L'aura del Campo

Fight Club

Winter: 12 Mulk (February 18)

I MAY NOT BE POSTING A TREASURE OF THE DAY NOR MY SKETCHES UNTIL I HAVE TIME TO FOCUS ON SOMETHING OTHER THAN DAILY PERSONAL CRISES.

Please understand .

2006-02-18
morning, 11 degrees. 13 in Buffalo, NY.

Very cold last night. Very windy in WNY where my mother lives. Areas lost power while the temperature plumetted.

No good news. I may be writing an artcle to the newspaper about the level of violence in this town. Saw one catfight between Heidi and Marcie yesterday (Heidi was drunk). Tish was getting all over Mark because he was creating a problem for Trav (Mark was drunk). I missed an earlier fight between William and Lamont (the police were called). I could've gotten into it with Larry B. and if he does his shit again today I might! If I could avoid this situation, I would. Made phone calls to bring in the 'troops' to monitor the chaos. Will I need to call the police today?

If you don't hear from me for a few days, will you understand?

Everyone is on edge, the local drunks keep on drinking and the local addicts keep on using, and everybody is fighting over the last crumb. Very bad situation for everyone.

Since I don't drink and don't use, I'll never understand completely.

Last night I read poems at Aimée's. Cary, Bill, Eric, Richard and Vincent read also. Here at WDC the female:male ratio for poetry must be 5:1. But it's been months since we've had a female poet read on 3rd Fridays! And there was only one woman in the audience. Odd, isn't it?

Read a poem by Richard Hugo, Letter to Simic from Boulder, to show off Hugo's sense of humor and his wonderful lyrical style. I then read them my Letter to Mark from Massachusetts Street to show them how I was influenced by Hugo's style.

I also read Constellation of the ox, Season of the yellow bird poop, Winter Reflection of the bells and introduced why I wrote them. 'Ox' was from a prompt by two local writers. 'Yellow poop' came from comments of these two writers and thoughts about a friend I had just called as I was sitting in the antique store adjoining Aimée's. And everyone in town is familiar with the bell tower.

So, I'd have to say it went more than okay. One of the guests suggested a theme of 'bridges' (as in the things that bring us together) for next time. That was warmly recieved. We spoke about the writing community (cliqueish) and reaching out to the university students (snooty).

I sang praises for the Gypsy Café in Tulsa and the writing scene in Tulsa in general. It's been a year since I've been able to visit .

There has to be a poets colony somewhere in North America where it isn't so expensive to live, where there are jobs, where the writers actually support each other. Anyone know of such a place? I'll still need an MFA degree at some point, but living here is killing me.

2006-02-18
vespers, 17 degrees. Minot, ND 20; Calgary, Alberta, 27; Fairbanks, Alaska, 24.

It is much warmer far north-west of here. Inthe North-East it is a bitter -4 in Paul Smiths , NY in the Adirondacks Mountains.

Have gotten through the day with eating very little. Have spent a lot of time updating my spleen and composing a letter to local people-in-power telling them how-amused-I-ain't. I'll look over it tomorrow and decide whether to send it.

Haven't even seen the Olympics. This is NOT good. I'd rather be curled up on a couch with a good book and a cat, watching the drama on tv unfold.

Sketch from February 10th:

Lines on a map to nowhere

i

Grey lines lay like scars acoss this map, the faint reminder of where horse and cart once breached the prairie rock and grass. I choose this way down graded gravel, stone and dirt, old paths where long-stemmed blue attempts to take it back, erasing wounds on this womb of Earth.

ii

The riverbed lays dry, a thin blue line according to my map. An intermittant dot and dash, it meanders through the pasture, resting among the stones and moist cow plops.

iii

I pass from mud to worn macadam. I've crossed the county line. No signs are needed in this emptiness. The vulture circles, could not care less. From its vantage point I'm just another spot that moved, inedible today. Perhaps tomorrow? Here nothing remains indelible, except the rock.

iiii

Where the stream bed crosses the gravel road, a house. No windows, a few white flakes of paint remains. The old map shows more buildings and a name. There's no one here to call it. The cemetary's overgrown, a berry patch. I do not tarry long.

iiiii

These flat green hills resist the plow. In the photo-map, they're merely pimples crossed by thin grey lines and a thin brown slash. I drive through dimples and cross the ten-ton bridge. Going nowhere, I part the waving long-stem grass. [162.750]