"I'm going to speak my mind because I have nothing to lose."--S.I. Hayakawa
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Friday, January 23, 2009

the many worlds of wood...

I am a lover of wood.

I love wood in all its many forms and uses, from the beauty of this lakeside paper birch...




..to the determination of this spruce....



...and the longevity of this mature tree.




From the burning glory days of early autumn...


...to the subtle days of late autumn....



....to the the depths of winter....




and even in death....



...wood has the power to hypnotize the senses...




I love wood when it creates homes that welcome...


.... homes that swaddle baby swallows...




...and provides a resting place for young gulls.






I love wood when it creates works of art....


...works of Noel...
....works that turn a roadside weed into a beauty...





... accents wild roses...

... gives sustenance to lingonberry and dogwood....



...works of practical use...




...works of stunning practicality...






.....or is simply wood.



I love to think of a tired goldminer sitting in this chair, resting and daydreaming......




...and of communicating with others....



I love wood when its silhouettes create art in the early evening...





...and in the Midnight Sun of a long summer day.



Thursday, January 22, 2009

this house is a very, very, very old house.....


This house is a very, very, very old house.
With spruce trees in the yard.
Moss chinking ‘tween the logs,
Now everything is sinking in the ground.


This house is a very, very, very old house.
Its corners still fit fine,
Its door once opened wide,
Now everything is twisted with old age.




This house is a very, very, very old house,
It rests along the shore,
Never ever used anymore,
Now everything is mem’ries of its day.










Wednesday, January 21, 2009

The Labyrinth

I will tell you a truism that I know for certain applies to me: A writer without a muse is a pitiful creature.

That goes for writer-wannabees, too. My muse is so much a part of me, that without her I am lost. I wander through the worlds of words and thoughts without a clue as to where I am. I am so bereft of words I can barely speak. I have no interest in anything short of finding the one whose bounty will sustain my soul.

For the past couple weeks, I have been searching for other reasons for my present state. I am full of trite excuses: It’s the post-holiday doldrums; It’s the mood of the country in light of the economic hardships that we face; I’m at loose ends; I cannot focus; It’s cabin fever.

Or, as I wrote in a piece of poetry the last time this happened:

From whence will come the treasured words
to fill the mind with writing’s fare,
if never do I fathom where
my muse doth hide in secret lair?


As a result, I looked forward to coming to Halibut Cove, where I will spend the next six weeks caretaking the property of long-time friends. They own a large lodge called Stillpoint, or Stillpoint at Halibut Cove. There are no roads to Halibut Cove. The only access is by water or air. During these winter months, as few as a dozen people call this quiet place home. In the summer, several dozen inhabit the area, and hundreds of tourists visit.

This morning I watched Kevin and Bowman aim their skiff at the Stillpoint dock, and noticed the pattern left behind them in the thin skim of ice that covers this sheltered area of the cove. So tranquil is the water and so gentle is the tide right now, that several hours later the crazed crystalline pattern of their journey through the ice is still there, much like a tracked vehicle leaves a permanent mark across the fragile Arctic tundra.

I spoke with them briefly and handed over mail that needs to make Saturday’s mailboat. I am quite isolated here. Keith and Bowman are the first people I’ve seen since my hosts left Sunday morning. The floating post office is located on “The Island,” as everybody here calls it. The Island is what shelters the cove from the waters of Kachemak Bay, which can be as serene as a mill pond or a strong runner-up to the treacherous tempests of Cape Horn. The island is across from where I am staying and unreachable by me unless I beg a ride across the water. A sea otter

I walked over the ridge to the main dock at Stillpoint, where I checked the twin-hulled boat to make sure the heat was on and the bilge pump worked, and watched a sea otter for a few minutes. Then, I took another route back. Along the way, I passed a new labyrinth that my hosts had built last summer. I walked past it, then turned and went back.

The warm hurricane-force winds that blew through here last week—a meteorological phenomenon known as a “Pineapple Express” because it originates in warm waters far to the south of Alaska—melted all the snow and uncovered the labyrinth. Formed into a circle by thick rope, its path covered in wood shavings, the labyrinth drew me into its midst. I knew little of its purpose, but considering where I was and Stillpoint’s emphasis on spiritual and creative renewal, I had reason to wonder if perhaps I could locate my missing muse by making a journey to the center of the maze.

And so I did. As I walked, I felt my mind become free of thoughts and open to suggestion, rather than pleading with my muse to return. I stood quietly for a few moments after I reached the center, not thinking of anything in particular, but well aware that my writer's antennae were up and running and receiving. Then I left.

Twenty paces up the road I noticed a patch of hoarfrost near the ground in the dead vegetation, and it reminded me of a couple photos I had taken a month ago near my home in Moose Pass. When I had first seen them, I suspected they marked the entrances to underground critter habitats, maybe of snowshoe hares or smaller rodents. They were quite visible because temperatures were below zero and there was no snow on the ground. I thought the warmth of the critters and their exhalations had provided moisture to form hoarfrost.

But today—post labyrinth—another thought occurred: perhaps these are the places where the earth breathes.

When I returned to the house, I Googled “labyrinth.” In part, this is what Wikipedia had to reveal: “Labyrinths can be thought of as symbolic forms of pilgrimage; people can walk the path, ascending toward…enlightenment… Labyrinths are used…to help achieve a contemplative state. Walking among the turnings, one loses track of direction and of the outside world, and thus quiets his mind. The result is a relaxed mental attitude, free of internal dialog. This is a form of meditation. Many people believe that meditation has health benefits as well as spiritual benefits…”

For the first time since I arrived last Saturday, I am using my computer for something other than Spider Solitaire. It’s a start. Welcome back, muse. I’ve missed you. Stick around a while, won’t you?

Love,

Gully



Monday, January 19, 2009

verbless stories full of action...

My former online writing instructor, Ann Linquist, has been sending a few of her former students writing prompts. Writing prompts, for the uninitiated, are to writers (and wannabee writers) what catnip is to cats. Irresistable, intoxicating, and illuminating. Okay, I'm not sure cats are illuminated by catnip, but writers certainly are illuminated by prompts, as Edison was by the incandescent light bulb. The previous prompt I mentioned here was Ouija poetry, which is poetry derived from typing gibberish and then looking for suggestions of words, and detecting their messages. It's quite surprising what eventually evolves from chaos. If you want to look--or join in (anyone can)--try this site:

  http://annlinquist.wordpress.com/goofing-around-3/ Her latest challenge is to tell a story without verbs.

 Hmmm... Verbs are words of action, words that propel, words imperative to the telling of a story. Or, are they? Here's mine: Icy roads, careful drive, stunning scenery. Snow-blanketed volcanic peaks of Redoubt and Iliamna above the clouds. The Eagle Lady dead; hungry eagles. “Stormbird” at the dock. Frozen harbor now ice-free. Ripples on the bay. Ice-covered trails. Raindrop dimples on the water. Steel cleats on boots. Chains on cart. No place like Halibut Cove. Unfamiliar computer. Ergonomic keyboard. Pent-up words. Frustrated muse. 

  For more and much better examples:


  http://annlinquist.wordpress.com/ You'll find the stories under "comments" at the bottom of the Goofing Around-4 paragraph. Prepare to be amazed. And just for fun, here are a few pictures of Halibut Cove and environs.


  Over-looking Kachemak Bay. The Homer Spit, a finger of gravel that reaches into the bay, is barely visible through the cottonwood branches at the far left of the water. A weather system known as a "pineapple express" brought warm temperatures and hurricane force winds to Southcentral Alaska. At the same time it was peeling roofs from houses, it freed Homer' small boat harbor of ice. This is from the pilot house of the Stormbird, the steel-hulled boat that carries the US mail and passengers to and from Halibut Cove twice a week. That same weather system melted all the snow in the cove. This is from the front window of the home where I am staying. This is where Gerri the cat lives. I am here to open the door at her command.

Friday, January 16, 2009

on the road again....

Gullible's Travels will be interupted for a few days while Gullible travels. When I land, or rather, when I get ashore again, I'll be visiting with you from beautiful Halibut Cove. That's assuming the hurricane force winds Homer is experiencing today will die down enough to allow the mail boat to carry me across Kachemak Bay.

Typical Alaskan weather. A few days ago it was thirty-five below. Now its thirty-nine above and raining sideways.

Thursday, January 15, 2009

Wednesday, January 14, 2009

stranger than fiction...

I have come late to writing. Or, to be exact, I have returned late to writing. Next month, in mid-February, I will celebrate the miracle (a word I do not use lightly) that occurred one desperate night and brought me back to writing, the night that changed my life.

I would love to be able to write fiction, but find I am plot-challenged. I cannot think of a plot that’s intricate enough to sustain more than two pages. I am most comfortable in the non-fiction genre, but, as the fellow said, life can be stranger than fiction.

The story I am about to tell is true. You just won’t believe it.

Gambling is illegal in Alaska. There’s a loop hole, though. Non-profits and charities can have drawings and so on to raise money. Businesses can peddle pull tabs, but at least ten per cent of the profit must go to the charities. At first, the idea of a lottery seemed like a good idea. Sell a bunch of tickets, draw a winning number, split the proceeds with the winner, the lottery operator and the charity. Win, win, win, right?

Thus, there was quite a bit of interest when Lucky Times Pull Tabs recently announced the winning number in the state’s first $500,000 lottery. They estimated somewhere around 150,000 tickets at five bucks each were sold. Advertising on TV, however, is still illegal, and that probably limited ticket sales. It seemed to me it took a while before the winner’s name was revealed, and when it was, all hell broke loose. No other way to describe it, because the winner, Alec Ahsoak, 53, is a convicted sex offender.

That’s not the whole story. In an unbelievable twist of irony, the charity that is to benefit from the lottery is none other than STAR, an acronym for Standing Together Against Rape. This agency aids victims of sexual abuse, and according to the story in today’s newspaper, expects to receive between $2000 to $20,000 as its share of the profits, most likely something closer to the lesser amount.

As for Ahsoak, he did the time the state demanded for his crimes, which came after his guilty pleas in 1993 and 2000 to sexual abuse of a minor. After being released from prison last March, he said, he has tried to turn his life around through therapy. Currently living in a Salvation Army-run hotel, Ahsoak was quoted as saying he wants to buy a house with his winnings. He also wants to give some of the money to God and charity. The owner of the pull tab parlour suggested that charity be STAR.

First, according to the paper, Ahsoak said he would donate $50,000. Later, he upped it to $100,000. Now, he says his attorney has advised him not to speak to the media reporters.

In the meantime, a firestorm of controversy erupted. The daily talk shows are filled with varying opinions. Letters to the editor of the paper are just as varied. Some say Ahsoak has paid his debt for his crimes. Others say he may have paid his debt but his victims will suffer forever. Others think the victims should sue Ahsoak for reparations, like the Goldman family did after O.J. was acquitted of murdering their son.

One of Ahsoak’s victims, now a woman in her twenties, was quoted by the paper, and in one sentence revealed what being a victim of sexual abuse can do to a child. She said it felt like a slap in the face, and “We’re still dealing with it, and he gets to walk away with half a million dollars.” After taxes, Ahsoak will receive about $350,000.

Ahsoak, it seems, was baby-sitting the children when the abuse took place. He was a friend of the family. He claims that he also was a victim of abuse as a child, was orphaned at four, and spent part of his life at the Jesse Lee Home for Children in Seward. He bounced around in foster care, and was reported to be an alcoholic at seventeen. He also served four years in the U.S. Army.

As for STAR, it’s response has thus far been classy and is avoiding the controversy as much as possible. A spokesperson told the newspaper reporter that the events of the past couple days “underscores the scope of the sexual abuse problem in Alaska, where the rate of reported rapes is the highest in the nation…”

Today, while Ahsoak was being partly defended but mostly demonized in the public discourse, a twenty year old man from California had different thoughts. As Ahsoak wandered into various stores in downtown Anchorage, a young man asked him if he were the lottery winner. He said he was.

When Ahsoak exited the mall, Pepsi in hand, the young man was there waiting, only he had something much more lethal in his hand. Some say it was a pipe, others say it was a tire iron. Whatever it was, the dozen or so blows that landed on Alec Ahsoak did severe damage. He managed to escape by throwing his soda into his attacker’s face. He then ran to a nearby cafe, where employees called 911.

As of this evening, Ahsoak had been treated and released at a hospital. His injuries, they say, are severe but not life-threatening. Robbery was not a motive. His alleged attacker, Brandon Hughes of Los Angeles, was arrested and charged with second degree assault. Although bail was set at $90,000, Hughes will not be released on bail because he also is being held on a fugitive warrant from California.

It is apparent that Alec Ahsoak is an Alaska Native, one of the First Peoples. As is true with so many of his race, when they smile they do so with their whole face, and I find it impossible not to smile with them. He was positively glowing as he was presented with an oversized check to symbolize his winnings.

And, in an interesting side note to this story, the accused attacker was identified as a white man. This is seldom done anymore, as political correctness has swung way too far to avoid insult. I often wonder how fugitives can be identified when race or skin color is not publicized.

I don’t think this story is over, and while I am sorry that Alec Ahsoak was subjected to a vigilante-style beating, I am even more sorry for his victims, whose scars may not be visible, but are indelible nonetheless.