Harold Carr

Hi Grandpa. I just arrived. It was a rough time for me but my Mom was great and did a wonderful job of bringing me into the world. I weigh 7 pounds 1 ounce and am super healthy. I can't wait to meet you. Here are some pictures my Dad took when he first meet me a couple of hours ago. I hope you like them and he said to call tomorrow when you get some time.

Love,
Gwyneth Carr Zufelt

Hello Everyone. Yesterday was the big day. Bruce and I arrived at the hospital at 5 a.m. on Friday and spent the day in labor. Gwyneth made her way into the world at 4:55 pm. Not too bad of a day. She weighed in at 7 pounds 1 ounce and she is nearly 20 inches long at 19 3/4. Our new little family is doing well as we actually got some sleep during last night. We should be leaving the hospital first thing Sunday morning.

Talk to all of you soon.
Jasmine

I am
a concept
like rain
in reality
it doesn’t exist
instead
a million water drops

thought like a clock
connecting ticks

what you see &
what you say

out the window
through thin
clouds 4 billion
years of rock
& blue reflecting
centuries
while we move
in the porous world

the sun moved
too before you
a desire
to become one
—the buffalo long gone

Sunday morning lying around reading while Flavia and Venus laugh in the front room and Chiara makes a great breakfast. We drive to Napa and tour Copia. Then we have a light dinner at a deli in downtown Napa before splitting up—me to Andrew’s in Oakland to play music—them back to Sonoma to have dinner with Venus’ family (Flavia’s ex).

I arrive in Oakland after an hour drive. Andrew and I hug and head upstairs to his studio where I get out my bass that is stored at his house. I was planning on selling it, but the minute I took it out of its case I changed my mind—the wood is too beautiful.

I warm up while Andrew sets up his recording gear and saxophones and flutes. A bit later Debra Craig (drums) and Terry Rolerie (guitar) arrive. We improvise then take a dark chocolate, blood orange and cake break. Then improvise again. Terry is a very quiet electric guitar player (and avid bike rider) and Debra is a sensitive drummer. Lucky for me—I played without an amp.

Driving home I found a station with some great solo piano—kind of an update minimilist Eric Satie. The show was Heart of Space playing Hans Otte’s The Book of Sounds. I just caught the tailend at 10:50pm. PT. At that time it was just single piano notes, one after another, no chords. But the choice of intervals and sequence were beautiful. I’ve gotta get that work.

We said goodbye to Venus and Chiara and drove to San Francisco. Flavia had an appointment at the Chilean Embassey to get her passport renewed. While she took care of her business I went to Rasputin Music and picked up some CDs. In particular, one I’ve been looking for: Thelonius’ Monk’s Greatest Hits. The exact versions of the tunes on this CD made me realize just how much Monk was a percussionist (in a different way from McCoy Tyner). I want to transcribe some of his approaches to his melodies and solos and arrange them for bass.

Then I went a block away to Cody’s (the San Francisco branch - unfortunately the Berkeley branch closed down recently) and picked up Craig Dworkin’s Strand (I figured I should learn a little about the author’s work who lives and works so close by).

Flavia and I then hooked up and drove to Berkeley and had lunch at La Note on Shattuck. After lunch we walked a few doors down to Pegasus Books where I picked up Bob Perelman’s iflife.

We drove to the airport (several hours early for a change) and enjoyed reading all our new books waiting for the plane and flying back to Salt Lake.

poetry at Sanders
& her tanned shoulders
one after another
authors all
older than sound

checkmate meaning crisscross

just testing jests
the poet
should her answer call
off streaming creeks lakes books
books books voice in page
say heart or brain or joke &
some sound mumble tone
says softly seeming visit
or living here all mingling
stumbling down trusts the poet

he she mostly he
sings their say hear
& why worry
about being behind
time or even
ahead oddly posted often if
blest hymn

On Friday we went to Michael Lucarelli's art opening "lyrical meditations, " followed by attending the John Flander's and Double Helix concert at Westminster (the inaugural performance for the series that we will play with Red Rock Rondo in May 2006). After the concert we went to Michael and Shayla's birthday party.

The next morning we spent the morning on the porch and in the garden, followed by a hike to Dog Lake from MillCreek Canyon with Phillip and Charlotte.

defined horizon 1

—for Phillip, Charlotte, Flavia & Suni

out in the mountains
looking down
on the destined horizon

On July 21, 2006 Kim Burgess interviewed us for an article on our home that appeared in the August 3, 2006 issue of "in Utah this week" magazine. The original online edition of the article (different from the print edition) can be found here.

(The following is a stripped down copy of the online version---which is different from the print edition---in case the original link disappears.)

Milton Voigt died July 29, 2006 in Salt Lake City of causes incident to age. He was born in Milwaukee, Wisconsin in 1924 to Ester Bartelt and Arthur William Voigt. In World War II he was a navigator-bombardier in the U.S. Army Air Corps.

He attended The University of Wisconsin—Madison (Ph.B., 1948), The University of California—Berkeley (M.A., 1950) and The University of Minnesota (Ph.D., 1960). He taught at The University of Idaho and The University of Kentucky before coming to The University of Utah in 1960, where he taught English literature and History of Ideas for 32 years and served as Dean of the College of Letters and Sciences (until its division into separate colleges in 1970) and as Chairman of the Department of English (1971 to 1975). He was the author of one book Swift and The Twentieth Century (1964) and other studies of the eighteenth century satirist, Jonathan Swift.

He married Leta Jean Slack in 1947, with whom he had three sons, John Gregory (Northport, FL), James Lewis (Kalamazoo, MI) and Andrew Charles (Oakland, CA). He is survived by his sons and six grandchildren, Nicholas (Madison, WI), John and Zachery (St. Louis), Janna, Jesse and Evan (Kalamazoo) and by daughters-in-law Rebecca (Kalamazoo) and Lisette (Northport), by sister, Beatrice Manskee (Milwaukee) and special friend, Beth Burdett (Salt Lake City).

He was a lay reader at St. Paul’s Episcopal Church, and served on the boards of several organizations including The Utah ACLU, The Salt Lake Chamber Music Society, and The Friends of the Children’s Center.

In lieu of flowers, the family suggests donations to The Salt Lake Chamber Music Society, P.O. Box 58825, SLC, UT 84158-0825. A memorial will be held on Friday, August 4, 6pm - 8pm at Fort Douglas Post Chapel, 120 South Ft Douglas Blvd (around 2100 east). Friends and family will also gather at his home at 1376 East Princeton Avenue (1290 South), Salt Lake City after the memorial. Condolences may be sent to miltonvoigt@gmail.com

death & rain

—for Andrew Voigt

another dead dad
summer—light rain
sounds on the rooftops

can hear death
bubbling up
—too proud

no one
makes it
til August

drifting in
& out of
sleep

clouds
cooler
sounds of trains

not a dream
a real live
loss

gone
is a word that says
goodbye

waiting
for lightning’s
thunder

(can I
even give this
to my friend?)

each small moment
makes a
day

even
the ones that
leave

the rain’s
thinking
water

the sun’s thinking
morning the day
after death

“after death”
so many millenium
answers

let’s make it
simple
absence

not here
not there
not

not yesterday
any
more

back to rain
rivers
oceans

small things
like sitting
in the mist

in the midst
of
forgetting

no
more
anymore

writing
while
waiting

to hear
him
move

even some
blue as the sun
moves through morning

take
your
time

echoes
thought’s
body

Last weekend Julian, Flavia and I were in California to attend and celebrate Venus and Chiara's graduation from UC Berkeley. While hanging out in the house we rented on Warm Springs Road between Glen Ellen and Kenwood, Flavia brought me a copy of Jose Ortega y Gasset's The Origins of Philosophy from the home's bookshelves, knowing I'm drawn to books like that. In it, he writes that when we read the words of poets, or philosophers, we recognize our own thoughts---they have simply taken the time to write them down and perhaps organize them.

The day before the graduation ceremony, the day we arrived, Flavia and Venus went off to Trader Joe's to pick up food and drink for the party, while I walked up to the bookstores on Telegraph Avenue, only three blocks from Venus and Chiara's apartment. In Cody's I picked up three books on Cognitive Science, my latest obsession. On the way to the register they had a prominent but low-key display of the talk poet, David Antin's, just published i never knew what time it was. I've always admired his ability to just stand up and talk and be interesting, casual and honest.

While paying for the books the cashier asked me, "don't you want him to sign your book"? Turns out that's what the display was about---he was giving a talk that night, in fact right then. I went upstairs to the talk space and saw about 14 people waiting, the small number surprised me. Unfortunately David Antin was not there yet and I couldn't stay---we were scheduled to drive into San Francisco to meet Chiara and her parents and sister for dinner.

This morning, reading his book, he says what he is doing is "entertaining ideas not people." In one comic section he talks about mouse traps being a logical machine embodying a single truth: desire leads to death. But a fastidious mouse may not press the lever, thus another truth: manners are a life and death matter. Or a clumsy mouse might jostle the base setting it off without even entering it: god looks out for fools.

The talk continues with his distinction between story and narrative. "A story is a logical form: a representation of a series of events that result in a significant transformation. A narrative is a representation of the confrontation of somebody who wants something with a threat and/or promise of a transformation that he or she struggles to bring about or prevent or both.

"Why struggle for/against transformation? The answer may lie close to the anxiety produced by the paradox that however much we are tempted by transformation we may lose ourselves in that transformation. Or maybe it lies closer to the terror of absolute erosion --- it's the loss of the self that we are struggling against. Noise --- the growing disorder that affects all ordered systems over time. The frictional forces that reduce all directed energies to forms of disorder given enough time

"Time does strange things to you. It's a bit like the ocean. Mostly is takes things away but it also casts things up on the beach. New things or old ones from different places, now looking very different. Every bit of disorder contributes to the formation of a new order, usually worse but sometimes better.

"You lose a lot and you may win a few. Maybe in the end you lose it all, but meanwhile some disorder may be good for you even if you don't know it."

Now, done reading for the moment, having come downstairs for breakfast, I help Tika to stand up so she can go outside. And that's the sad connection of this narrative---she has a hard time getting up on her own. Upon returning from California we noticed her limping when taking her and Suni for their favorite walk to city creek. We took Tika to the vet on Saturday (we had to reschedule our original Thursday/Friday appointments because we both had a strange late-Spring flu). We expected the vet to say she is having a problem with her leg related to her Tibea Plateau Leveling Osteotomy she had two years ago. But not so lucky.

He took x-rays. Tika has cancer in her leg that is so severe it is most likely in her internal organs also. It's advance too far to do anything. And, at her age, 13 1/2 years, it would be difficult, even if possible.

So we have her at home, loving her, celebrating our life with her, dreading the upcoming decline. The vet gives her one month to live.

Sandy Anderson opened the evening reading what we wrote for John Saltas of the Salt Lake City Weekly (and other papers).
Next, Hector Ahumada told a story he felt was apropos of Craig.
The Cowdaddies (Kennard Machol, Rex Flinner and me) played Cucooz and Navajo Trail.
Sandy read poems relating to her long relationship with Craig as poet and publisher.
Harold read a message and poem from Jose Knighton who now lives in Portland, Oregon.
The Cowdaddies did a couple more tunes: some unnamed Latin tune Kennard taught us the night before and Sally Gooden.
I read some of what I wrote after I returned from Chile and found out Craig had died. I lightened it up a bit with my "trick-ta-piss" that was one of Craig's favorites. I continued with a poem I wrote a year after Craig died hiking the first trail I ever hiked with Craig. Then I picked up my bass and did Lew Welch's Graffiti - a poem Craig would always make me do regardless of the setting. Then I read a fun poem by Craig, Moab Has Seen The Last Of Me. I finished by reading one of our favorite poems (by Lew Welch), that we call Ring of Bone.
Sandy read a message from Miriam Murphy and a message from Charles Potts.
Sherm Clow read a funny and ironic poem he wrote about finding out both he and Craig worked in the bowels of the Utah State capital.
The Cowdaddies ended the evening with Home On The Range.

A great number of Craig's river buddies were there, as well as most of his family. We all hung out and enjoyed each other's company. Here are some photos.

Update: The night of the tribute I dreamed of Craig. Very simple. He was sitting on a couch smiling at me, singing a song.

... and finally, approaching the present, honoring this moment, honoring this small being becoming the future, teaching us to see what is right before our eyes while we guide him around the sharp edges.

Here, today, let us simply say, good luck and strong bones. Each of us can see their past unfolding here in him. Each of us can help the future unfold with a grin - with a hand held out to him so easy to smile - to laugh.

Today, my son, Julian Carr had a great time competing in day one of the US Freeskiing world tour competition at Snowbird on the strength of his 10th place finish yesterday. He came in 45th and the cutoff is 35 so he's out. His friend Tyler Knoles is also out. But Julian is looking forward to going up to the competition tomorrow to cheer his friend Parker Cook who made the cut.

Yesterday he came in 10th in the qualifier. His friends Parker Cook and Tyler Knoles also qualified. Here are the results, the qualifier on the left and day one on the right:

Two hand bells are placed in the center of a small, low-lying circular table. One bell, large and low. The other, small and high.

When (and if) you feel like sharing and the large bell is in the center of the table you take hold of it, ring it, then move it to the edge of the table's circle nearest you. Then you share.

While sharing, if another feels like commenting or responding to your share, the other takes hold of the small bell, rings it lightly one time, then moves it midway between the center and the edge of the table nearest them.

When you feel like pausing your share for the midway bell response, you move the large bell midway between your edge and the table's center with a single ring.

Then the other moves the small bell to their edge for a short share or dialog with you. When they are done the other moves the small bell back to the center of the table with a single ring.

Then you move the large bell back to your edge with a single ring and resume sharing.

When you are finished with your share, you take hold of the large bell, ring it, then move it back to the center.

Now both bells are in the center and another may take hold of the large bell and begin their share.

You may share anything you like: a dream; some text or music written by your or another; an painting or image; an idea; a memory; silence or song; improvise; acting, dance; ...

My son, Julian Carr, a competition free-skier, did a major jump last week. Here's the mail he sent and a picture.

Yesterday, 9/11, we attended a music and poetry performance at Ken Sanders Rare Books. First, members of SLAJO improvised with composer/trombonist Bruce Fowler. Bruce, his brother and father are legends of music in Salt Lake, pretty much setting the standards we all strive towards. Bruce was in Salt Lake from LA doing some investigation into his grandfather's work - a painter. His grandfather originally named Cecret Lake in Albion Basin as "Lake Minnie". He also named Devil's Castle as "The Tower of Babel".

Next up was Ken Sanders reading from reading from Charles Bowden's essay, "Letter to the Next American President" (to be be published in the November issue of GQ). Bruce and Ken "traded fours" during Ken's reading.

Then Alex Caldiero did a 9-11 commemoration "Rants & Laments featuring Cow Mantras + Burka Dancers + Acts of Language + Mortar Shell Gongs". Very powerful. As I said after Alex's 2004 Utah Arts Festival performance - his poetry has taken a decidedly political turn.

Recently, Flavia spent 10 weeks in Chile - mid-March through May - helping her step-father recover from hip-replacement surgery. I worked from Sun's Santiago office for 3 weeks in the middle of that period so we didn't have to spend so much time apart.

Flavia returned to the states the first week of June. The rest of the month was very pleasant with mild temperatures, afternoon thunderstorms, the farmer's market, the Utah Arts Festival, the SL Jazz Festival and working on our yard and enjoying reading and having dinners on our porch.

Then, on Sunday, July 18, after a drive in the mountains, she got a call from her brother, their father had died. Her cry was long and deep. The next afternoon Flavia was on a flight to Chile, arriving the following day and going straight to the funeral.

She is still in Santiago now, helping her mom adjust to a life without her partner of 40+ years. Here is Flavia with her mom and dad last April and May:

This week was hard. Arranging my dad's funeral then speaking at it last Monday. I sat around with my mom and sisters remembering fun and good things about my dad. That's what I spoke about. I was a pallbearer along with my son, Julian, 3 other grandsons and 1 great-grandson. The rest of the week I worked with my sisters (especially Valerie) and my mom, settling dad's affairs: life insurance, health insurance, assets, etc.

Flavia is in Chile. She's been there for 5 weeks helping her mom with her step-dad, who just had hip-replacement surgery. She wanted to come back for my dad's funeral but my mom asked her to best honor my dad by staying in Chile and continuing to help her parents. I have been schedule to go to Chile too (working out of Sun's Santiago office). I was going to delay or cancel my trip but my sister Valerie arranged to stay an extra week (from Iowa) so it looks like I'll leave for Chile tomorrow.

My dad wrote his own obituary in March 2001, the month before he had open heart surgery to replace a valve:

Venice was born in Centerville, Utah to Willard G. and Annie Call Carr. He was the eighth of ten children. He was raised around Carr Printing Company, the family business. He experienced printing from handsetting of type to hot metal casting of type on the Ludlow and the Linotype, thru to making printing plates on the PhotoLathe and the Dupont Dycril system. Then came photo-lithography and to the first electronic printing system in Utah. Venice served as manager of Carr Printing, Co. and in all officer positions including president of Utah Printing Industry, Utah Printing Industry Credit Union and Printing House Craftsmen of Utah. Venice established Carr Stationary as an addition to Carr Printing Company. Venice enlisted and served four years in the Army Signal Corps, which included seven months in the Arctic on Baffin Island and in Guam, Okinawa and Tokyo at the end of World War II. Venice was a charter member of the Bountiful Jeep Posse and member of Jr. Chamber of Commerce, Lions Club and Bountiful Businessmens Association. He was the first male PTA President in Davis County. Venice married Audrey Deane Burke in Philadelphia on September 20, 1945. He and Audrey loved ballroom dancing. They both received their Ruby Trophy from the Veloz and Yolanda dance studio in San Francisco in 1957. Venice's lifetime hobbies have been photography and now includes computers. He is a member of the LDS Church. He is survived by his wife, four children, Valerie (step-daughter), Georgia, Harold and Peggy and seven grandchildren and four great-grandchildren. Venice passed away due to complications from a fall. Funeral services will be held Monday, April 19, 2004 at 12:00 noon at the Bountiful 2nd Ward Chapel, 600 South 200 East. Friends may call Sunday evening from 6:00 - 8:00 p.m. at the Russon Brothers Bountiful Mortuary, 295 North Main and Monday morning from 10:30 a.m. to 11:45 a.m. at the church prior to services. Interment-Bountiful City Cemetery. E-mail condolences to: venice@haroldcarr.com.

On Friday, the next day, Flavia flew to California too. I met up with her, her son, Venus, and his girlfriend, Chiara, at La Pena in Berkeley for dinner and to hear our friend Rafael Manriquez perform. He literally sings like an angel, not to mention his superb song writing. Flavia and I have been fortunate to have performed with him at La Pena in the past and we appear on a recent recording too. After the concert we stayed late at La Pena hanging out with many of Flavia's Chileno friends. She was in her element.

We stayed with Venus and Chiara in their apartment for the weekend. We met Rafael and his partner Paz for breakfast on Saturday. Then Flavia treated Venus and Chiara to a trip to the grocery store (as all good parents do when they visit) while I walked to Telegraph Avenue and browsed the bookstores - Cody's, Moe's, Shakespeare and Co. Shambala has closed down after 35 years. I purchased a number of books at Moe's, including Nietzsche's Ecce Homo which I read during the week.

On Sunday Flavia and I left Venus and Chiara to study (they are attending UC Berkeley) and went to Marin to hear another Chileno musician friend play: Andres Condon. He has had success at building a touring career and offered us many good suggestions and contacts.

Flavia and I then continued on to Green Gulch Zen Center where we got married. We parked in the dirt lot above the yurt where we had our ceremony and walked through the residences, past the garden, to Muir beach. I spent my time communing with Lew Welch's Wobbly Rock while Flavia sat on the sand and gazed at the sea. Again, she was in her element.

Flavia returned to Utah on Monday while I stayed at California, working on-site at Sun. On Monday night I met up with Jed Krohnfeldt and Arun Ramachandran of Hitachi Storage Software, old friends from Patil Systems and Cirrus Logic days. We had a wonderful evening reminiscing.

On Tuesday morning I had breakfast with Chung Le, VP of Product Development at Filemaker. Chung was my manager at Sun when I first joined in 1994. He was my first manager there and still, by far, the best.

I met David Ungar for lunch. David was my mentor a year ago. He is very good at asking questions and not being satisfied with easy answers. David is the father of the programming language Self.

Wednesday evening I spent alone browsing Digital Guru technical bookstore. They seem to have taken the place of the defunct Computer Literacy and Stacey's bookstores.

On Thursday I met my long-time and best friend, musician Andrew Voigt at Yoshi's in Oakland. We heard Mark Levine's Latin Tinge. I took a few 1-1 theory classes with Mark Levine around the time his book, The Jazz Theory Book came out. Some of Flavia's bandmates from her Sol y Luna days were on the bandstand: Michael Spiro (with whom I was lucky to have played a couple of gigs with when David Belove asked me to sub for him) and Melecio Magdaluyo, who only played the last few tunes. Andrew is at the beginning of a new relationship with Lori B. He showed me her new CD which is about to be released.

On Thursday I spent the night alone at more bookstores. I picked up copies of Daniel J. Boorstin's The Seekers and Bataille's Collected Poetry at Wessex Books in Menlo Park. After dinner I spent the rest of the evening browsing at Kepler's.

I returned home to Flavia on Friday night. I've spent the weekend shoveling snow and reading The Seekers. We also watched De Niro's A Bronx Tale, which we checked out from the library last night.

And I haven't even mentioned all the good people I met with during the day at Sun, but that would not be appropriate.

The mountains across the valley - blue from the distance and white with snow. The snow and ice are melting after a month of subfreezing temperatures. The ice dams on our eves are dripping away. Still we need more snow and rain after 5 years of drought.

We are looking forward to dinner tonight at our house with our Sicilian guests, Alex Caldiero and his wife Setenay. Alex is Utah's preeminent performance poet. He and I have performed on the same bill a couple of times in the past. And recently, Flavia and I were involved in a multimedia performance with Another Language which included Alex (and others). But we've never had a chance to get to know each other better. Perhaps that will change tonight.

The irony of taking Gilgamesh to Filipe's funeral in Chile not knowing that Craig was already dead.

Four white robes with bald heads (except for one small patch on top) kneeling before the black-robed Roshi. A single candle burning near the Buddha behind him. Surrounded by black robes seated on cushions on mats.

All black chanting a monotone, "be one with the Sanga honorable for its harmony - the Buddha as been revealed." Punctuated by wood block claps. "I vow to refrain from talking about other's errors and faults."

Window open letting in the cool winter air to offset the heat of all the seated people.

"You will receive assistance putting on the robes. Since your a baby Buddha you must be dressed."

A certain repetition and monotony seems to be built into the ceremony from my nanosecond 21st century perspective.

I've always had a propensity for abstract ideas, and death, like infinity, is abstract. However, unlike infinity, death is very concrete when you lose someone close. But death still oscillates. It is very real---the person you love is not there any longer. But it still retains aspects of infinity---where did they go?

So, although I was fascinated by the Greek temples in Sicily (which put life and death in a longer perspective) I still thought about Filipe, Craig and death throughout each day.

We are in a 4-wheel-drive vehicle in the foothills of North Salt Lake where I grew up. Craig is driving. We are trying to make it to the mountain tops. Craig says the roads are chained off when you get to the lake bench 1/3 the way up but that the chains aren't locked and he had removed them and gone further.

I spend more time with my head turned left looking at Craig in the cab of the truck than looking out at the landscape. I'm very aware (in the dream) that any time spent with Craig is a gift since he's gone.

I see a steep road that seems to go straight up the mountain. I say let's take it. Craig asks if I've been on it before. I say it strange but I've never even seen it. You'd think I would know it, having grown up here.

As we approach the bottom of the road I'm surprised that Craig is making a slow half-hearted approach in 2-wheel-drive. I suggest putting it in 4-wheel-drive. He turns and asks me, doyouthinkso? with a smiling curious face.

Another car comes down the hill on the road and passes us as we prepare to go up. The road is covered in parts with ice, particularly the bottom part.

Poor speaking engenders weak listening. For example, I have just spent the last week at a conference in Sicily. Over 90 percent of the speakers had too many slides for the alloted time, had slides with too many words on them, spent too much time on background material leaving little time to discuss their unique contribution, read their slides with their backs to the audience --- in other words, they spoke poorly. Many times, despite my efforts to listen, I found myself falling asleep.

Clear concise speaking enables resonant listening. For example, one speaker, Dan Dvorak (of JPL), had simple slides with diagrams and lots of white space. While the slides were up he faced the audience and narrated the diagrams with words not present on the slides. In other words, he engaged the audience.

What I am suggesting is that we need to be educated in how the speak and listen effectively. In the past I've always said that we are not educated in two areas in which we will deal with for the rest of our lives: sex and personal finance. I now realize it is actually three areas with the inclusion of effective listening/speaking.

Walking through the airport corridors toward the plane taking me to Sicily, I catch my breathe - a slight pause of my heart - as I look at the framed photographs of Southern Utah and remember Craig.

Taking off in snow, rising through low clouds, we quickly reach the sunny sky in our journey east. A white haze, above solid clouds, gradually thinning into blue - no clear line, from this perspective, between heaven and earth. I'm in heaven now, looking for my friend.

I'm being absorbed in the sun, in an immense solar flare pushing me past the edge of the earth, a radiance linking my short allocation of time with an unimaginable beyond. Eternity - Birth - Life - Death - Eternity. Within "Life" innumerable joys and sorrows. In "Eternity" all that we are or ever will be.

(The nachos served on the plane remind me of the ones we ate on the San Juan shuttle on my first kayaking trip with Craig.)

Death, something that happens to others, has happened to an "other", but another so close that is has happened to me - except the world still exists, whereas, when I die, all will be gone.

Craig was alive until I returned from Chile and learned that he had died a week earlier - the day I left. He is still alive as I walk down the hall - until I remember he is gone. (Note how I am now escaping in abstractions. It's so easy to conceive I will see him again - in "heaven".)

My son and I are looking for our companions who are camped somewhere on the upper terraces of a park. We've searched many levels and are about to give up when we see Craig carrying his bed roll from an upper level to the one below us.

We try to catch up with him to ask where the others are but by the time we get near him he has laid out his bed roll in an isolated corner of the park and is sitting on a cement-topped rock wall having a smoke.

It seems he wants some solitude so we walk away leaving him alone. As we go I remember seeing his strong slender bowed legs as he walked ahead of us.

(Note the shift from internal to external, from subject to object, from mending to matter.)

Now that I'm calmer, life is beginning to feel "normal". In my previous "normal" life I didn't see or talk to Craig every day (sometimes weeks would go by). In that life I'd call him and say, "let's meet for lunch", or "let's go hiking", or I'd walk over to his office in the basement of the state capital and talk - inevitably planning another outing.

So my days are the same: I wake, I walk, I work, I write. However, there is one incommensurable difference: I can't call Craig.

For the families of Craig and Filipe how can there be a normal day - with their physical presence missing each day?

I've been meeting with mutual friends of Craig. The contact has been good to share our grief, but there also seems to be an element of disappointment. It seems we have also been meeting to stay in touch with Craig but are ironically let down when the other person is not him... he's still gone.

As I return to the rhythm of my ordinary life it seems the last two weeks have been an eternity occurring in an instance. Looking back on those first days of learning Craig died, I'm fascinated, fascinated remembering how the world dissolved, how nothing existed except his absence, how the core of my being was completely in the present - there was no past, no future, just an infinitely empty now.

On Monday I fly to California (and the following week to Sicily) to give presentations on my work. I'm already feeling guilty knowing that I'll be so engaged that I won't have time to think about Craig every hour of every day. I don't want to bury myself in work to forget. I want to remember him. I want to keep him alive. But it's a fact, life goes on regardless...

At work, for the first time in two weeks, handling my tools gives me pleasure - old friends who know each other well. Working, focusing on the task at hand, life feels normal. Then, during any slight pause, it's right there: Craig is gone. Then I feel guilty for having forgotten for a moment, for having felt pleasure - guilty, I guess, for being alive.

Pleasure, focus, forgetting, guilt ... alternate throughout the day. The shock is subsiding, leaving a sad and confused heart.

I pound the steering wheel and look out into the sky - there's nothing I can do - it's absolutely final. He left us without saying a word. He was dying when we last spoke but I didn't know - he didn't know. Pam even asked him, "do you think you're having a heart attack"? He just layed down and died. She heard his last gasp.

I met with Randy for lunch today, someone I have only met briefly once before. He has been a friend of Craig's since junior high. They learned to play guitars together and then played together professionally for 15 years. Randy and I took turns remembering Craig, choking up at points - two middle-aged men, essentially strangers to each other, crying at lunch in a public restaurant. Not overflowing, just momentary tears as the memories touched us. That's how much Craig meant to us and many others.

Today Flavia returned from Chile. I met her at the airport. We embraced for a long time. At lunch we cried, thinking of Filipe and Craig. At home I worked downstairs instead of up in my office so we could be close to each other. She fell asleep early since her body is still on Chilean time.

While Flavia slept I talked on the phone with Russell, a long-time friend of Craig's. Russell and Craig rowed their rafts on my kayaking maiden voyage on the San Juan - kayaking, something Craig got me into. We all had plans with Craig. Although Russell lives in Arizona he just retired and was expecting to be able to be out with Craig even more. Russell and I agree that, even though Craig was the center that held us together, we need to keep meeting - running rivers, hiking - out of respect for Craig and for ourselves. Craig will live in our friendship.

Today Noal and I hiked to Bench Lake in the Uintas. Tracy didn't come and we didn't scatter ashes - Pam's not ready. No miracles happened except we got to know each other better while remembering Craig and talking our feelings. Later, at home, leaving a message on Julian's phone, I noticed my voice sounded up - even happy - for the first time in a week.

Yesterday we would have left for somewhere. Many times we never knew where, it didn't matter - we just left. Instead I hiked White Rock Loop on Antelope Island. Today we'd be there, somewhere, hiking. Instead I'm here alone - writing.

Tomorrow I go with Noal and Tracy to spread some of his ashes where he laid down on our last hike in the Uintas (to Bench Lake).

We remember his voice but let's not forget his never-wavering rock-solid rhythm guitar.

Drifting. Walking. Farmers Market, Avenues library, Golden Braid. Everywhere I go he's not there.

It does help to tell this story of these days. I'm even starting to rewrite some of these lines in my head - something I have a little control over.

Drifting. "Got your slinglite?" Drifting. "Got your leatherman?" Glad he was my friend.

There may be no reason, but there is a rhythm in grief - as I am discovering step-by-step, hour-by-hour, day-by-day.

Life standing still but my heart is still beating, my chest breathing, my thoughts thinking. I'm not thinking them, they're thinking me.

After three days of crying, seeing mutual friends and family it came to me that Craig would be laughing, saying "what, your boss gave you the week off to grieve and you're sitting around crying - get outdoors!"

So today I'm hiking North Canyon alone, no one else could go. North Canyon has mostly been my solo trail - never came here with Craig.

Lots of leaves on the ground and a few still waiting in the branches. I suppose the falling leaves are telling me dying is beautiful. Or that life is short, remembering long.

So far I haven't cried today. But it's there waiting - waiting for the slightest shift.

This morning my gear was all packed and ready to go - still together from the last hike Craig and I didn't do.

Now walking up the trail, breathing deeper, starting to sweat, removing layers - I know I'm alive. With that life I'll try to live gracefully and graciously with my living friends - with a lighter touch but keep an edge to cut corners.

Poetry, for me, has sometimes been a game - a game of survival - to which I now return with no embellishments - just the facts - and the facts, at this moment, are cold.

In a way I hope heaven or hell or some imaginary beyond is true so I can hike with Craig again. But I'm not counting on it. I'll staying with the earth, the rivers and the living. I'm not expecting an angel to save me. Instead I'll stick to the trails - walking while remembering Kerouac's words, "don't forget your tenderness."

It wasn't supposed to work this way. We were going to stand in streams in hip waders when we couldn't walk anymore.

I've discovered something: it's very hard to cry and hike UP a trail at the same time.

On top, the mule's ears dried, curled and rustling in the slight breeze. The mountain mahogany blossomed long ago, the shrub oak leaves still green. As always, the lake and the islands steady on the horizon.

Quiet now, here alone on the ridge, looking out, over, into our place. For the moment, calm in the mountains where we like to be.

Not that I worry about danger, but something about being outdoors with Craig made you feel safe.

Each day outdoors build a bridge between us. Craig was my link and I don't want to lose it. Take up the slack - take up the slack.

I feel like calling him up and saying, "do you know what it felt like to learn you were dead!" Far worse than you hiding ahead on the trail then jumping out - stopping my heart.

For awhile I'm calm - kind of forgetting. Then it comes back to me but it feels like a mistake - like I heard something wrong - I must have misunderstood.

You know, it really is a fine fall day. Still hiking in shorts and tshirt east of the island.

He didn't pass away - HE DIED. He wouldn't dress it up. He'd say, "I'm dead" with a chuckle and glint in his eye.

Later, at Adam's Canyon Falls, the stream going over the edge, separating into thousands of distinct drops, then merging back into the clear cold pool.

I'm calling everyone I can that knew and loved Craig too. I'm making lists of my living friends. I'm calling them to go on hikes. I'm visiting and having meals with friends. Julian is staying close. The word "community" is growing larger in my vocabulary. But the mountains and desert don't seem as appealing right now without Craig. If he were to see me he'd probably laugh and say I'm blowing a whole week sitting around crying (since I'm not going to work) when I could be using that time for camping.

dog barking in the distance
sound of occasional car passing by
mind drifting in a channel of memories
thinking of nothing
nerves randomly firing
wondering where I will walk without him

Xmas in Portland with Gwyneth

Rubenshuis - Antwerp, Belgium