tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-108668022009-05-09T11:35:32.438-07:00Words, thoughts, noise, nonsense, outrage, invective, hogwash, imaginings, trifles. Prayers to an inscrutable god. Chatter breaking the silence.Henryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04035521919282526061noreply@blogger.comBlogger80125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10866802.post-34530140763839805952009-05-02T12:12:00.000-07:002009-05-02T12:18:12.139-07:00

I go down to Henry’s shack fairly often, but he never comes up to see me. I live on a hill with a good view for a workingman. I can see an expanse of that great river that has traveled all the way from Canada just to be here, as well as a tiny glimpse of the ocean far enough away to the West that no breakers or birds can be distinguished. Yet I can legitimately say, “the ocean is there,” and

Henryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04035521919282526061noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10866802.post-12332583920157697532009-04-25T12:15:00.000-07:002009-04-27T19:59:16.112-07:00

Last evening, I walked down to Henry’s shack—I’m not quite sure how I should refer to the derelict place he calls home. Nevertheless, there was a fire going in the wood stove and a computer screen gleamed in the corner. Henry was angry, which is normal, and finding him so, I registered no surprise. “I call it the ‘Pipsqueak Syndrome’,” he shouted.I was clearing books off the spare chair

Henryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04035521919282526061noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10866802.post-15265064966653100362009-03-28T12:56:00.000-07:002009-03-28T13:05:38.307-07:00

I guess I might think Henry’s favorite word would be something like parsimonious or flugelhorn, or, if he had any serious artistic pretensions, maybe a word like lithe or luminous. But the word is Dog.To Henry, this word has the weight and substantiality of its rhyme-mate log, and sinks into his consciousness as if his consciousness were a receptive bog. Henry looks intently at his dog, Hilda,

Henryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04035521919282526061noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10866802.post-42099979690581464362009-03-21T08:56:00.000-07:002009-03-27T20:33:29.381-07:00

None of the guidebooks to Portland direct us to go, just at dawn while it is still dark, to NE 9th Ave between the streets of Hancock and Schuyler. This is a shame, because an astonishing scene takes place here each morning, or at least in winter and spring.There is a great roost of crows in the trees thereabouts—crows in the hundreds, perhaps at times in the thousands. They blacken every tree

Henryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04035521919282526061noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10866802.post-86055596730902231322009-03-14T18:44:00.000-07:002009-03-27T16:42:21.941-07:00

My dreams have a population-density that would make Hong Kong look like a ghost town. Cue the lone tumbleweed to roll down the street.Why all these dream-people coming at me, and getting in the way of everything I want to do? Why do they ask me questions that would baffle Hume and reduce Spinoza to tears? In dreams, I’m always trying to get somewhere via some mode of transportation: dream planes,

Henryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04035521919282526061noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10866802.post-79883315930440754902008-05-04T19:06:00.000-07:002009-03-27T16:40:55.019-07:00

What if all the people who are presently rushing into parks or playgrounds to play baseball or soccer, on this fine sunny morning, would instead assemble to demand affordable health care for all Americans?Sounds simple, but will it ever happen? We Americans are so docile, and so accepting of our decline. The parking lots of the ball fields are filling up with our great gas-guzzling behemoths.

Henryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04035521919282526061noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10866802.post-56907289193726855122008-01-20T12:37:00.000-08:002009-03-27T16:44:17.695-07:00

There are the horrors of dropsy, consumption, cholera, and Bright’s disease. Bowels are being distinctly treasonous: Death by Inflammation of the bowels, Obstruction of the bowels, Paralysis of the bowels, Constriction of the bowels, Inaction of the bowels, and Strangulation of the bowels. Then, the deadly fevers arrive to extract their pound of flesh— scarlet, malarial, typhoid.It seems God is

Henryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04035521919282526061noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10866802.post-4576734183497759622008-01-05T18:04:00.000-08:002009-03-18T17:07:57.607-07:00

Ah, Blank Page! Let’s have a couple of drinks,   Old foe, just you and I! The amber shadeOf whiskey might suit your pleasure (methinks)   And ease your awful whiteness, or persuadeA sound or two from out your void? Dear Sphinx,   Why love this field of silence you have made?But I see your point: we think ourselves clever,And few of us are apt to shut up ever.Blank Page, let’s have some laughs and

Henryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04035521919282526061noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10866802.post-72989464785317508822008-01-01T09:53:00.000-08:002009-03-27T16:43:26.967-07:00

A couple of years ago, on a trip to England, I was riding a British Rail train north from London to Penrith, where I intended to catch a bus to Keswick in the English Lake District. It was a simple itinerary, and therefore, unlikely to play itself out smoothly. We had made it most of the way to Penrith when the train came to a stop—and there we sat, silent upon the rails. The local passengers

Henryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04035521919282526061noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10866802.post-54922214210228721542007-04-25T19:39:00.000-07:002009-03-18T17:19:46.000-07:00

Alberto Gonzales is such a nice guy, Sincere--and respectful--though not very tall-- He swears that he never would tell us a lie! Though there could be a few things he can’t ...uh ...recall-- But meetings are boring, spent twirling your tie, Dreaming of Maui (or that girl down the hall). So don’t act like Al is some Hannibal Lecter, If he sticks in the craw of Senator Specter.

Henryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04035521919282526061noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10866802.post-1171377899599134682007-02-13T06:39:00.000-08:002009-03-27T16:45:22.861-07:00

At SE Portland’s Westmoreland Park, the water birds cavort in a turmoil of flying, diving, dabbling, swimming, skittering, scudding, splashing-- not to mention various promiscuous shenanigans that would make Hugh Hefner blush! Yet--did you ever notice, at that park, a gaggle of geese that keeps mainly to itself, that comports itself in a more serious and, even, literary manner?These are the

Henryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04035521919282526061noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10866802.post-1171296088291041482007-02-12T07:56:00.000-08:002009-03-27T16:47:32.082-07:00

“It is desirable that a man...live in all respects so compactly and preparedly that, if an enemy take the town, he can, like the old philosopher, walk out the gate empty-handed without anxiety.” In this jabbering, possession-seeking world, are there any Thoreauians around anymore?

Henryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04035521919282526061noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10866802.post-1171240813529619562007-02-11T16:37:00.000-08:002009-03-27T16:48:51.137-07:00

Sure, in conscious life, things “seem” to happen. You show up for work at the usual time and see the usual people. Work is done. You grow older. Tangible things occasionally appear to have been accomplished that could never have been accomplished in dreams. Right?Yet things are accomplished in dreams too. A castle built upon a lily pad! The Living sporting freely with the Dead! Try that in real

Henryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04035521919282526061noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10866802.post-1171035100775439432007-02-09T07:30:00.000-08:002009-03-27T17:38:58.333-07:00

"I've adjusted easily to the reversed driving requirements and love the slow, lazy pace of walking incredibly small brick streets. Everyone here whistles, walks arm-in-arm and says 'Thanks a million' at the smallest kindness. Now that Broadband has arrived, I could imagine living here at least part time."

Henryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04035521919282526061noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10866802.post-1167422568633104702006-12-29T11:51:00.000-08:002009-03-27T16:49:21.689-07:00

"I've been sitting here now, and do you know what I was saying to myself? If I did not believe in life, if I were to lose faith in the woman I love, if I were to lose faith in the order of things, even if I were to become convinced, on the contrary, that everything is a disorderly, damned, and perhaps devilish chaos, if I were struck even by all the horrors of human disillusionment--still I would

Henryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04035521919282526061noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10866802.post-1165286242257911072006-12-04T18:25:00.000-08:002009-03-27T16:50:07.827-07:00

Funny how so many Christmas songs are sung by people who are quite dead. Although they sound enthusiastic, they will not be experiencing any holiday cheer this season, since their season has passed. Nat Cole will not be roasting any chestnuts. Mel Torme (who wrote that song) will not be roasting any either. Bing Crosby’s Christmas will not be white, or otherwise, and he will not be having either

Henryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04035521919282526061noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10866802.post-1164497761154268632006-11-25T15:32:00.000-08:002009-03-27T16:39:55.290-07:00

This was spoken as she swung around on the bar stool, and I was caught somewhat off-guard with my face buried in the newspaper and my fingers playing along the rim of my whiskey glass. “How so?” I said, straightening up and taking a sip from the glass. I wasn’t quite ready to look at the eyes that were boring into me.“How so?” she mimiced. “Because ghosts come home, because home is fucking not

Henryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04035521919282526061noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10866802.post-1163565145373466762006-11-14T20:30:00.000-08:002009-03-18T17:21:00.569-07:00

Somewhere tonight there is a ship at sea. The sea is dark and impossibly vast-- at least when I think about it. In the hold of that ship, out on the sea, is a crate. It is completely dark inside the crate. In the crate is a Stowaway.I’m sitting here sipping a cup of tea. The radio is talking about Iraq. The beautiful Natasha is here. She is cross-stitching. She is also having a cup of tea.I feel

Henryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04035521919282526061noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10866802.post-1163282790005110802006-11-11T14:04:00.000-08:002009-03-27T17:41:33.636-07:00

Evangeline's LetterHenry (you old poop!),So many freaks... so few circuses...I’ve concluded that this isn’t a household I live in-- it’s a group home for the terminally loopy. I meant to write about my little world here, but didn’t. Maybe next time.Don’t let the freaks in your world freak you out (they sure do in mine!)EvangelineHenry Responds:Evangeline,Modern life is the Circus, and there is

Henryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04035521919282526061noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10866802.post-1163197758214990162006-11-10T14:24:00.000-08:002009-03-27T16:50:58.980-07:00

Henry’s dog, Hilda, greets bad weather with an open mouth, lolling tongue, and dilating nostrils. Any amount of rain, mud, or sodden leaves that she can manage to stick to her fur just makes the day that much more euphoric.Up the Columbia River Gorge, Henry and Hilda pushed through the relentless rain, climbing over and through recently fallen trees.They dumbed-down Armistice Day by expanding

Henryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04035521919282526061noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10866802.post-1162401076763712602006-11-01T09:09:00.000-08:002009-03-27T17:42:01.182-07:00

If the glorious Natasha could fall from the sky into the realm of Henry-- it could only be in this time of falling leaves. Henry knows full well that even among the driven and flashing colors, the appearance of Natasha is visionary. So perhaps it’s even like finding the Star of India, highly-polished, while looking through a drawer of old buttons.And at this time. On the verge of winter.In

Henryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04035521919282526061noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10866802.post-1154751805848304762006-08-04T20:46:00.000-07:002009-03-27T16:51:55.010-07:00

For three days she hid in a thicket, in a hole she dug for herself. Then she came out because of thirst and hunger. Thanks to the fine man on NE Ainsworth St who lured her with a piece of cheese and then called me to come and get her. For the time being, she will not get out of the car when I pull up at a Portland City Park. Did you know that Portland Parks and Recreation actually permits the

Henryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04035521919282526061noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10866802.post-1153715602959738242006-07-23T21:32:00.000-07:002009-03-27T16:52:44.109-07:00

Protesting global warming, demanding cuts in emissions, demanding clean alternative fuels, and an end to our dependence on foreign oil. “Because it’s too hot,” you will say--and after we all stop chuckling, those words should haunt us.Are we really going to let this happen, and then go gently into that good night, leaving the full catastrophe for future generations? Government will only

Henryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04035521919282526061noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10866802.post-1153600639848607982006-07-22T13:32:00.000-07:002009-03-27T16:53:13.022-07:00

Henry is becoming more invisible and more insubstantial every day. He still lives at the same address, but increasingly as a kind of ghost. His neighbors say they never see him coming or going these days, yet there has been no particular change in his routine. If Henry were to rob a convenience store (preposterous-- he never would), none of the witnesses would be likely to remember any of his

Henryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04035521919282526061noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10866802.post-1153544267571504712006-07-21T21:54:00.000-07:002009-03-27T16:53:46.228-07:00

Women will not intentionally direct their luxuriant prose toward Henry in a personal ad, you can be sure of that.“You are confident, yet not arrogant:” Forget Henry. He is fatally flawed there. In fact, he has these qualities quite reversed. He is arrogant, yet not confident. And every man he sees bristling and shimmering with confidence he will regard as a fool playing a fool’s game, and a

Henryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04035521919282526061noreply@blogger.com0