Too Alive?

Too alive?
Can one be too alive,
so buzzing with life force that numbing the spark is a neccesary survival strategy?

How does one harvest that much energy,
with no audience,
rooted too firmly in place?

Dark Forces

People, some people, have a dark core from which emanates their creative juices, a curse to be sure, but the part of them that makes them who they are. To love is to praise the highs and comfort the lows, to caress that pushing away, and steer clear of the minefields left in its wake.

Good men gone

Good men have died, leaving us to go on in the ripples of their passing.

I fear that I shall leave no wake in passing, but slip silent beneath the waters of life.

How often do others think to remember Fred or Rob or Mike?

What can we do to honor their lives, their memories? What lessons in which to partake?

• Remember those who have gone.
• Treasure those who have not.

These are the important pieces of your life beyond your skin that connect directly to your soul.
These are the extensions of life worth living.

"No time, but there is no time," you cry.

So it may seem, but there will be time enough when time passes to haunt you until the end of your days.

Spring is here!

Chickadees cheerfully exchanging their gleeful call of "Spring's here!"
as wet snow slumps from moss-covered rock.

Ice fountains drape the trailside ledged, gripping stone as if to hang on 'til June. And, perhaps in some dark wood, they shall.

The air is alive with the rush of wind in pines, filling the wood with the rush of a distant sea and the creak of a tall ship under sail.

Somewhere, unseen, water moves, drips, and rings like chimes in a deep groto.

In prelude to mud season, warm air moves over snow-laden topography - the unique mountain spring weather of teeshirts and winter boots, four-wheel drive and open windows.

With cold nights and warm days, maple trees stand waiting for the first taps of the season. Snowshoes and high taps this year, buckets placed bottom to snow lest they be too high to tip at season's end.

And soon shall be star-filled nights at the boiler, with woodcocks whistling in the darkened skies.

Spring is here. And THIS is spring in the Adirondacks.

Farewell?

I fear I may one day soon be forced to say goodbye to these beloved Adirondacks. I wish I could say I leave it in good hands, but I wonder . . .

What HAS happened to the "Adi-round-dacker," the pure-blood sons & daughters of those who made this place their working home? Displaced by the landed gentry; rejected by those they once served as too stupid to do what is right. I hold no romantic ideal that they were true stewards of this land. But who are the stewards now?

As mud season oozes onto the land & waters of this mountain plateau, whose footprints shall reveal the true path? And whose shall be just fleeting prints of exploitation?

Many claim these mountains & waters as the home of their heart. What is the value in that, being kept as a recreational toy to be taken out when time allows and remembered only as fond memories of a place visited?

This is the state of our natural world. An ecotourism play park.

(he says as he sits parked in his SUV at South Creek - but at least I, unlike many, generally require this vehicle as a means of my livlihood)

Marriage & Life

Marriage,
and life within a marriage,
beats at you until you feel you can not stand it any longer.
Is it the true test of faith
that you remain when you could leave?
What is in the hearts of those who remain together for life?
And those who remain long after life is death?

Dark thoughts for a bright, warm morning.

Pieces

Who am I?
How do the pieces of a life fit together to form the heart of one man?
What of the unique vision of my eyes? Deeper, clearer - not the
surface you see. Turned now by human values to profit, to visible purpose & value.

Is it music, my soul?
Is it to define thw grace of God?

Is it a vision I could ever share?

So few have known me, understood me. Not the one whose heart & soul was bound to mine under the ritual of matrimony. But there are the few to whom, like the tide & moon, I am inextricably linked across mpossible distance, perhaps never to part.

An Adirondack Dawn

Pale crescet moon
in a misty midnight-black adirondack sky,
too dark for mountain silhouettes,
punctuated by the occassional flashing red light
like angry eyes loking down on the predawn morn.

Just me, the moon, and the trees
await the sliver hint of day break,
perhaps an hour hence.
The mountains fading in my rearview mirror as the sky finally breaks.
Downstate flatlands may be where my fortunes lie
but it is among those hills where my heart comes alive.
Comes alive yet longs to walk with you
on the shores of the big water.

Ocean-black clouds stretch aceoss a steel blue-grey sky;
sooner thqn expected,
as I descend into Keene Valley.
The Adirondack Mountains shall have their farewell after all.

Atlas Shrugged on Science

"Science? Aren't you confusing the standards involved?. It is only in the realm of pure science that truth is an absolute criterion. When we deal with applied science, with technology, we deal with people. And when we deal with people, considerations other than truth enter the question."

from "Atlas Shrugged" by Ayn Rand