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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
From Jasmine the next day:
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
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I arrived in Frankfurt last Sunday. Even though I hadn't slept on the overnight flight I stayed on my feet and walked near the river then through the old town---lots of street shops selling sweets and "hot dogs". Once the sun went down I went to my hotel room and slept for eleven hours.
I had hoped, while in Frankfurt, to go hear jazz at the world famous Jazzkeller (jazz cellar). Unfortunately it was not open on Monday and Tuesday nights when I could go.
So, other than the conference and eating at da Nico's I didn't see much of Frankfurt. Da Nico's was the source of the short poem I sent a few days ago:
da Nico
mixed gas
sin salad
flower candle lower
speaking table German Italian food
should neighborhood you in be
stir the soup
It’s 8pm Tuesday in Frankfurt.
I’m eating in an Italian
restaurant near the hotel.
As they say, "wish you
were here."
What I had for dinner:
mixed green salad
minestrone soup
spaghetti bolognese
aqua sin gas
16.30 Euro
And I went to the hotel gym in the mornings rather than ride the trams and metros for sounds for my Funicular poem series. But I rode just a little, coming back from Jazzkeller (when I found out it was closed for a private party) and on my way to the main station to take a train to the airport. That's where I got the little bit of sound for "flew heaven".
flew heaven
real pure lick
hot flan off
face hall
fugue have end
I really did fly to heaven from the flughaven (airport) and made it to Prague on Wednesday night.
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Photos by JoAnn Wong
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Pictures taken by Phillip Bimstein (except last by JoAnn Wong)
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Pictures taken by JoAnn Wong.
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Pictures taken by JoAnn Wong.
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I presented at jazoon in Zurich
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Red Rock Rondo performed at the rededication of the nature center at Zion National Park. (Note: after we agreed to play we learned that Laura Bush would speak. Although we disagree with her husband's policies, the fact that she is spending a week with friends hiking in Zion Park is a good thing.)
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These photos taken by Flavia
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These photos taken by Sherm Clow
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poetry bus
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
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On Friday we went to Michael Lucarelli's art opening "lyrical meditations, " followed up 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
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the wind intermittently in
a thousand pines
roar of the city
down valley
memory of last night’s
ligthning—near but no
rain or how
my dog wandered while
the moon moved over
our heads—my son & I
in our tents dreaming
of the sun lightening
the sky like last night’s
lightning repeating itself
each day we sleep
on solid ground
more wind
more sun
more dreams
before it rises from inside
the tent the world
sounds like wind
nothing we
need to do nowhere
we need to
go but pack
& hike home
to our lists
hiking with my son
he's ahead
instead
of
little
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the 4th of July
men
working in ditches
below the surface of the road women
working the
safety flags
the day before the
fourth of July
flags flying already
little orange ones marking
the new sprinkling system
the system seems or seemed
to work the system
of the fourth flags
still flying
the traffic lights
work too another
part of the
system or the fact
that we don’t kill
each other when we
meet unknown
breath
the domain of yogis &
Olson and all &
everything Tibetan
prayer flags flapping
in the mind of the absent
wind
breath sweat
yarrow oak
wild rose
half-dead tree
at the high-point
of the trail
mountain mahogany
goats beard ready to
go near the
yarrow at the turn of the
trail
Russian thistle
back near the road
thirty-one words for waterfalls
in the stream log jams
rock pours sand bars
it’s hard to breathe
beneath the water rocks
touching
but not
speaking
dog’s memory
takes a turn
towards what
we’ll never know
perhaps see dead
animal
in a bush dead
tree in the steam dead
flies on the rocks
dead
dog’s tired
end of trail
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lecture on music
for/by Phillip Bimstein
tick
by
tick the
clock uses
time
while the story
of songs is
told
at one
place about
another
his words
about another's
harmonica
turned into song
like you like to do it
take the wheat down
the way we did it
about as much out
as it is in
baseball
the voice of one man
selling beer for forty
years
guitar
an
active
participant
in the tick
spruce top maple
sides & back
steel
strings
ghosts
her words his
words
two young girls
back & forth
kill on a busted swing
(forever)
---that deserves a song
moo
history into story
---an accident
the cows won't speak
detention
but
kids
in jail
have plenty to
say
quilts
now
spinning on track four
pretty quilts
on the
line
called the sheriff
red lights flashing down
at the junction all
I want is my
money
mulberry
meanwhile, back in
town, after the first
hard frost, the leaves
in mounds on the
ground---gone
no place for trees
anymore
frogs
slowed way down
like rocks
like melody
in water
rancher rap
sample
splice
sing
loop
strum
strike
echo imitate bow
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No sentences make the mountain. Only sweat. Or windy silence.
A bird---probably with a name---but for now, small---and blue.
Then voice leading past powerful secrets, towards an
ancient word that wants to be heard again without speaking.
All this---bee buzz---flies---bristlecone pine.
Today, no movement, nor waiting. Instead, open to rock,
to the fly rubbing its forearms together, to the cawing crow.
Birds---long, throaty descending whistle---chirps---a cackle---
while a butterfly flaps its wings without making a sound.
A kind of forgetting to get there---not to be practiced
on the trail. The beginning took place when the waning crescent
moon---just a sliver---proceeded the sun. Once risen, casting
long shadows over Confusion Range---west, towards Wheeler Peak
on the horizon.
Closer at hand, Notch south, Swasey north,
Pine & Howell between. A mutual respect for solitude
rather than "go there". To be here without leaving.
A kind of 2nd existence closer to the cliffs that seem
somehow opposed to life. Peeing on dirt---digging the dung hole.
Jets pass overhead. Their absence signifies unknown news.
Rocks exist side-by-side, touching, unconcerned with
each other. Even when gone they're here---snow, rain, sun---
as far as the eye can see.
At night, our galaxy rising like clouds over the east horizon.
The steam from the tea kettle---coyote's flaming tail.
Back to rock---time in three dimensions. Or the night
sky---all time at once. Galaxies like grains of sand in the
empty form of a very large number.
A coincidence between place & attention. Again, back
to the equality of rock---the absence of a center---roots splitting
even the hardest in two, or four, or more---still equal to itself & all.
Blooming yarrow whose stalks portend the beginning of an
endless past. What response to the tail-less lizard
or the endless sun but the dry lakebeds in the
desert below or snowtipped peaks at points on the
circle of the horizon---only blocked, to the south, by the
sheer cliff face of Notch Peak. Breathing confirms it
is there, just as, earlier, sweat & strong heartbeats say this
is no illusion surpassed by itself. The presence of this place
even when gone. No need for a word to be here.
Vast is a word. Empty another. An emptiness filled with
motionless motion. Starlings surf the ridge---crows soar
up & down the cliffs forgetting eternity. It started in
the east and moved through the blue---heating rock with its silent
motion. Cars moving slowly on the highway below, jets far
overhead, and near at hand, an ant carries off a speck of lunch
larger than itself.
Clouds & contrails break the blue. Jets
break the silence of the buzzing flies. Gaze glances off
bristlecone pine into words that have never met them.
In other words, the high cirrus dimming the strength of the sun
as it descends to the west---the west only in the abstract poverty
of words. Still it continues down toward Mt. Morain.
The difference between memory & mountain. The temperature
changes from moment-to-moment within an overall expected
trajectory. Shadows forming of the eastern slopes. Granite, Limestone.
Somewhere an ocean once here. The visible trace left is
the face of Notch Peak. A visible absence. The presence of
something long gone---or not so long ago---and, perhaps, again.
Each layer an indifferent difference forgetting the life
that gives it life now.
The attraction of expanse---a kind of gravity
of mountains or vertigo of cliffs---beckons a presence
it does not need nor know. The road here to where
the road comes before it existed. The way here is also
the way home---but not yet---another night approaches
with all the time in the world. Distances disappear.
The portion of space causing time to reappear---suspended
between then & now---occupying all distance present everywhere.
A beetle crossing the same ground as the earlier ant casting
a long shadow in the late afternoon sun. A moth on a rock
vibrating its horizontal wings---then gone in a moment of
inattention.
Four fragments further along a future far from here---a place
different but no less identical. And, like last night,
mosquitoes in the last hour of sun.
Slowly the desert disappears
in darkness---finally only lit by stars turning overhead.
Morning---Venus---moon.
Later, contrail shadow touching ground.
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