the old oak folding ladder with speed, and nearly run right into the center table where we ate dinner, built by my grandfather, suspended on a clever balance, like the stove, and the lanterns dry of oil. Take to your headaches and your rage that casts light onto the water from the salt crusted windows. Tarnish grows on the metal casting around the glass with each voyage from waters rushing with speed. Motion in life personified by the act of sailing for those who can no longer stand on the mainland. Help the old man into the small boat and haul him up to the deck, his legs at this point in his life, have failed him. Yet even in skiffs do we lose our minds- I remember breakfasts in the morning on the ancient dining room table. I don’t know who in my family squirreled it away or sold it. My grandmother says she’ll never go back to that ruined house now. Empty bedroom, apparitions in the stovepipe- the windows overlooking Pocha Pond. I would take to that place were it still ours, were it not sold but were instead rotting- The greenhouse was filled with mildew and dead birds last I visited, and a harmonica echoed in the empty rooms that once held furniture. The old man struggled to breathe through the reeds in his age, no longer able to die in the house he himself built. I would like to sit cross legged on the well loved floorboards, and look out over the collapsing deck. Perhaps the osprey pole is still standing in the marsh. You told me once in a bout of chemically induced adolescence, that you and your friends got drunk and carried the pole there years ago, and in the mud you found deer bones. The sun still shines on that place as it did before. The light taken to our holds when our bodies fail us. When we are angry. When we are powerless and we break the walls in retaliation, and still refuse amputation. These days, I find myself digging through storerooms. Dust covered sewing supplies, old outdoorsman clothes, and cracked VHS tapes with TV recorded movies. Could such relics be found, I’d sit and smoke the pipe that nearly gave you cancer though the collecting fluid in its place damn well finished the job. The fog of smoke would rise as it did from the office when you practiced law amongst empty bookshelves and a light spot on the floor in the corner that the grand piano once occupied. I stood in its usual place, and felt I was trespassing. The rooms where we stayed are still painted morning yellow and a gentile blue- though the corners now grey with webs, and the bodies of spiders. You called it Avalon, the island where everybody knew your name, and it passes from us now like storm clouds over the marsh. Near the end we took to rocking waters sinking ships across the harbor. The deck of your vessel has rotted through. You motioned to me to sit up front in the old skiff as we left the mainland for the last time- away from ruined kingdoms and legends of deer bones. In those final days you refused the amputation of your legs, though you were no longer able to stand on them. You called me “my boy” back then. When my life feels like a gale- I think of you. I think of avalon and the sails of little ships making their way out from the beach head. I think of sunscreen, and I think of the way my hair felt filled with salt. I want to make the trip again to the land just beyond the marsh, and see who lives there now. I don’t know if they’ve done away with the house. Still, I will tell them of you, And from such stories of Avalon, I will make them know they are trespassing on the graveyard of Arthur.

Random Recollections and a Feverish Misalignment: Harbor walks no one remembers. Yet it is always a pleasant surprise, when an old friend remembers my living room

This afternoon, I found myself missing that noble and desolate season that can only be found on the dock by the drawbridge in October. Wind swept- the sea turning sour. From these banks I might stay indoors and watch the rain make its way down onto dried leaves and run with Water Street in a dim daylight that pulls away memories formed in the garish lights of the summer night. Back when this was our mutual meeting ground. Back when the porch was filled with glazed eyes of familiar faces from grade-school. These days our friends, and our acquaintances drift from here and all that are left are the sad ones, looking over memories from the safety of smudged single pane windows. Working behind the counter of the old haunt.
These streets in winter spoke of long gone footsteps. Between school days, weekend nights spent in kitchen and taking care of the neighbor’s cat. Wandering the harbor’s edge, speaking quietly of nothing. Trespassing empty homes and gated neighborhoods. Of kisses on the living room couch and my little brother’s attempts to ruin dates. I waited under the light of the ferry office for the bus with an old friend once. The old tree on the Green became a perch from which to observe the quiet street below. I had just started drinking coffee then. I remember the taste in my young mouth in winter and of freckled grins and of the dusty air of the stagecraft room where we spent our afternoons.
I guess there’s not much more to say. I miss that season of years. Of a feeling of unity of self I never knew I had until I lost it. Ages go by with alarming frequency. I know that now. In part of me, I wish to abandon New York for a time, and return in search of something I can’t put my finger on. To try and return on an empty dock overlooking the water. The sea has turned sour, yet the spray is salty and the same. Time to steady myself on the empty season, and shove off again.