11/8

I have a drug addiction — perhaps it does not seem like it on the outside to those unknowing onlookers, but what I desire most is an end to the seizures (the spells, the episodes, the visions).

Drugs make that happen, at least for awhile — hard drugs, not by traditional standards, but enough of them to be measured in grams per day, intense enough to keep me in a perpetual, paradoxical high, a great slowdown of the mind.

My waking, striking eyes are always in struggle against the tremendous forces of the anti-epileptics; yet, I feel when my body revolts, when it speaks to me and says for me to rest. I do not lest, for as the busy world goes, each day closer to strangling itself in the global chains and wires of its norms and infrastructure, about to keel into cardiac arrest, so too do I follow and drift in a drug-laden stupor, hallucinating dim images of future success and liberating peace among this catastrophe.

Sleep is never enough to shake off the effects, no matter six, ten, or twelve hours — it is a waking coma that I am in, unable to fight the burden from my consciousness.

10/19

Watching my ticking pocket-watch.

It’s going too slow, I’m going mad. Not quite eight yet, can’t take my drugs and bask in their effects. Drinking Captain Eli’s, reading Jane Eyre, wishing I had a real beer, that I knew what the French ladies were saying — that’d be true gorgeousness.

Impossibilities, I’m crippled under hundreds of pages of text — for what reason? What’s the expectation anyway? My hands are trembling, my jaw is jerking, I want to scream confessions into the open air and onto deaf ears. I pretend play that I’m in a cafe snapping my fingers to the heartbeat of expression — no more apprehension, depression, or falling behind the imaginary pack.

Cliff Bar, too much sweet in my mouth. Just swallow the pills.

Smoking, 17 Years Old

The darkness molested by the
pollution of city lights and
street lamps blazing through the
summer night hung low over
the pond — we called it the
puddle — and there we sat,
near the edge of the murk, in such
stark contrast to the relative
order around us, illuminated in
sharp blacks and whites like in
those old movies.
Cigarettes hung loosely from our
lips, smoke poured and streamed
into a poisonous plume,
in a smooth and sophisticated way –
as we fancied ourselves to be –
silently pondering the existential and poetical,
smoking cigarettes at seventeen.

Untitled #19

Autumn. A distant smile.
Laughter accompanied by
receding attention.
Rain patters through the
open window. Friends
depart, each looking into
the other’s eyes, searching
for glistening feelings. She
stifles a cry from the swirling
void within her heart.
The front door opens, and
I leave alone to embrace the wind,
decades ago. Cold rain patters onto
my face.

A dream during twilight

She bears a burden that chills her heart,
takes away the aches and pains,
slows the rhythm of life to the minimal
pulse excited only by alcohol and running
away from fear, fear of solutions to what seem like
indelible problems yet are as evanescent
and fleeting as fireflies.
Her body becomes colder and her frozen breaths
can’t sustain her for much longer.
Her warm appearance is unlike that which lies within;
while perhaps thoughtful, calm and capable of true
acts of humanity and love, she is as broken and twisted trees,
mangled not of their own accord,
yet still holding with a firm grip on to the power of life
through each brittle winter that howls and roars to claim.
It will take a year of working,
a year of sun, fertile rains and the
loving being of all that is, but she who
once stumbled in the frigid dark and
grasped blindly for a hand to hold
onto may know herself as herself,
alive and empowered –
nothing trivial, not any more.

Living on an Island — Coyote, Moose, & Angry Beavers

This past weekend my August was kicked-off with a wild biking, canoing and camping trip to Marshall Pond, probably 15 miles from home. Rather than using a motor vehicle, my friend Rob towed our full-sized canoe, loaded up with some camera equipment, a boom-like camera jib arm, sleeping bags, and the like, on a bicycle trailer bolted to his seat. I carried our water supply, my gear, an underwater camera, and a few other things a day pack that, once packed, was bulging and full. The point of our voyage was to catch get some great shots in of different animals, interesting things that live in ponds, and of whatever else we could find.

We got a few strange looks on the journey there. Those were surely merited; two young, shirtless guys on bikes carrying several hundred pounds of gear and an 11+ foot, blaze-orange canoe (we named it Moxie) biking down the road is an unusual, if not insane sight. They were all well and good, though; people chuckling, giving us thumbs-ups, cheering. At about mile 10 of our grueling trek, we stopped at a farm stand and explained to the farmers what the hell we were doing with a canoe on our bike.

Finally, after three to four hours of biking, taking short rests for water and granola bars, we reached Marshall Pond. Initially, we were quite unsure of ourselves. There was an island in the center of the pond, no more than 50-60 feet in diameter, that would be our base camp for the weekend when we weren’t in the water filming. Our issue, here, was that we brought everything but the canoe paddles; somehow, those had slipped our mind. We were able to borrow two paddles of sorts from a generous neighbor who had a camp on the lake. Within the course of an hour to an hour and a half, we made two trips out to the island, first to drop off our gear, then to drop off our bicycles so that they wouldn’t be stolen.

Living on an island is an interesting feeling. We had probably eight to ten trees around us, most of them quite old and venerable, as well as masses of blueberry and other bushes. Luckily, for us, there were ripe berries just ready for the picking. In the center of the island was a shale firepit that we used for cooking our dinner of creamed corn, a can of tuna, a cucumber, and triscuts between the two of us. Even though we had already caught and documented a very large garter snake and a painted turtle, it was after dinner that the real action started.

We decided to go canoing at sunset. Marshall Pond is made up of three different pond and bog segments that are connected by passageways. By the time we were nearing the exit of the first, and out of view of our island-home, twilight had almost completely taken effect. There was perfect stillness and silence on the water, sans the sound and wake of our canoe and our gentle strokes. Suddenly, an object flew by my face. Then, for the next ten minutes or so, we were surrounded by little brown bats out for a dinner of insects. Some of them came within only a few feet of our heads, others inches from our paddles or the canoe. Unfortunately, we did not have the bat detector with us, but even so we could hear their social calls later on — a loud, incredibly high pitched screeching vocalization.

Unafraid of bats, we kept on canoing. When we entered the second pond, a horrific call sounded from the bog — that of a great blue heron. Shortly after this, there was an explosion in the water near to us, startling both of us. Rob reassured me that it was just a beaver doing a tail slap to fend us off, but nevertheless the volume and intensity of the sound is frightening. At one point during the night, we were surrounded by three beavers all doing tail slaps. In the morning we discovered that there is a beaver lodge in that area.

The most compelling sounds of the night came around the entrance to the third pond and the woods on the shore next to it. At first, we heard something continuously moving around. We stopped paddling, listened for awhile, and then intermittently used our flashlights to try and spot something. Eventually, we paddled the canoe ashore, but did not get out. The sounds continued. Large sticks and branches were being broken by an unseen creature. Rob and I bet that the only things large enough to make that sound were moose or black bear. He’d of a black bear in that specific area before, but there was no way we were going to get out in the middle of the night, unarmed, and try and “catch” a black bear on film. We could be shredded by an angry mother bear defending her cubs no matter how fast we could run. When nothing came in sight, we decided it was safest to get back in the water and leave that sound for later.

On our way back around the pond, before we got to that location again, we whispered about how it would be awesome to hear some coyotes — how that would basically finish off our night of amazing creature sights (mind you, much of this was filmed!). Only minutes after we said that, coyotes started howling from the mainland — luckily not our island — with their terrible yipping, screaming tones. Rob and I attempted a coyote call back to them somewhat unsuccessfully. Nevertheless, they called again a few minutes later and sent shivers up my spine.

Just after the coyotes called, we were unknowingly back near the beaver lodge again. A tremendous boom and a splash of water, as if a cannon of sorts had been shot at us, erupted less than 20 feet away. We quickly paddled out of beaver territory, adrenaline pumping us forward. When we were near the end of their area, however, we heard some more rustling in the woods that made us stop to try and film whatever was moving around in there. This, perhaps, was the most perplexing sighting of the night.

Every so often, there would be a splash of water as if something was getting in and out of the water. We were dead silent, floating about fifty or so feet away from the shore as to give us a safe distance if it was a predator, and so that it would have less of a chance of being bothered by our noise. There was a lot of twig breaking and rustling — the sound of something big moving through the woods. We turned on the camera and began filming and explaining what was going on. Then, we heard a very deep grunt of sorts, similar to something that a large horse might make. Almost immediately the two of us said “Moose”. Several more grunts followed that and the sound of things moving around. Both of us quickly turned on our lights to try and spot whatever was right there in the bog near us, but because of the density of trees, we couldn’t see anything. The evidence of moose was there, though.

We went back to the island, amazed and excited, made a small fire, logged our day on film, and then went to sleep. Somehow, after just a day, the island felt like a home. There wasn’t much to take cover under in a storm, there wasn’t much to use as fuel for a fire (we burned most of the available fuel in one day), the sharp shale around the island was mostly inhospitable and smothered in slippery algae that would send someone flying forwards, probably only to be slashed up on rocks, and the ground was filled completely with roots. There wasn’t much of anything desirable there, but it was private and in the middle of a pond with no one — most importantly, the outside, fast-paced, technological world — to bother us. There is the special feeling of making it on your own, like in those survival or adventure stories (I read Gary Paulsen non-stop when I was younger) where the hero has everything working against him but manages to make it. We weren’t crashed in the middle of the Pacific, but we didn’t have a whole lot of food with us, not nearly enough water, had only rocks and roots to sleep on, and had to use some sort of survival skills to ration what we did have and make a cook fire.

Being an islander is a unique skill — or way of life — that must take some getting used to. I can imagine nearly a thousand or so years ago Iceland first being settled, and the other islands in that area and around the British Isles. The challenges presented to settlers must have been phenomenal, more than to other pioneers because there was no way home but the open water. While we only had to canoe back to shore in order to start making way for home, it has given me a good deal of respect for islanders across the world and I’m ready to do some island hopping of my own.

-hrafn

A Little Audacity

I am sleeping lightly upon a leather loveseat covered in blankets. In my dream, I am laying awake looking at my cellphone as it vibrates and rings in its little melody. Suddenly, I irk awake and look to my phone. Nothing. Seconds later, it rings. In the passage of one afternoon, this happens three times.

It is a few days earlier. As I cross the mighty Androscoggin river, I look to my left and wonder about the fate of the old Cowlan mill building. Contracts have fallen through and that historic landmark, now gutted, silent, and looming simply exists to uphold its own history — an icon of sorts for all the memories of the textile past. I know that it will not make it. Today, an inferno raged inside of the building and within the span of two hours destroyed all that was left. Floors caved in, walls collapsed into the river, the entire place came thundering down. Over 150 years of history was enveloped in fire, each year screaming as it died, sending fireballs and cinders from the building all over downtown Lewiston.

I pick up my pen, put it to the page, and then it falls over, leaving a sploch of black ink on the page. I am drugged with hopes of my condition improving, yet I have vomited almost everyday, and even water makes my stomach churn. I sit back, weakened by persistent fatigue, and imagine off into another place while my muscles lose their tone, while my body softens and my strength is undermined. I sit with a patch over one eye, too dizzy even to stand.

It is audacity that gets me through this. Boldness shielding an inner determination that strengthens my core, enlivens my willpower, envokes a sort of rage against all that is holding me back. My soul infuses with the whole of my body and I can conquer any obstacles that are presented. A little audacity is what keeps me alive through times when even reading is a challenge.

Each breath. Stronger.

Hrafn

http://tylernoyes.wordpress.com/

Nineteen days and then some

I am on an extended break from my university with months ahead of me, free from just about everything but idleness: no work, no class, no plans.

I never realized how tiring nothingness can get. Days are insignificant – even weeks are depraved of their meaning. I was told that it was a big day on this coming Thursday and that I had plans – I wondered what they were and then realized my birthday, another insignificant event. Business for one day, then idleness for the rest of the spectrum of summer.

When I lay down in a lounge chair outside, or simply collapse and sprawl out on the grass or on the wooden planks of the deck, basking in sunlight, it feels like there is something to do. I then realize there really isn’t, and drift guiltily on into a nap or my thoughts.

Wayfaring will eventually start eating up some of my time, and getting on my bicycle and travelling around the lake, perhaps writing, reading, and music, too – nevertheless, there is a drone in the back of my mind at all times that speaks of lazy summers, of going into the woods for the sake of punching out old, punky and rotten trees, of weeding Japanese knotweed and watching carefully, day by day, by basil grow large enough to make it on its own in the garden. Perhaps poetry will spread its roots amidst all this fertile, tilled soiled.

Television is not a provision

Something’s missing. It’s Saturday and I’m alone in my living room with my steamy ramen noodles. The cats are quietly hawking over me. There is the occasional slosh of passing cars, the click as the gas stove turns on to warm the hearth, and the faint sound of the sump-pump clearing our 19th-century basement of water. It is a lazy late afternoon characteristic of my weekends here back at home.

My parents went to visit relatives, and I am here with the mission of doing homework. However, I find my once-familiar environment disturbed somehow. I have been thinking about it every moment since I came back. We didn’t lose a family member or a pet, but rather a commodity.

The dark, reflective face of the television, sitting dead upon its stand, looms in the corner. The room is so quiet I find it unsettling and peaceful all at once. The television cable has been unplugged from the wall and the box removed. There are not even rabbit ears sticking up from behind its massive, bulky plastic shell.

In an effort to become more economically efficient we decided that our talking box was not worth over fifty dollars a month. I am used to having no television in my room on campus and being bogged down with work. According to my paranoid standards, TV watching would mean academic and social failure. On weekends I went home and breaks, though, there I was, enjoying shows like Battlestar Galactica and Mission Impossible. I even started watching Deal or No Deal.

I do not intend to criticize the good television shows out there right now. What I had a difficult time realizing was that even when I wasn’t cheering on my favorite characters on an episode of Battlestar Galactica, for example, someone else might be watching their show, and so on. The background noise was always there, and passively, through sight or sound, I have seen hundreds of episodes of Judge Judy, Judge Mathis, The People’s Court, and others. I have left the news on for three hours while only watching half an hour of it. I have heard thousands of commercials and remembered the advertising but not the source. It is a strange situation knowing what’s on TV, even though consciously you don’t think that you “watch” TV.

It feels like I have lost a family member, but one that was not necessarily well liked and valuable. While I lived for years without cable at all, the most recent portion of my life has been with the TV there by my side for every moment of it. The power it has to transmit images and alter the way one thinks is almost unrivaled. Creativity and imagination are stifled.

Last night, as tonight, I will sit here comfortable and warm in our room designed for “living” and not watching TV. The radio might be on low as I listen for news from the G20 summit in London taking place now; after, only the silence of an old house and thoughtful discussions which have been impeded by countless nights of TV-dinners and overwhelming volume using flashing lights and colors as our guide for family time. The house feels alive now, the sound of settling and its squeaky pine floors no longer muted by the box that teaches, talks, and intrudes.

Food and Vegetable Politics, oh my!

Following my experiment in consumption earlier in the week and the proceeding discussion of food politics on Facebook, I decided to continue my exploration of taste and desire by comparing and contrasting the high-fat, highly-industrial burger meal by spending three days eating well-balanced, nutritious vegetarian meals. The difference is tremendous.

In my average, daily diet here at college I do not consume a great deal of meat to begin with. My only meat comes from either the pepperoni pizza I eat occasionally or turkey or fish in a sandwich. To go three days without this food was not too much of a challenge. Instead of getting the chicken and chicken gravy in the shepherds pie, for instance, I opted out of both of those and replaced it with a delicious potato and leek soup.

The following two days, I satisfied my cravings for something heavy and dense in my stomach — such as a burger or some other sort of flesh, per se — with a lot of complex carbohydrates from grains or whole grain bread. Beyond this, milk was an adequate source of protein and nourishment. One evening, I had egg salad. Some vegetarians would dispute that eating an egg is non-vegetarian and carnivorous; my response is that I am an experimenter and in no way a purist.

To summarize my diet of the past several days, I enjoyed big bowls of fresh spinach leaves and other greens and colored vegetables that I ate raw and, generally, with my hands. No dressing is required to bring out the full, bold and earthy flavor of spinach. On my brown rice I used olive oil and added a few veggies. This was completely satisfying, easy on the stomach, and incredibly healthy. I did not miss meat in the least.

Last night I broke my three day journey into the vegetable life when I encountered ham salad at our deli bar here on campus. This is a rarity. When I was little my mom would made ham salad quite often for my lunches to be spread on sandwiches. I really enjoy the combination of mayo, ham, and relish. Unable to resist, I had it on my sandwich. My enjoyment of the meat came only in the value of nostalgia; I could remember the times in the past and the fond feelings towards my mother, her cooking, and being a kid. The ham by itself was sub par.

Another one of my favorite foods as a kid was bacon. One morning while coming back from a few days lodging in Bar Harbor, my family stopped at a breakfast buffet. I was so overwhelmed with the options that I loaded more than a pound of bacon into my bowl and went back to our table, intent on eating it all. Not only did I feel dehydrated a little ways into the meal, I was sick to my stomach and not even the combined appetite of the four of us could finish it off. I felt terribly wasteful. I’ve cleaned my plate and taken only what I can knowingly eat ever since.

Remembering this, I tried some bacon this morning and ate it slowly, thoughtfully, and inquisitively. Nothing. As my friend commented: “translucent” flesh and fat. Salt. There was almost nothing worthwhile in it. While bacon is not as pervasive as McDonald’s, for instance, there is a similar hype about it. That savory feeling in the mouth comes when images of bacon are on television or in print. Even just discussing the smell of bacon is sure to make one hungry.

To finish off my survey of food qualities, before writing this I ate a bag of Lay’s kettle cooked chips, the Jalapeno variety. Kettle chips are one of my weaknesses. I prefer brands other than Lay’s, but I figured that these would do. On the back of the bag, I noted the presence of MSG (Monosodium Glutamate) in the flavor powder coating the chips. MSG embodies the fifth flavor picked up by the human tongue, called Umami or “Savory”. It took me about fifteen minutes of intermittent snacking to finish off the bag. As I neared the end, my mouth felt otherworldly; my salivary glands were in high gear. All of my mouth was tingling and my gums felt inflamed. The savory flavor so embodied by MSG had overtaken my taste receptors and the flavor of every other ingredient to create a wild explosion of saliva and confusion.

The Findings: I am going to permanently reconsider my choices as I am dining. While I have been interested in nutrition for the past year or two, learned myself in some basics of organics, health foods, food additives, and other key components relevant to our modern diet, it just isn’t enough.

I will not align myself with any restrictive food ideology beyond my own, be it vegetarian, vegan, or any of the multitude of diet plans being sold on the market. I can feel clearly that burgers and a bowl of spinach affect me in distinctly different ways, and will use this instinct to eat as much as I can, rather than buying into the consumer market.

My hard earned money and yours ought not to support corporate giants who use food as a means of control and domination. A dangerous loss of culture, health, and liberty all result from buying into the lifestyle of soda, fast-food, and Western convenience. While I cannot escape the system, by being knowledgeable and open-minded in my choices, I can combat it, do my little part and be healthy within it until the day when we can all farm our own food.