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| View from Cherry Creek Peak. Photo by Rio Brown |
1. A Long-Winded Discussion—Blah, Blah, Blah—on Zen and the Art of Writing
Because everything connects to everything, it’s difficult to
know where to begin a narrative. This
one was to start in an onion field one searing September afternoon. Then it was to begin one saturated night
after a week of dense rain. Now it will
begin in my kitchen as five teenagers sit around the table, view Edward
Hopper’s Night Hawks on my computer
screen, and frantically write noir narratives.
The only difference: time.
By the time I got around to writing this hiking narrative, I was no
longer in the same place mentally. And
that’s okay—it won’t be the same narrative, but it will still be fresh, vivid
and real because I’m beginning where I’m at—now. That, for me, is why outlines, except for
certain tasks, don’t work. They
predetermine the outcome and the richness.
The excitement and power of discovering what you have to say happens
outside the text. The energy occurs
while you’re planning, not writing, so the reader never gets to participate in
the struggle, the scuffle, the dance—the work and play it takes to
arrive at that one great moment of thought that makes the whole journey worthwhile.
No one really wants to be told what to think anyway. But they may not mind being invited into your
brain—an act of voyeurism really—as you struggle for some semblance of
coherence. That is the magic of the
Kerouac, of the Beats. It’s not that
they wrote better than previous generations; it’s that they were the first,
besides William Carlos Williams, to fully invite us to come along.
Here, as an experiment, I want to follow my three versions
of this narrative just a ways. Not
fully, that would take too long, but far enough to see the path bend around an
aspen grove and disappear into the mysterious light and shadow. Then, to stand there, stop a minute, and
imagine the final destination.
Version A:
No shade, that’s for
sure. Little slivers of onions poke
through chalk-white alkali in rows that stretch across a monopoly board field. Tumbleweed piled against barbed wire fence attest
that the air did once move. But the
solid wall of stand-still air fortified beneath the blazing sun makes breeze
seem as remote as rivers on Mars. Sure
the evidence is there. Things were
different in the past, but when weather is as vacant as the conscience of a
corporate CEO, who cares what might have been witnessed in some great
past? The air is a standing wall and
you’re under it gagging.
So I sit on my butt
under a machine-gun sun and cut weeds away from onions with an exacto-blade while
Rod explains the art of tagging, of bombing, of making ones mark. I don’t tell
him that no matter how beautiful his outlaw murals are, if they’re painted
without permission, they’re not more than a dog’s urine claiming territory. I hold back because Rod is new, and the new
ones are always a little unpredictable, even dangerous. You don’t get sent to a boy’s home for
thinking things through. You get there
by doing really stupid stuff.
I think if I followed this version, the focus would be on heat
and cool, dry and moist, stagnant and dynamic, lost and found. I would no doubt reflect on my day job of
working with youth who are struggling to find more viable versions of
themselves, and how we all are, in a sense, doing the same.
Version B:
Oregon Coast. That’s how it smells, how it feels—the night
air soggy and moldy with life, toads rioting joy after a long, dry summer,
little green blades jerking up through the mud under a muted moon, everything
slightly misty as the steamy air settles down to dew overnight. Cool, rich, clean—everything.
Only the dry yellow
stubs of wild rye and cheat grass bony blue under the moonlight let me know
this is not Oregon—well that and the scrub oak and juniper, oh and rabbit brush
and snake weed. But the rain is enough
to make one dream of thick green farm fields, cheese and forest—forest and more
forest.
I think in this version I would simply focus on the
fecundity of life, the richness of being.
I think I would have very little philosophy to share and would just
stick to what is there before me, write the moment to the best of my ability,
invite the reader to experience a certain place on a certain day.
Version C:
This is how it always
is. You can always feel the energy. There is nothing like it. It works every time. Fourth graders, teenagers, adults—it doesn’t
matter. When people are tricked into
entering that moment of being there and listening to that other voice, that
inner guide, direct them through a narrative that is magically opening before
their eyes, writing for the moment becomes a drug, especially for those who
disliked it previously. And even though I make it clear beforehand that they
are to stop when I say stop, the hands keep going and some begging
starts—can we finish the paragraph, can I do this again, I think I have a
better way now, it just occurred to me…
Perhaps I should let
it go on. I know, for a while anyway,
they will have a hard time recreating the situation for themselves, even though
all it takes is a) giving the mind something unexpected to think about (so it
doesn’t follow the same old pathways), b) setting up a sense of urgency (so there’s
no time for self-censorship) and c) allowing crud to happen (so there’s no
worry about what others will think).
In this case, I’ve
projected Edward Hoppers Night Hawks onto the computer screen and given the
following rules: 1) Keep your hand
moving, 2) no erasing, 3) don’t worry about spelling, punctuation, etc., and 4)
remember, you’re allowed to write the worst crap in America. Because these are teenagers, who moments ago
were chasing each other around the kitchen, laughing wildly and spewing soda
all over the floor, I’ve added a fifth rule, no talking. That’s it.
That’s all it takes to turn non-writers into writers. But, except for Natalie Goldberg (who I’ve
adapted my rules from), no one seems to know this.
That is why I know this hiking narrative that I’ve assigned
myself will go somewhere. It has
too. It doesn’t matter which of the
three ways I enter. If I start in a
solid moment, describe it well, and say to myself, now I’m going to stumble
through the woods until I find point B, which in this case is the other side of
Cherry Creek Peak in northern Utah, I will get there. And I don’t have to worry if it is the best
way to get there because there is no best.
No two journeys are alike. There
is only picking up your crap, putting it on your back and hitting the
trail. Some routs might be longer, might
be steeper, might about kill you, might get you lost, wandering aimlessly for
hours, wondering if you can ever get out of the tangle of thoughts you’ve
created for yourself—which is exactly what’s happening here—but if you follow
through, the outcome, especially the journey, is always worthwhile. And since I’m not actually following the other
two pathways, I’ll never know if I chose the right one. And I don’t need to. This journey will sustain me well enough to
be the one.
Although I don’t necessarily endorse this approach to life,
for writing, it is the way: Just grab your crap and go.
2. The Types of Thoughts You Can Have While
Ambling Through the Woods
The trail begins at the end of a rutted road in damp leafs
scattered before a dry creek bed, which I guess, is usually running. Jeff and Glen talk of heat, weeks of
ninety-plus, even here in the Cache Valley, which is normally mild, even in
July or August. Or use to be. Heat has become the new language of the west,
drought and fire it’s most common literary forms. Things just aren’t the same. Everyone knows it, yet it is here that global
warming is denied most—a propaganda scheme by liberals to undermine God-given
liberties. I don’t get it; it’s like
living with cancer eating you and denying the decay.
It makes me sad to live among such grand people, knowing
their lifestyles are being eroded by a diseased climate while they deny it. Not these two, necessarily, although I don’t
ask. Out here, I’m a lone deer among
wolves as far as politics go. I keep my
deer-self hidden and howl now and then like a wolf. Besides, I have a gas-guzzling super van—Crystal Blue Persuasion—so who am I to
preach? It’s like a cannibal preaching
vegetarianism. My excuse is that change,
realistically speaking, must be legislated.
My one-in-billions carbon footprint won’t prevent global warming. Again, another dangerous thought here, as
this is the land of libertarianism. And
here, in the open spaces of the west, that feels
right: just let everyone do their own thing. That works well for a few thousand, not so
well for billions.
Anyway, today is moist and cool. Why think about dead, dying, sick forests
going up in hurricane flames if you don’t have to? Stick to the trail, the here and now, the dense
oak, maple and box elder forests crammed in a short, narrow canyon with Hindu
Kush slopes on three sides. Okay, I
exaggerate some, but even from here, I can tell we will soon be headed up, and
up, and up!
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| Photo by Rio Brown |
But for now, I can amble up the spongy, black dirt trail and
divide my time up between reading who- loves-who carved into aspen trunks,
enjoying the little blue wild flowers and bright green mosses, or I can think
about the book that will end my welcome here in the greatest state in the
nation—Christ was a Democrat. It won’t get me any gold stars with my
Arizona in-laws either. But, analyzing
the text, it’s true. And since no one
else seems to be pointing out the obvious—Christ
wasn’t a racist, didn’t despise the poor, and wasn’t always looking out for the
interests of those already in power—perhaps I should point that out, and
while I’m at it, remind my fellow Mormons that Joseph Smith and Brigham Young,
based on their practices, probably wouldn’t have been big supporters of Rush
Limbaugh.
Oh no—I’ve done it now, wiggled my way out of my wolf-suit
and shown I’m really a deer. No, believe
me—that’s not true. Watch me howl! Ky-yi-yippi-yi, you long-haired Obama
supporters ’er gonna die!
Now why would I want to write a book that would rip out my
welcome mat to paradise? Better just
focus here on this trail. Does it really
matter if my nearest neighbors glisten when they listen to Rush, when they’d do
just about anything to help me, or anyone else they came in contact with, for
that matter? But would they, if they
knew I was a Democrat? That, I guess is
the heart of things. Identity will find a
way. The seed will break open, the
sprout will climb up, poke his tender head up through the soil. For a season, while young, he may even look
like all the other young sprouts carpeting the forest floor, but sooner or
later, each will announce individual intent—whether he be grass, penstemon,
columbine or thistle. The flute will flower gently. The guitar will grind grandly. I’m sick of being who I’m not. I’m sick of conservatives claiming Christ as
their own, chaining morality, beating it into submissiveness like a dog. To be moral you must be fat, have a receding
hairline, a shiny forehead, shop at Wal-Mart and support the NRA. No dreadlocks, no RASTA, no tofu, no Opera,
no egg plant, no wilderness, no bike trail, no hip-hop, no rap, no soul. But I’m equally tired of liberals writing off
religion as ignorance, revelation as insanity and believing in their heart of
hearts that every conservative is a Nazi deep down in his soul.
Everywhere I turn, the fabric of America is coming
apart. I want to soar like an eagle, but
the higher I go, the better I see the rift spreading, the chasm opening, the
void flowering like a galaxy spiraling out between us, a big bang of Nada
zipping us away from each other as we become distant dots screaming hateful
political propaganda across the eons, which due to the distance, fizzles out in
the frozen night.
A song comes to mind: There’s always something cooking; nothing in
the pot. A song comes to mind: These are dangerous times. To think is to dig your own grave. Better walk gently through the forest, keep
down low in the undergrowth, stay in the shadows, be ye deer or wolf.
Whatever you do, don’t head for the peak, don’t lift your
hands to God, don’t yodel from the gut, don’t stand on the pinnacle and scream I AM!
Riffles are loaded. Triggers
are cocked. No matter who you are—they
will shoot you down.
3. Rest
Okay. Wo horsey.
Good golly miss molly. Where did
that come from? No wonder I need a rest. Better not put that in the narrative. Flags, flags, flags for the NSA. “Rio, get out the trail mix.”
I sit down on a boulder. The others have been waiting here, maybe
fifteen minutes, maybe hours. I’m
lagging, that’s for sure. But who
wouldn’t be? After that. Does everyone’s mind
spiral out of control that way? I look
around. Thinning trees, mostly just
pines now, some aspen. Alpine
flowers. It’s clear every way but back
is up. I love the sweet of the M &
M’s against the salt of the peanuts. I
love the coolness of the water. I love
that a mind, lost on a runaway train, can sit down and rest, once it’s
distracted. How many family arguments
would flutter away if even just one person in the house could just stare at a
crumb on the floor or talk to angels long enough for the mind to forget it was
right and had to prove it.
That is why, despite the fact it
always nearly kills me, I love hiking.
You’re there talking with your own mind for so long, it eventually wears
out, and finally, you’re just there in the landscape.
Resting.
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| A resting point before the long ascent. Photo by Rio Brown |
(The Journey will be continued)
