February 25, 2014

I’ve been recently teaching my students Whitman, and introduced them to Ginsberg. While I haven’t written any poetry in a while, I really got inspired by rereading “Howl” and “America” by Ginsberg. At the same time, I have come to the conclusion that I fundamentally hate the 21st century (perhaps more on that later). Anyhow, here’s a quick poem written as a nod towards Ginsberg’s poetry and style.

 

I saw the best minds of my generation

destroyed by a billion tiny screens in silence.

Dreams, thoughts –personal fucking agency —

abandoned to the quiet cadence of mouse clicks,

rhythmic typing, fingers touching glass, searching for connection

on that cold and flawless surface.

 

I saw the young bodies of my comrades fold into themselves —

unnatural arches of the spine, heads down-turned in reverence to their

tiny gods.

 

I saw our hours consumed with raving mad images — bodies and breasts and mountains and makeup —

an unceasing scrolling tumbling river of images,

hope and sighs thrown out tinted windows at highway speeds

I don’t think they’ll be returning anytime soon.

 

No one howls anymore.

 

Our pockets contain:  lint, screens, the entirety of human knowledge

and always loneliness, crouching.

 

Where are our words?

Why don’t we use “whom” anymore?

Why did I find the best of our language outside my neighbor’s trash can, sticky and damp from the rain?

 

I want to speak with you, brothers.

I want to touch you, sisters.

Let’s tell the world we knew to fuck itself

and then take a walk in the woods.

Let’s call ourselves pirates and go build a tree house.

 

The only thing the world can’t give us is innocence.

 

Maybe it’s lying in the neighbor’s trash too.

I better go find it under the rocks in the creek,

maybe in the way you take off your clothes.

 

Oh, and my friends don’t fuck anymore.

They recline pillowed heads,

intoxicate themselves with their blue pixies instead.

500 million bedrooms are strangely quiet — it’s becoming unsettling to me.

 

I give up on you, America,

you and your blue pixies.

I’m tired of your madness cloaked in silence,

your impotent, naked demands.

 

You’ve stolen my mind.

 

I’m starting to lose it

and all I can hear is your evil touchscreen symphonies.

I’ll find it though.

You won’t keep it from me forever.

And I’m starting to get the inkling

it’s around here someplace.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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February 5, 2014

xmas (1 of 2)The woods after the first snowfall have a distinctive sound. The world becomes quieter, and any remaining sound is muffled, as though filtered through cotton. It’s in this new silence that I find myself snowshoeing through the trees. My headlight illuminates the forest ten feet in front of me — the entirety of my universe at this moment. Nightfall is arriving earlier every day here in Alaska, and these woods, now dark and covered with snow, seem strangely unfamiliar.

As I walk, I come upon tracks. With the recent winter storm, these tracks cannot be more than a day or two old. Here a squirrel raced from one spruce tree to the next. As a trapper, one begins to see the world through the eyes of the animals. I cannot help but think of the squirrel as he hopped through the snow. Was he full of fear as he moved through the open, looking skyward for an eagle or owl? Has he stored enough food for the winter? As I imagine him rushing over the snow, anxious and alone, I can almost sense that same feeling of trepidation running through my nerves.

Here an arctic hare made his way along the edge of the willows. It’s been years since I’ve seen many hare tracks on this mountainside, and their huge, soft prints bring a smile to my face. They’ve returned.


 

Hare populations increase and decline in an almost clock-like fashion. Some years their trails crisscross the snow like highways designed by a madman. The animals are pure white and difficult to see, so their roads and back alleys are usually the only sign that they share the woods with me. When they are abundant one can sense their presence from their shadows moving across the snow. Eventually though, their population will collapse. A combination of overpopulation and predation takes their toll, and one winter their tracks will be gone. It will be a few years before I will see their tracks again, and ten before they once again lay down their snowy highways.

The trapper lives within this same cycle of plenty and hardship. The populations of fox, lynx, and coyote mirror the populations of hare, shrew, and squirrel. Trappers must accept, just like the animals they pursue, that their will be lean years and abundant years. Some winters the landscape seems eerily empty —  as though it has been entirely abandoned. Other years, signs of winter life is etched into the snow with myriad footprints.

Trappers can help temper these cycles of overpopulation and collapse. Even to this day, trapping regulations usually stipulate no limit on the number of animals one can harvest in a season. It is up to the trapper to understand these cycles and not exploit the land. If an area is over-trapped, the breeding population of furbearers can no longer maintain itself and the animals will disappear. The landscape is out of balance, and will remain out of balance for some time.

Likewise, areas that remain untrapped suffer the worst of the boom and bust cycle. Without trappers to temper the number of predators, they can decimate the population of prey animals making the recovery of prey populations harder. Trapping, in some way, is stewardship of the land. It’s entering and participating in the natural cycles of the wilderness, while still being conscientious of it; making sure one never takes too much…


 

As I continue to walk, I come across fox tracks. A line of deep, straight dimples stretch across the snow in either direction from me. As I follow the tracks, I once again see the world from eyes other than my own. Where was he headed? Was he simply strolling through his territory, enjoying the silence as I do now? Perhaps he was hungry, cocking his head to one side to catch the impossibly faint sound of a shrew beneath the snow. I do not know, but I play all these scenarios through my mind, trying to enter his.

In a world where we think of all knowledge as coldly scientific, a trapper, hunter, or fisherman holds knowledge that is deeply personal. The favorite tree of the resident grouse. The small creek that never seems to freeze. The unpicked harvest of cranberries still on the bush. A trapper find a small piece of earth and lets it teach him. In this way, those lonely souls walking the woods at night carry a knowledge that is deeply personal and utterly unique. They “know” a landscape in a way no one else does.

Many people think of trapping as an activity that is somehow exploitative and wasteful. The idea of harvesting an animal for its fur, in the era of Gore-tex and nylon, seems unnecessary. They visualize scared-looking animals in traps, their dignity stripped from them. The reality of trapping is far more complex.

foxes (1 of 1)When I come upon my catch, there is a mix of emotions. Certainly there is a feeling of pride. I’ve learned what the landscape has been able to teach me. All the scouting, preparation, and work have not been in vain. I’ve entered the animal’s world and have played a fair game.

Often that pride is accompanied by sadness. I’ve spent weeks, maybe months, playing the game and now the game is over. His tracks will disappear from the landscape, hopefully to be replaced next year.

Above all, there is a feeling of respect for the animal. Touching its coat, feeling the softness and warmth, one cannot help but respect an animal that can thrive is such conditions. Every time I catch an animal, I carry it home in my arms. Part of this is pragmatic — I don’t want to damage the fur — but part of it is symbolic. The animal, whose life has been long extinguished, still deserves respect. Many emotions run through me in quick succession as I cradle it in my arms.

Trapping essentially centers around mortality, and I don’t think that fact is lost on many trappers. Trappers delight in a “clean catch,” where the animal was quickly killed and didn’t suffer much. Likewise, one is filled with remorse when one occasionally catches an animal improperly and it’s death was unnecessarily long.

I think about mortality a lot while I’m on the trapline. As I watch relatives die from cancer, as I notice parents getting older and slower, and as I carefully lift the stiff and cold weight of a fox out of the snow, I cannot help but think about death. How will I go? The trapline has illuminated my thoughts on my own ending. My hopes for the fox and myself are the same. In the end, I’m just hoping for a “clean catch.”

Skinning the animal is equally respectful. A well-skinned fur will fetch far higher prices than a sloppy one, but the ritual is more than that. It takes me about an hour and half to skin a fox. Every movement is a gentle one as I use my knife and my fingers to slowly undress it. Its scent fills my nostrils. I fuss and worry over it. For time  to time, and step back purely to admire it.

Once the skin is off, stretched and dry, I take a hair brush and softly comb the hair backwards, revealing the thickness of the fur. It is a final ritual before I put the fur up, to be tanned or sold.

Most humans don’t receive such burial rites.

Once the fox is skinned, I take the carcass and strap it to my backpack or sled. I bring him back to woods, using him as bait for another set. Chances are, the ravens and eagles will get to him first. Most of him is returned to the land from which he came…

Tonight, however, my snares are empty. The fox has been hunting another part of his territory, and his tracks merely pass through this piece of woods. I leave the forest and pull my frosty hat off my head. Behind me, the quiet forest —  my tracks mingling with his.

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December 13, 2013

SoLow-Jersey-Foxy-Flare-detailYesterday, a couple of my acquaintances discussed this article, about Christian modesty and yoga pants, on Facebook. The article puts forth the same message I’ve seen or heard from countless Christian authors over the years. The argument goes something like this:

  • Women should be modest because that is a huge part of their self-worth and identity.

  • Guys are constantly “undressing women with their eyes”

  • Yoga pants (tank tops, jeans with holes, bikinis, etc, etc, etc) inspire lust

  • If women dress in a way that may be construed as “sexy,” they are inspiring men to sin by thinking sexual thoughts, and are “attention whores.”

  • Sexual thoughts and ‘purity’ are some of the most important spiritual concerns.

First, let me say I have nothing against modesty. I’m all for men and women looking classy instead of trashy. What bothers me about this argument (and its many variations) is that it’s a symptom of “1st World Christianity.” Our faith often reflects our culture, and it is never more apparent than in articles like the one above.

Not everything is about us.

1st World Christianity neurotically focuses on the individual. The question,  “Am I spiritually okay?” becomes a repetitive and tyrannical mantra. On virtually every Sunday, in virtually every church, one will hear this same question rephrased and repeated. While there’s nothing wrong with being deeply reflective, taken to the extreme, this obsession with ourselves (and eventually the “spiritual health” of our neighbors)  makes us  fundamentally narcissistic. If I am so focused on myself —  anxious and fearful about my own spiritual health — then of course I will get upset when others become a “stumbling block” and shake my delicate equilibrium.

We need to get out of our own heads, for a spirituality built entirely in our own minds, and centered around ourselves,  is a weak spirituality indeed.

That’s what I find so upsetting about arguments like the article above. The focus is on us and how people perceive us. We are essentially concerned with our image. This attention is not God-focused, it is self-focused. Arguments about yoga pants and Christian modesty encourages us to be just as infatuated with our own self-image as any other member of society. Our standards may be different, but our obsession is the same.

Not everything is about sex.

I swear that one can hear more about sex in many churches in America than on the raunchiest MTV reality shows. Like the rest of our culture, we’re consumed with it. Purity, lust, “courtship”, “taking thoughts captive”: there is an entire vocabulary (and industry) around the idea that our sexual purity is somehow on the very top of God’s priorities.

I’m sorry, but when I read the Bible, I don’t see Jesus criticizing others for wearing headscarves that are too sexy. I don’t remember him accusing people of having sandals that showed too much skin. Instead,  I remember him asking for water from a woman at a well who had been labelled a “whore” by her town. I remember him hanging out with Mary Magdalene and saving the adulteress from getting stoned to death. I remember expensive perfume being poured on his feet as an act of love.

At the end of the day, our obsession with our sexuality (and our sexual thoughts) is not biblical. We live in a culture obsessed with sex, and we’ve simply moved that obsession to the pews.

Maybe we should worry more about the person making the yoga pants.

factory

There is a woman in Bangladesh who made those yoga pants. She lives on 2 dollars a day. She cannot feed her family and lives in the slums.  While she struggles in poverty, American Christians worry about whether their voluminous closets are too lust-inspiring.

I’m not necessarily trying to appeal to our sense of guilt, but I happen to believe that the real sin of yoga pants has nothing to do with the girls that wear them. The real sin is the economic, social, and political systems that allow us 1st World Christians to live in affluence because of the exploitation of others. While I don’t remember Jesus worried about the sexiness of head scarves, I do remember him concerned with the poor, the sick, and the disenfranchised. I remember him flipping the tables of money lenders at the temple, blessing the poor, and encouraging economic justice through a tax-collector named Zacchaeus. In fact, Jesus talks far more about economic issues than sexual ones.

1st World Christians have a lot to worry about spiritually, but yoga pants are not one of those things. In a culture where Mammon is the undisputed god, and both our advertisements and our churches fixate on self-image, being Christ in the world means stepping out of that system entirely. It means getting out of our own heads. It means confronting social, economic, and political Goliaths that are far bigger than ourselves. It means living and speaking in such a way that shouts a giant “F— you” to the destructive and despairing forces of our society and our church. That is hard, dirty work; it will probably ruin your clothes anyway.

Wear what you want.

Ladies, wear what you want. Or wear nothing at all. I’ll be out in my garden, taking care of a small piece of earth God has given me to tend. I’ll be teaching my kids how to live simply and how to find fulfillment in good work.  I’ll be performing small acts of rebellion and resistance to our destructive culture. I’m sure you’ll forgive me if I’m too busy to notice what you’re wearing.

 

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