Yew Tree, In Deep Woods

Maybe its not clear in this pictures, but in the center there is a frail tree, on the side of a hill, in the shade of cedars and alders, and Sword fern all around.

I went to Mercer Island today, where I rarely go, I went to measure a house (I work as an architect), and on the way back, I drove down into the long ravine i grew up in, and stopped my car, and walked into the woods to see if places that existing in my memory, places that are mythic and huge to me, and clear as any childhood memory of being in the woods can be, were still there, I took the risk, and went to see. Its all park now, so a lot is unchanged.

I went to look for a Yew tree that used to grow here, and a deep pond we floated rafts in, and of course, it was all much more compact than i recalled it, and there were hills and areas i have no memory of, and places I recall that i can find no place for- but the Yew tree- I knew it was here then, and I recall climbing into it, and it's berries, so odd, and drawing the berries, and looking it up in my Tree books, and knowing that Robin Hood made bows out of Yew, and wondering how I might do the same. I suppose I did, I can't recall.

It has been 4o years, and a tree in 40 years should get pretty big. There was no big tree. Over the years, I have thought about this tree, and I figured it had been found out when Taxus had become a hot commodity, in the 80's?, and the tree had met its fate.

So- at first, no tree. Though i found what i think was a shallow basin of Sword fern that was once a pond.  I wanted to bring my sister back here- what do you remember about this place? Do you remember us lined up on the bank, and someone on a rickety float? Was there a rope swing?

But then, walking back to my car, stopping here and there to stare at the shape of the land, to see if inspired a memory, i saw it, higher up on  hill then I recall. But the same as it ever was. Not like I thought it would be. Hard to see how I climbed into it. And,I saw it's dying. Thin, small, with only the wisp of leaves left, it never really flourished in the woods. But a beautiful quirk, an anomaly among alders and cedars.  Yew is a rarity. Have you seen one? Do you know it has red berries?

 No progeny, despite berries.  I know this is not My Grandfather's Clock, but there are more layers here that I am not sharing (how my father owned this land and developed it, and who lived here and what became of them), so its a poignant as a tree can be for me, and i spent a lot of childhood time in trees (as I am sure you did), and this was a unique one. Still, it could be that when the tree goes, I go. Same day. I suppose trees can go in a day. Total coincidence, we're not bonded in any way. But I seriously doubt that in these woods, in the damp and dark, that anyone else even knows it existed, and I would bet, that only one child has ever climbed it to look at the berries, and I am sure, that only one 52 year old balding fellow ever came back to find it.

None At All, At the Side of the River

I sat at a picnic bench watching the sun set down, and the river was swollen up and flowing in swirls, up river, down river, in circles, and smooth. Full, churning. I had ink, and a plate, and a box of pencils, and a stack of newsprint, and tried to get one bit of what I saw drawn out. But I got very little, I feel, I just don't have the skill, the only thing you can do is knuckle down and focus and trace the lines and the shadows, and pick what is important, and draw, like you've drawn all your life, and hope for the best. This type of drawing is backward, more like photography, you don't know what you have til you're done. So much is chance- its  a print, backwards.

The wealth of things to draw from this picnic bench, in the last light of the valley, is enormous. And the primary force here is the force of a river night, black is blacker than black, the clouds billow, but like shadows, and light is focused in on place, the sun, now set, and the trail of brightness that follow it below the western hills. And there is a chill rising, a dampness, and the sound of the river which is totally on its own, no one, but me, I think, observing.

Once you begin, to draw the evening, the world swells and punctuates, and subtle colors, and tiny changes in light, are this enriching experience, deep wells. Deep wells you fall into, and excuse me, deep wells you fall into and see stars, like kaspar hauser, and its not like its just dark, but its all around.

Maybe if you fish, you get to see this.

I draw a line by watching the edge of something, and pull it, and feel how much i press into the plate so it hurts, and i think- am i weak with this? And pull it strong, and press hard and make this line the record of this tree, and follow it up again, and know that the tree swells at its base, and that its line shifts, this way, then that.

Is it important? To anyone? Whats important. Whats important. I don't have any idea. None at all.

Not some Damned Painter, Playing Bass

I play musical instruments, and have lots of them. None of which I play that well, but not because I don't want to. I am not even that musical, and can't hardly memorize a thing. Yet I really love it. I love the art of it, the science of it, the way one skill builds on another, the way that practice opens up new experiences. And I know that there are millions of musicians far better than I could ever be, and I struggle. And I know, that fundamentally, despite me being an architect an painter and drawer and reader, and the world coming through my eyes, that it is ears that matter, That music is the lion tamer.

I play bass now, with this old awesome red epiphone that Denny found in an alley, and gave to Stuart, and Stuart is selling it to me for $62.50. I don't even know if it sounds that good, but what I like about playing bass- and this is so like painting- is that for the most part, its one note at a time, and the deepest, most thunderous, darkest, fundamental part. of music. I play other things, blah blah blah, but the bass, its a 2x4, will whack you on the side of the head, will carry you.  Painting is one stroke at time, one paint daub, one line. Your arm, your hand, one mark. Like the bass. I think there is a link here.

Last night I played at the amazing Steven Bell's studio, Top of the Hill, up in the woods, rain pouring down, as sort of a session musician, for this corny, but loveable, composer, and just tried to do my best. I had to know what a half diminished chord was, and how to play E flat, and all that, and it just fits  me and how I think about the world. That it is beautiful, or not, but always, there is structure, and sense, and a way it is put together and a way to take chaos and organize it and make it something that has deep feeling.But- there's this Pythagorian sense to it, not good, not evil, just there, abiding.


The drummer, who I don't think I have ever met, went to my same high school. Graduated a year after. Knew my dad, said he had a great sense of humor. Said he was in band and was a stoner. Said his band teacher was a stoner. Went to the same middle school, but not to the hippie one I went to (we were in portables).  Knew what I knew. Remembered what I remembered. And he had this great attitude. But when I looked at him, I thought, he looks old. Not bad, but done. And I am older. I know, its what happens, but it scared me,.

And the guitar player- I worship the guy- soulful and a great bluegrass voice, and I smoked a cigarette with him out in the rain and he said he was an air force brat, and never made friends, and I told him, man, I have seen you play for 10 years, up at maltby even, and you are awesome, great way of being on stage, great presence. Love your band (man). Pretty much boy talk, out in the rain, and a cigarette is way too short to get all of one's ideas into it.

The composer had a beautiful daughter, or wife, or friend, I have no idea. He was brooding, friendly, odd,  a good person, who knew what he wanted. He said, play a third here, not the tonic. I am an architect. I know what a third is because I read about it in the encyclopedia. Which i saw a whole set for free on Craigslist today. I play it as well as I can. This is just a short song, but I want to get something right, so I can be here again. I am here because the engineer thought an old epiphone would sound right. I trey not to drink too much, but it is really hard. And I try to focus.

I don't get to play much music where people are really listening, and telling me I am playing the wrong note (how embaressing), but it feels right. Painting has no equal. Painting is by yourself. Its you, and you and the stuff on the canvas, and your rolling thoughts. Music is with other people. Or can be. Painting can't be. I have, I think, both parts. Mostly the painting part, but what I want, is, I want to be Bob Dylan, not some damn painter, not Jackson Pollock. In any case, 52, time's up. I feel this. I know there are a few years to go, but really. Time's up.

I spent an hour with a CPA, asking how to make my business work, now that I am unemployed. He has a globe in his office, and every year travels somewhere. He says Africa is best, Zimbawa, and I thought, he is right, its this globe, its seeing things, and you will never see enough, I spend my time in a tiny drainage ditch, a river, a few homely towns, and see nothing. He said, look at this printer, it prints out postage stamps and there's no fee.

What is this all about?

River, Cat, Same Motifs

I thought today- I need a new motif- something else to paint but the same river. There's stuff all over the place, this valley is full of things to paint. But despite best intentions, I ended up there. In the cold.

And painted two paintings, and came back to the studio, and drew my neighbor's cat.


I've rebuilt my paintbox, very successful and I think its going to make me a better painter. I got rid of all the small paints, just put the big ones in, and moved the brushes to the back so they don't get so badly splattered, and I can see them and not have to move my palette to get to them. I use metal flashing and pop rivets, and have built it a few different ways. This is by far the best so far.

Here is what i painted. The first is painted over the Oxbow painting, a few entries back. Nothing symbolic about it, it just felt too worked on. The second is on linen. Hard to see in my picture, abstractish, but something I am way more interested in than most of what i do,. And then there are two cat monoprints, done in the studio after I did these, in black ink. Fat pencil.

Cold Coming On

The sun was setting down. I couldn't find my keys. Then I couldn't find my inks. And the sun just got lower and lower, and I thought, dammit, why is it that when I get some damned ambition about doing something, I can't find anything? Upstairs, downstairs, etc.

I went to the park, below my house, I drew with this new system I am working on. I can't show you. I have the wrong this-and-that to stick into my machine, so will have to show this work later. (its later- I added some below).

 As I walked through the park, there was Rich, throwing a ball for Goose, his Yellow Lab. He's wearing sunglasses, though the sun is well down.

And I said how are doing Rich? With my gear banging about like a ... I cant recall, those guys that sold pots and pans in medeival times.

And he said, are you painting? I said no, drawing. He said it's going to be cold and I'd have a half hour.

He was Special Forces. Wounded. Something wrong with his head, wears camo. Has headaches, on a ton of meds, divorced, VA hospital, in constant pain. Never sleeps.  They call him the Angry Man at the local coffee shop, but I never see it. I remember his name, and his dogs, as I think of the Golden Goose, who made his owner Rich. And I like him.

On the other side of the park- and this isn't some fancy Seattle park- this is a wet, foggy, not too well laid out country park on a river, without a budget- there's this group of hippie kids, version 2012, doing what looks like Tai Chi. But its not. I can't focus, so I can't really tell. But they hold out their arms every once in awhile and talk to each other, sometimes on one leg. Its pretty far away, but besides me and Rich, that's all there is in the park.  And Rich leaves with Goose.

So I take a picnic table and lay out my glass and ink up the plates, and the fog is rising up from the fields, slowly, and the sun is well down. And, well, its the witching hour. Its when the best of all things happens. Blacks are blacker than black, and you can stare into the shadows along a river, in a clump of trees, and nothing, ever, has been blacker, richer. And a twist of thorny blackberry vine, in loopy curves, with a dwindle of 5 grouped leaves, seems intenser, redder, sharper, than it ever felt in Summer. A salmon splashes. And splashes again. And I look down the river at the bends and turns and swirls of last light, and the blackest clumps and trunks of trees, and say, out loud, my god. And mean it, or the intent of it. Because always, this is happening, everywhere, and we sleep, and work, and eat, and argue, and worry, and yet, down by the river, there's this spectacular activity of dark and color, ethereal, changing. Dripping.Splashing.

Its like looking at a cloud changing, and saying, well, that was a very, very nice sunset. Love the clouds. But this is like the opposite of a sunset, the dark, the mysterious, the cold and rising fog, and the total soup of life hunkering down for the winter. A vee of ducks, then another, head north (?), and each tree holds its own, sold. And grass lies down. And there are these delicate swirls in the water, rounded punches, quiet.

And yet:. this happens all the time for eyes that are sufficiently thin skinned, and have nothing else to worry about. There's some sort of psychology here. Something physiological happens,I just know this to be true. You thin the skin on your eyes by looking, and looking, and peering into a shadow, and suddenly, the whole world is sharp and intent and well, otherwordly. Its Carlos Castaneda. That  faker. I know that in my whole life, it is the realest thing I know, the thing I hang on to. Which is what?

That the Universe is cold, but beautiful. And hopefully, we end out days with sleep, admiring the beautiful, and not freaking out about the cold.

Forgetting What Matters

I drive down the highway in my truck and there is this constant swirl of leaves flying up out of the bed behind me. I keep thinking its a tool or something important shooting out, but I see in the rear view mirror that it lightly falls, no one is freaking out.

This morning something I left on the engine hood clunked into the windshield and flew off somewhere. It scared the heck out of me and I barely saw it but I think it was a piece of wood which i have no memory of placing there. It just hit and flew off. Its a bad sign. I have had calls from the library that homeless people have found CDs I've checked out scattered along highway 203, and they returned them. I tend to put important things on roofs of cars and forget them.

Its forgetfulness, and having a lot happening at once, that causes it. I can feel it.