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mouse from merced

Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
Apr 20, 2013 - 07:37am PT
EXPLODING MYTHS

Myth busters,
Cam busters,
Dam busters:
It’s all Grey Poupon.
To me.

Filibuster,
Attitude adjuster,
Blues by Duster:
Just sing The Beat Goes On.
For me.

La di dah di di,
Lad died dealing meth,
He asked for early death:
Inhaled from his dying breath, it's gone
In me.

Blonde climbers have more fun;
Only pansies climb five one;
It’s five seven now we’re done:
Let’s find a coffee shop.
On me.
--A. Crumbinallo
Marlow

Sport climber
OSLO
Apr 20, 2013 - 08:48am PT
Benny Andersen in translation. Mouse from Merced will not like the poem The Time at 04:05 or Spirit at 24:50.
Marlow

Sport climber
OSLO
Apr 20, 2013 - 08:55am PT
Sailing To Byzantium

I
That is no country for old men. The young
In one another's arms, birds in the trees
---Those dying generations---at their song,
The salmon-falls, the mackerel-crowded seas,
Fish, flesh, or fowl commend all summer long
Whatever is begotten, born, and dies.
Caught in that sensual music all neglect
Monuments of unaging intellect.

II
An aged man is but a paltry thing,
A tattered coat upon a stick, unless
Soul clap its hands and sing, and louder sing
For every tatter in its mortal dress,
Nor is there singing school but studying
Monuments of its own magnificence;
And therefore I have sailed the seas and come
To the holy city of Byzantium.

III
O sages standing in God's holy fire
As in the gold mosaic of a wall,
Come from the holy fire, perne in a gyre,
And be the singing-masters of my soul.
Consume my heart away; sick with desire
And fastened to a dying animal
It knows not what it is; and gather me
Into the artifice of eternity.

IV
Once out of nature I shall never take
My bodily form from any natural thing,
But such a form as Grecian goldsmiths make
Of hammered gold and gold enamelling
To keep a drowsy Emperor awake;
Or set upon a golden bough to sing
To lords and ladies of Byzantium
Of what is past, or passing, or to come.

W B Yeats
mouse from merced

Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
Apr 21, 2013 - 06:38pm PT
BROKEN RADIO SIGNAL

I loved that little Sony-mine
and the sounds it had on offer.

It nearly died one day at T.I. in May 1968:
A near-fatal discharge under dishonorable conditions following a ground-fall.

Twelve feet to the ground left no doubt—that was all, it was gonna die.
I hope it didn’t suffer.

We were listening to some Zappa
when it got zapped.

It hung around, a one-antenna amputee,
mostly mute and seldom heard,
that later got lost in Yosemite.

Eventually.

If a radio signal dies in the forest and no one hears it, how does this affect the universe?
Heck of a question.

edit a Marlow: As a psa, the time is now officially gone. It was just a baby, too. This was reported in The Times. The time was when an obituary had more people who had time to read it. There is dead air on radio, which is the same as dead time.

I got no dime but I got some time to hear his story.--The Dead, one more time
Fletcher

Trad climber
The great state of advaita
Apr 24, 2013 - 08:50am PT
Well, it's that time of the year:

Sumer is icumen in,
Lhude sing cuccu!
Groweþ sed and bloweþ med
And springþ þe wde nu,
Sing cuccu!
Awe bleteþ after lomb,
Lhouþ after calue cu.
Bulluc sterteþ, bucke uerteþ,
Murie sing cuccu!
Cuccu, cuccu, wel singes þu cuccu;
Ne swik þu nauer nu.
Sing cuccu nu. Sing cuccu.
Sing cuccu. Sing cuccu nu!

And for those of you not fluent in Middle English (where's a Hobbit when you need one?):

Summer has come in,
Loudly sing, Cuckoo!
The seed grows and the meadow
blooms
And the wood springs anew,
Sing, Cuckoo!
The ewe bleats after the lamb
The cow lows after the calf.
The bullock stirs, the stag farts,
Merrily sing, Cuckoo!
Cuckoo, cuckoo, well you sing,
cuckoo;
Don't ever you stop now,
Sing cuckoo now. Sing, Cuckoo.
Sing Cuckoo. Sing cuckoo now!
mouse from merced

Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
Apr 25, 2013 - 05:15pm PT
IT'S MORE THAN HAIKU
TO SAY HOW MUCH I LIKE YOU
i feel i o u

ALL u people

THANK u people
sullly

Trad climber
Apr 25, 2013 - 05:29pm PT
Nice choice Marlow. Hadn't read that in awhile. Here's another Yeats for you.

TO A CHILD DANCING IN THE WIND
by: W. B. Yeats (1865-1939)

DANCE there upon the shore;
What need have you to care
For wind or water's roar?
And tumble out your hair
That the salt drops have wet;
Being young you have not known
The fool's triumph, nor yet
Love lost as soon as won,
Nor the best labourer dead
And all the sheaves to bind.
What need have you to dread
The monstrous crying of wind?
Gary

Social climber
Desolation Basin, Calif.
Apr 25, 2013 - 05:50pm PT
More Brautigan for Mouse:

Death is a beautiful car parked only
to be stolen on a street lined with trees
whose branches are like the intestines
of an emerald.
You hotwire death, get in, and drive away
like a flag made from a thousand burning
funeral parlors.

You have stolen death because you're bored.
There's nothing good playing at the movies
in San Francisco.

You joyride around for a while listening
to the radio, and then abandon death, walk
away, and leave death for the police
to find.
Fletcher

Trad climber
The great state of advaita
Apr 25, 2013 - 08:58pm PT
The Journey

One day you finally knew
what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you
kept shouting
their bad advice --
though the whole house
began to tremble
and you felt the old tug
at your ankles.
"Mend my life!"
each voice cried.
But you didn't stop.
You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
at the very foundations,
though their melancholy
was terrible.
It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen
branches and stones.
But little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice
which you slowly
recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world,
determined to do
the only thing you could do --
determined to save
the only life you could save.

~ Mary Oliver ~

(Dream Work)
mouse from merced

Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
Apr 26, 2013 - 12:09am PT
a tattoo haiku
tells you dot dot's the dotter
your daughter has wed

mouse from merced

Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
Apr 26, 2013 - 12:31am PT
Dead Car Found on Park Place

On a bench in Park Place
It sat
It radiated love
It had been joy-ridden
Obviously
The trunk was full of old comedy reels
Laurel and Hardwood
The Tree Stooges
The Light Comedy in the Forest
and so on through Hollywood

The cops stood around
Was there a moving violation
Or was it a parking violation
They felt it was moving
So they took out their tools
And they fixed that crate good
It never ever moved again
They hauled it away with a logging chain

It was put to rest in a pine box
Norwegian-crafted
And inlaid with emeralds
In oddly hexcentric shapes
And Bob Dylan sang
The car song
By Woody
Would he approve
The hearse was a woodie
Why certainly
Cried the baldest cypress stooge

The king of braut again has died
Long live the king
Auto the Magnificent




Thanks, Gary!
mouse from merced

Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
Apr 26, 2013 - 12:48am PT
He Wants to Tap a Keg at the Leap
I mean, He Wants to Leap on a Keg and Tap Dance on Dikes

why not go all the way
why not take all of me
why not a bunch of mes
why not hike your pants up
why not you satisfied
why not utter sweet nothings
why not fool around with me no more
why not u like me no more

I'm sorry if this offends.

I just up-chucked it.

The mouse-muse is full of moonshine tonight of all nights.

Chuck's twice the man

i am

after all

i am

just a mouse

hangin' nine

surfin' the rhyme

next time

i am

buyin'



mouse from merced

Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
Apr 26, 2013 - 04:06am PT
Nose In A Day Dream

Eye on the prize, booger!
Eye on the prize, booger!
Credit: Dianna Nyad?

Donini’s nostril
gospel
hostel
hospital
lost bell
liberty bell
go to hell
goat boy smell
Lafayette Bunnel
admiral
clam shell
wishing well
oh, do tell
William tell
no tell motel
‘ink well’
show ‘n tell
holding cell
farmer in the dell
and he finally fell
and on cloud nine they dwell
Little Nell
je m’apelle
set a spell
have a nail
eat a snail
cut up the handrail
belay them last three, varmint!
they all smell
just as well
couldn’t tell
better sell
Colgate gel
Cornell yell
more cowbell
Samuel Zell
all is well
sing Noel
Maroon Bell
run pell-mell
kiss n’ tell
Disney cel
“Life in the Salton Sea!?”
This here ain’t no Disney nature flick, ya varmint!!
Git back ta bizness, blast ya!
KA-BLOOEY!!!!!!
No more to tell, etc.


Dette er ikke en Disney film om natur, kjeltring, irriterende person eller dyr, forsomme.--Benny Anders Marlofsen

I may have butchered that, py yiminey.
mouse from merced

Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
Apr 26, 2013 - 12:59pm PT
Hard Core Spondee

Dusting away on the dark side they hung
Not a hair out of place, nor even a tongue, among

White founts falling in the courts of the sun
And the Soldan of Byzantium is smiling as they run
Marlow

Sport climber
OSLO
Apr 28, 2013 - 10:04am PT

Your guide...
Fletcher

Trad climber
The great state of advaita
Apr 30, 2013 - 12:38am PT
"Poetry meets deep, essential, unremembered hungers. It is food and drink for the soul - memory of the soul."—Krista Tippett

Now I remember for whence here I came...
For lunch, natch!

Eric
mouse from merced

Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
Apr 30, 2013 - 08:00am PT
Nachos for lunch...

Sure It Could Always Be Verse

They say things should rhyme
But I haven’t the time
To babysit pronouns all day

If they want it so
I want them to know
We consider myself to be they

So f. them and the lamas
(And especially them commas)
They all rode in on today

Beck to verk, Fledger! Vite!
rrider

climber
Mckinleyville, Ca
May 1, 2013 - 12:22pm PT
Mayday Mayday

NURSERY RHYME
-rik rieder May 1, 2013

An angry God with fiery rod and voice of burnished steel
the Tower of Babel did condemn, the people brought to heel
“thou shall not try to reach me, by buildings and big stairs.
the type of things I had in mind was charity and prayers”
He brought construction to a halt, ordering dispersal
then turned men into climbers, all confused but universal
And then the Lord did turn his face toward other grand affairs
with eyes ablaze he cast his gaze and left for the Himalayas

Came the days of old when knights were bold, the church of the rock had taught the flock
to worship at the holy shrine the symbol of man’s love divine
A holy writing made with chalk inspired the people on their walk
They came from all across the Earth for recognition of their worth

And then one day a pilgrim did have a revelation
to test the flock he scrubbed the rock and suffered castigation
the high priests and their orderlies declared a desecration
the gods would be offended by this crass abomination

The shrine restored, the angry mob had all but settled down
when underneath that very spot there came a rumbling sound
the ground was heaved, the boulder cleaved by a bolt from the clear blue skies
and from the crack stepped a man in black with tired gentle eyes
and stepping out behind him there came a dozen more
all climbers of the highest rank, women and men of yore
they silently looked out upon the wide-eyed quaking crowd
their faces were concerned, understanding and yet proud

By now the audience had grown, the loud ones and the meek
the man in black did raise his hand as he began to speak
“you people with your idols, your symbols and reputations
you glorify yourselves and leave your marks on my creations!
I gave you rocks and mountains, all you sisters and you brothers
so that you could grow within yourself and help to lift each other
but something has gone wrong among my paradise of granite
idolatry and bullying is not how I had planned it
you make your pious altars and say you’re sanctified
when really they’re just monuments to puny human pride
though in honesty you’re not to blame, I’ve been away too long
I thought I had it figured out, that nothing could go wrong...”

Just then a pink point radster said “surely old man you jest!
we have a right to argue and fight to be the best
so if you don’t mind please step aside, I see a first ascent”
he marched up to the new offwidth, pushing God into a nearby tent.
the climber flailed, gasped and wheezed, inching ever higher
as the Lord got up, brushed off his clothes, his eyes were shooting fire
“whence came you by this nonsense, you bobble-headed flunkeys!”
he raised his staff and turned them all into a tribe of monkeys

Ages later God recanted, and felt remorse for that time he ranted
Restoring the monkeys back to men he gave them one more chance again
Resolving himself that come what may, he’d try to not remain away
You never know when he’ll be back so give your brothers a little slack

And somewhere on the valley floor there still exists today
the fabled piece of stone where this story came to play
some say the crack is gone because the rock grew back together
still others claim God did the work one night in stormy weather
And only for a little while there used to be a route
named: Never Steal A First Ascent From Underneath God’s Boot
No one knows who climbed it, no one dared lay claim
Its really unimportant compared to stepping up the Game

mouse from merced

Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
May 1, 2013 - 01:29pm PT
Brilliant, rr!

And historically accurate, too!
mouse from merced

Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
May 2, 2013 - 02:23am PT
Insert photo RR,pensive pose back cover shot from My Life.

Me-did-tations Midst Rubble

Before I worked in Yosemite as a houseman I fried hamburgers and made chicken for a franchise in the Bay Area. The hamburger we sold was "The Big Barney." Fred Flintstone, Barney Rubble, OK?

I yearned for the mountains, back then, though I knew not what could possibly happen up there.

I found that in the mountains, Time passes slowly, hand-to-hand, until it is no longer legible.

It's then used for TP.

What I am resting on is the detritus of monoliths.
They are like the piles of dead skin cells which accumulated underneath my mattress.
If Sentinel sheds skin, this is it, and they have been laying here for, like, quien sabe?
It is a poor conceit for what has happened here in the side-hill oak forest.

I never notice skin flakes falling off me or the noise they must make if they do.
Let’s set that myth on its heels.
Everything makes noise but we all are not equipped or NEED to hear
the crash and boom (or their tiny-world equivalents--maybe whiff and poof?)
of dandruff or hairs hitting the deck.

Maybe the dust mites can detect the sound.

You’ll hear an oak leaf as it falls among its brothers.
You’ll hear the pine cones run away from their mothers.
You cannot hear the acorn when it is sprouting.
You sure can hear the mountain when it is shouting!

Why am I formalizing this rambling mental dialog?
Why ever not?
Have I not
spent many hours wishing that I were
here and not
somewhere that is more stressful
and far less enjoyable
like down there?

I am in danger from having too much fun, thinking about what possibly could go wrong on this...what...quest? OK. It sounds New Agey and corny but it is rather descriptive.
I am trying to find Sentinel Creek so tha I might have a unique view of a seldom-seen scene, Sentinel Falls.
It is a legitimate quest. Call me Sir Beansalot. And If I am not satisfied that I have completed the quest, I can always return, at least I can always want that.

Face it. It is what I want, to die up there.

I could back off a boulder trying to increase the depth or width of a shot.

I could put out another freaking eye if I do not wear glasses.

I could put out another freaking eye if I do wear glasses.

The fact is I have better coordination when I wear nothing on my nose.

This also eliminates sweat problems, not that I am moving so fast that I acutally break a sweat.

St. Galen sweated plenty for our sins--patron saint of talus runners andphotgraphers, y'know.

I have been comfortable all day in a T-shirt and a light sweat top.

My feet have room and it is because I removed the inner soles and left them at home. The peds tend to swell now, quien sabe? Take yer peds-meds and hush.

There is a huge difference in sound between the forest and the creekside.

Notorious as a waterless trail, the four mile only crossed one that I recall from my only other passage (downhill), but I have a whole half-gallon in my pack, a precautionary measure should I be so stupid as to get hurt in the Raucous.
Credit: mouse from merced
my attentive audience

I also have a headlamp.

I recall lessons learned last fall near Dewey Point, a low point.

I believe I have redeemed myself in my eyes, which are the only ones which need to see this and the only ones really fit to judge, according to some.

But I'm generous, they tell me. It is nice of them to say.
Let them who refuse to ask for help get on their knees and pray.
I pray when I walk.
I worship when I shoot.
I listen to its talk.
It has shown me how to walk.
How could I not be a seeker?
How could I not be on a quest?
I have seen myself become meeker.
I think it seeks for me the best.


"Sun-lit meadows"
"forested slopes"
"cataracts plunging"
"topographical sculpture"
"another hit of fresh air"
All seem canned phrases describing my wish-life.
[Insert inane crudity about tuna and spouse if you dare...I don't care.]

5.1! Siesta time.


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