Yugen Movie VIII (anti-viral video)

Bird Miracle / Wild Wizards

From the cliffs I watched a white egret stand in the tide-pools below, head down, watching, waiting. Patient seems a paltry word for this bird, but it was the virtue she bespoke to me. This is how she makes a living, fills her belly, by casting no shadow, by attracting minimal attention, by standing still & observing.

I am not sure what term of venery (or plural noun) is correct for egrets (I believe it is a siege of herons) but why not a patience of egrets, or perhaps a stillness, or even better: a meditation…

I have even seen them seem to defy the physical laws, like some Tantric demigod, standing on the ocean’s surface on spindly stilts, actually supported by the tangled top of a kelp forest. Again standing perfectly still, waiting for a careless sea creature to flit close to the surface.

As far as I know no mantra is uttered, no esoteric forces summoned, the egret simply stands on the majik of the world itself, which, of course, she co-creates. Giant gas filled algae, hollow avian bones, and millions of years of interpenetration offer up this majik trick. The salt water, the kelp & the sunlight that it reaches toward, the bird & its brood, and the crab or fish it hopes to catch… they cast the spell that makes an egret walk on water; they are the wild wizards.

Ascension Sessions - mystic, wild, live videos from Bird By Snow (IFC exclusive premiere)

Here is a link to the IFC premiere page... and here are the videos, in their words "Grab hold of your chakras we're heading into the spirit world."

October 16th 2010, Fletcher Tucker, Spencer Owen, Rob Little, and Noël Vietor, hike to a remote and mystic oak grove three miles above the Pacific Ocean in Big Sur, California. Here Fletcher and Noël build a hanging sculpture which is to become the focal point of a live performance by Bird By Snow (Fletcher, Spencer, Rob). Fog fills the sacred space and erases the already distant outside world. Video shot by Noël on a Japanese toy camera. Concept by Fletcher & Noël. Editing by Fletcher. Ceramic chimes (at the bottom of the sculpture) made by Stephen Tucker. Costumes dyed by Noël, using California native plants harvested from the very trail that leads to this performance site.

Samhain (Halloween) an Early Thanksgiving

Halloween, was once known as Samhain, and was celebrated on October 31st by the ancient (shamanic) Celts. On the 31st the Celts burned animal bones, carved gourds like skulls, and hung skeletons upon their windows… young men even dressed as though dead and painted their faces black.

The Celts did all this because Samhain was the day when the world of the living overlapped with the world of the dead. And through these symbols and rituals the dead were free to move among the living. It was actually a generous day, a day where we welcomed the dead back into this beautiful and growing world.

So between trick-or-treaters this year, consider all those dead people (your/our ancestors) who have brought you forward. Give thanks! And hold for a moment in your mind the wondrous fact that is this world (which is a closed circuit) you are breathing the same air that was in your ancestor's lungs, you are drinking the water that passed through them too (not as gross as it sounds), and your body is made of molecules that have changed hands billions upon billions of times, on this planet and before that reaching out into the primordial recesses of space!

The first, long vanished, ancient stars are our earliest known ancestors, and countless eons down the line, the amoeba, the lunged fish, the tool wielding apes, our father's father's father, our mother's mother's mother... all standing behind us today. Happy Halloween!

Majik Basket pt. 2

I've made another pine-needle basket. Possibly the world's tiniest? Wild-crafted with Monterey Pine-needles, Autumn 2010. Displayed here with a Sugar Cone Pine-cone (the largest pine-cone in the world).

(click the image to enlarge the image)

Kelp Portal

Wild-crafted seaweed arch that I made in Bolinas, California. (click the image for a larger view)

Majik Basket

I make pine-needle baskets now. This is PNB-00000001... Wild-crafted with Ponderosa, Jeffry, and Sugar-Cone needles from/in the Sierra-Nevada mountains of California. Summer 2010

high-res image on my Flikr page

Michael Moschen: Majik Balls (anti-viral videos)

Were we to send a spaceship off into space populated with select individuals to represent aspects of our potential as a species... I'd pick this dude to show the peak of our hand-eye coordination. And were we to find some aliens he could totally trip them out with his majik balls.

DISCLAIMER: The second video was made in an irony proof studio, so just accept it as amazing, and ignore the flesh colored Speedo.

Ancient Friendship (camping journal 26/VIII/10)

My brother and I sit and watch the fire late into the night. Put a stick in and watch the smoke unfurl, wrap around our fingers, float to the moon. The wood sings, clicks, crackles, squeals, and pings. We like the song too.

Mostly we sit quietly but eventually we pontificate on the pleasures of fire… the feeling of safety and warmth… the endless variations of smoke, flame, ember, and sound… and our ancient friendship.

I am reminded of something my friend said a few months ago, he said “there’s a reason an orange tastes sweet to me, and a reason I can look at a waterfall for hours, it’s because we grew up together.” My brother agreed it was a beautiful way of saying it. So the world is relationships, some old, some newer. Our relationship with fire certainly qualifies as ancient.

An almost full moon, high in the early morning, lights up our camp completely. Mars is closer this night to me and the planet than it has been since man named it and began to follow its movements. “Close” but still very very far, just a big white spot. Despite the distance Mars and I grew up together too.

Though Mar’s song is subtle and his dance much slower than the fire, people have watched and listened. Even though I must seem absurdly fast, tiny, and brief, Mars sees me too. Old friends talking again.

Birthdays! Robbie Basho 70 / Majik Dudes 1

Today would have been the 70^th birthday of Robbie Basho, composer, guitarist, pianist, singer, sage. In memoriam I wrote this piece about him last year, and am re-posting it, with some of my favorite songs in toe.

This was also the FIRST post ever on Majik Dudes, in 2009, so today is our birthday too!

“Basho as Imagined” by Fletcher Tucker

7 feet tall and 29 pounds, Robbie Basho was created on August 31^st 1940. His enormous stature was attributed (by many) to his father, the Mountain, conversely his feathery weight was bestowed upon him by his mother, Fresh Fallen Snow. With hands as broad as an alpine stream during spring thaw, Basho was made to play the 12-string guitar… some find it a daunting instrument… the breadth of its neck, and the delicate placement of the strings challenge most, but nourished Basho. Channeling old and modern magic through his instrument Basho set out to create a new form of music, the American Raga. As gifted as any beast can be with an instrument, or composition, he was equally gifted as a singer. Basho had a voice like an old Viking king and a range of highest vibratos and rumbling, lamenting moans; his remarkable vocal power was no doubt a bi-product of lungs comparably sized to that of a bull moose. His lyrics were a refined visionary beam, casting light on mythos and mystery from the ancient America, mystic Persia, ascetic Hindu, and feudal Japan. Warrior-artist Basho, armed with voice, words, wood (body), steel (strings), and sight, is one of our greatest illuminators… little known shaman of America the Beautiful… bringer of song from beyond the veil.

Songs: "Green River Suite" from Visions of the Country --- "Wounded Knee Soliloquy" from The Voice of the Eagle --- "Khalil Gibran" from Zarthus

Big Sur Grace

We venerate… the bearded oak, and his beard: Spanish moss – granite and his gold and green lichen – Monterey pine and her needles and cones – the cypress bending low – the redwood standing tall, burnt out in the middle – pale faced otters wrapped in kelp – black sided dolphins – whale spouts and flukes – water: salty and borderless – water: fresh and endless – cougar, black bear, and ring-tale: seldom seen – fox, coyote, and bobcat: sometimes seen – raccoon, rabbit, and ground squirrel: omnipresent – the alarming stellar jay – the circling turkey vultures – the flash of hawks: red-tailed and coopers – the gulp of the pelican, cormorant, and gull – the swoop of the falcon, the kestrel, the swallow, the bat – the dashing lizard – the scrabbling snake – sweet smelling rosemary, yarrow, and sage – forbidding black-berry bramble and mighty poison oak – waves hidden in fogbanks – trees toppled in high winds – dry grass and poppies – the crow's cry – the raven's wing beat – the moth, monarch, stinkbug, and mosquito eater – the foothills that walk – the condor's return – the pollen and seeds – the eroding stones – the mildew, mushrooms, and mold – the leaf litter – the washed out and washed up – the buzzing, the chirping, the croaking – the songs that surround us – the collective breath. Big Sur, amen.

Trek into us (nature journal VI/6/2010-VI/7/2010)

Driving south-east from Big Sur through seemingly endless Old California; hills of parched grasses and ancient Oak groves. We pass through a military base where soldiers play war in the heat; 70 degrees at the coast, 99 in the hills. An old tank sits in the distance, crow perched on the turret.

Granite and Limestone formations appear suddenly in striking variety, some piled high like cave filled monuments, others half buried and striated, looking like an alien spacecraft that crash landed 20 million years ago and calcified.

We’ve heard tale of swimming holes and wild rivers here, but there are no signs or maps. Gallant and drunk-driving rednecks show us the way, intent on a swim themselves in a pool called “The Hippy Hole”.

We drive on toward a trailhead in search of “Fish Camp”, or possibly a fabled place beyond full of fossils. Peeing next to the car, a lizard runs down a tree to my right and positions himself directly in my urine stream, I shift, and he dashes right back into my urine. New species discovered: Piss Lizard.

Packs shouldered we march clumsily along a narrow path carved into the steep hillside. Poison Oak, Foxtails, Yarrow, Sticky Monkey Flowers, and huge Succulents watch us hike. Bellow us the Manzanita is burnt out, charcoaled branches with Morning Glory vines twisting up their brittle frames. The Morning Glory seems to rise lovingly, consoling the Manzanita with an embrace and flowers for their gravesite. Unknown yellow flowers are the most abundant; because of them the mountain in the distance is as yellow as a pollen pile.

Winding down to the river we loose the trail completely, it may indeed have eroded well enough away. We make camp on a sandy plot. Later that night we see a Bumblebee walking in the dark in the sand, caught in our headlamp light, “go to bed Bumble!”

Our fire is fed by loose wood stuck in the branches and cricks of nearby trees, deposited there by the river at its fullest, or possibly in a small flood. Our bellies are fed with canned fish, ironically packed in. The Mosquitos are fed by Noël. My imagination is fed by the splashing of the river over the rocks… I swear I can hear something wading through the water. Evidence in the morning proves me less of a fool, I find deep hoof-prints in a nearby bank leading into the water and not out.

Two spiders perform a shadow show on our tent roof in the AM light. One a Daddy Long Legs trundling toward a more venomous relative, only after basically running into his cousin did Daddy realize he was there, and Long Legs high stepped it away at top speed.

When the sun makes it over the eastern hills and hits the pools: naked swimming, what could be finer. We break camp easily and in silence, division of labor dividing itself. A snake lies in the trail, absorbing solar energy, after becoming aware of us it slowly slithers directly towards us. It is curious and unafraid, possibly because the shape of man is still unknown to some creatures in this untrammeled country. It was massive though, four feet long, and thick, so I deterred it with my walking stick and strong talk, it stopped advancing and left the trail without haste.

Because of dinner plans with friends back in the semi-civilized world, we hike back at the relatively insane time of high noon, no shadows, no shade, it’s at least 100 degrees. Having lived and walked in the desert Noël is well prepared, I however am facing new challenges. We have to ration the drinking water purified by (camp) fire this morning, but I would slug it all if I could. A brook babbling through the trail sings to me, so I soak my kerchief there, wring it out over my roasting body and tie it around my head. A new awareness dawns: although I have always proclaimed it my favorite beverage, I still haven’t been this close to understanding water’s preciousness, and the way its presence means strength and comfort. The phrase “water is life” is tossed about often, but seriously, yes. Water is also our eternal companion, our loving father-friend-mother-source-teacher. This was a good moment for me.

Back at the car. Stuffed in the left wing mirror we find a hand-drawn map to an excellent swimming hole found by the gallant redneck guides, extra credit. Snacks in the shade, and an air-conditioned drive back to the coast. The mind busies itself again, but something of the quiet, overflowing place remains. If we trek into the wild, the wild treks into us.

Official Footwear

Majik Dudes and some Jamaican Dudes endorse Clarks Shoes, and unaffiliated care products and rituals "tooth brush get out the dust fast."

Mention Majik Dudes at any Clarks retailer and receive a confused look courtesy of this blog.

Here Comes the Mantra

A caveman crosses the highway, squats and gathers foragable weeds in a grocery store parking lot. Nourishment inconspicuously bursting up through the cement, an offering under our noses.

An awareness waits in the lingering dark. An ancient perspective is stirring in the dawn light. What will we see in the afternoon, when the sun is high, and no shadows fall? The stones and rivers, the nails and hinges, our veins and hairlines will speak. Here comes the mantra: the world is my body.

Ceremonies Conclusion (our 1st show!)

The first Majik Dudes Ceremony was a privilege and joy to present. So many good feelings and good people it could grow a forest in my chest. Everyone who was present created the gift, I thank you and welcome you back in the nearish future.

Some pictures glow below, and videos of the event will rumble through here soon. Higher res pictures on my flikr

The Alter

Flora & Shadow installation by Noël Vietor & Fletcher Tucker

WORDS with their bones

BIRD BY SNOW with quietfriendsband

SEAN SMITH with a shadow

DANIEL HIGGS unfolding the mysteries

Opening Ceremony

MAJIK PARTY FAVORS! The first arrivers to the May 1st show (Daniel Higgs / Sean Smith / Bird By Snow / Words /see info below) will receive two stones from a beach in Big Sur where a river returns to its source: the Pacific Ocean. A confluence of energy is present in this place and stored in these rocks. We will be conducting ceremony with these party favors, as we all venture to return to the source: the greater mind of the present moment.

Why We Gather

We gather to share song-birth, the moment when music is born and we are born inside it. There is no separation between song and singer, between listener and creator, between creation and listener and creator and the moment itself. What can music do? It can remove boundaries, it can pick up the lines we draw between one another. A song fills a room and everyone in it. It travels as vibrations into our bodies and minds, and between us. Music reminds us of the vast ocean of undivided reality. Songs lead us back to the huge fluid freedom. So we gather, in the center of this world, the center that creates us as we in turn create it. We gather and we listen and play with sound and silence, with majik and mystery, with the subtle and the solid.

Please come to this gathering (below), our first Majik Dudes Happening, which will be ripe with majik, ready to be picked and eaten.

Daniel Higgs

Sean Smith

Bird By Snow

Words

May 1st, 2010

66 Sanchez St., San Francisco, CA

(66 Sanchez is James Howell Studio, a Yoga and Dance Studio)

8 PM

$5

All-Ages

May 1st, concert happening! Daniel A.I.U. Higgs (mystic poet/ecstatic singer)

66 Sanchez is James Howell Studio, a Yoga and Dance Studio with hardwood floors and skylights!

Daniel Higgs

Sean Smith

Bird By Snow

Words

May 1st, 2010

66 Sanchez St., San Francisco, CA

8 PM

$5

All-Ages

Fittingly this first show is featuring one of my favorite songwriters of this or any dimension: DANIEL HIGGS. Daniel Higgs performs alongside shruti drones, and nimbly constructed long-neck-banjo sound webs. His larynx is tuned to resonant frequencies of the cosmic, the Gnostic, the esoteric. He barters for meaning with words usually off-limits in the scenes of Indie… words like Christ and Lucifer feature in the lyrics of almost every one of Higgs’ songs. And yet the usually only ironically religious youth sit on loft and DIY art gallery floors taking in music that engages a set of symbols most of them (us) forcefully rejected in small towns across this primarily Christian nation. Maybe these (we) young people sense an altogether deeper meaning and understanding of the Biblical in Daniel Higgs because he was in Lungfish (the seminal hardcore band)… or maybe it is his appearance: gray beard, round face, and tattooed hands (like a Punk Pagan Santa)… maybe his past or his look are at odds with a conservative interpretation of his words. Maybe, but I think it is actually the songs themselves, and Higgs’ presence, his humble and profound presentation of songs that deal in religious themes in a way that is also humble and profound. Religion is the same as poetry, words, names and stories stand in for feelings and perceptions unspeakable, and unspoken. When you say Christ, you say a lot. And when Daniel Higgs says: “see the Devil in the Christ if it’s the true Christ that you seek”, he sums up 1,ooo lines about non-dualistic thinking, in one verse. That’s how it feels to me anyway!

SEAN SMITH is the best guitarist in California. He is a creator and destroyer of instrumental worlds.

BIRD BY SNOW is my band, which this evening will feature advanced sound structures rhythmic, joyful, and hopefully room filling.

WORDS is an improvisational group featuring reeds and brass for the benefit of our wave-mind experience.

British Anti-Road Activists (manifesto 1)

These guys lived in a tree-house, or tree-fort, or something, and they hated roads. I am republishing their manifesto to kick off a series of wyrd manifestos. So here it is #1, in support of my comrades who didn't want another road in Devon:

‘This is the Independent Free State of Trollheim... we have no allegiance to the UK government... We do not recognize history, patriarchy, matriarchy, politics, communists, fascists or lollipop men/ladies... We have a hierarchy based on dog worship... Our currency is to be based on the quark barter system . We do not recognize the Gregorian calendar: by doing so this day shall be known as One ... Be afraid, be afraid, all ye that hear. Respect this State."

Economic Future (what to do with your change)

This is Native American armor from the Pacific Northwest made of Chinese coins (presumably traded). I have a feeling that this utilitarianization of currency is the fine future of the global economy.

(images from the New York Natural History Museum)

Surfing Crow

There was crow flying with a stick over the dunes. He held a piece of drift-wood with his left foot and cruised on the off-shore wind, dropping out of sight low behind the dunes, and then rising way up into the air. He flew from left to right, and right to left, but did not travel down the beach, nor did he land. What was up with this little bird-fellow and his stick?

Noël and I set about speculating. “It must be making a nest,” I said with ludicrous confidence. But he never put the stick down, nor did he make his way any-which-way, he simply danced in the air with the stick. “Maybe his leg is caught on it somehow?” Noël asked aloud. Instead of saying “nope, that's not it” the crow just grabbed the stick in his beak and then switched feet, holding it with his right foot instead. “How strange,” I thought, “he must be deranged, he’s lost his little bird brain.” Then he grabbed the stick with both feet, and cried out in apparent triumph, surfing with the driftwood above the sandy hills. And this thought struck my narrow mind: he is playing.

My first impulse is to think of animals (and by extension the wild) as practical, with all of their actions having “purposes.” Having ruled out the practical, we believed the crow to be in need, imagining him caught in some plastic soda-ring and drift-wood garbage trap… revealing my arrogance and guilt: seeing nature as fragile, and man (and myself) as careless and destructive. After ruling out a man-made danger I pronounced the crow insane for simply not adhering to the austere image that I had projected onto his ways.

Now however, I believe this crow was really marveling at his own crowness, as we sometimes delight in our humanness, or relative animalness. He was delighting in his grasping talons, his dexterous toes, his strong and able beak, and his magnificent wings. So too he seemed to give thanks and friendship to the wind, as they played together, crying out for joy as he surfed the stick with both legs; laughing like a child (or younger crow), surprised by each gust of wind, and his own marvelous game.

Have I seen this event clearly now? Certainly not, I am working with assumptions again, but to some extent I have seen my own thoughts more clearly, revealed a pattern of small-thinking that had essentially gone unchecked. Who am I to limit a crow, or conversely to proclaim its nature more complex? It is not my place to do so, but believing the wild to be at play is to see it with a wider view. Certainly it is a wider view than to consider the non-human world to be without play. Play is, after all, liberation… presence and movement without destination, action without wanting anything outside of the action itself… something a surfing crow can know without contemplation (I am assuming).

And there’s the final lesson from the Surfing Lama Crow, we don’t need to figure it all out, accepting the mystery is both humbling and illuminating. As Keats said: “The point of diving in the lake is not to immediately swim to the other shore, but to be in the lake, to luxuriate in the sensation of the water.” So it may be said that the point of a game is not to immediately complete it; nor is it most beneficial to deconstruct and examine the mysterious actions of a crow, perhaps better just to feel amazed… so now, I’ll shut up.

(image notes: a nice looking painting that I did not make but found somehow on the internet)

Yugen Movie V & VI (anti-viral videos)

7 Haikus for Yoko

On February 23rd I had the great privilege of seeing Yoko Ono perform with her new Plastic Ono Band. I have loved her for a long time, but seeing her was more emotional and inspirational than I expected. She has given her entire being to art and peace, and at 77 she continues to give as completely, as powerfully... if not more. I honor her here, in my own small way, with these 7 Haikus.

1.

Not unlike a wolf

But when she howls at the moon

The moon will howl back

2.

Living with two hearts

They are: an ancient mountain

And a baby bird

3.

Warm face, cold fingers

Her mind always in the light

Hands in the water

4.

A one word mantra

Because peace is so simple

She only says "yes"

5.

A room that is white

Is not the same as silence

It says "I don't know"

6.

Picking up borders

Knocking down the bedroom walls

To make one long house

7.

No separation

In her dream we are all one

What a big family!

Yugen Movie III & IV (anti-viral videos)

Yugen Movies. Short videos of boring things... a.k.a Anti-viral Videos. Actual locations of little importance.

Pelican corpse contemplation

Grass-wind-fog contemplation

Ancient intellectual property infringement

Left: Tibetan scientific illustration, 1300's. Right: Operation game board, 1965.

Clearly Milton Bradley has some explaining to do. Here are a few more ancient Tibetan anatomical illustrations...

Alan Watts' Voice (unlimited power=ultimate boredom)

Alan Watts was America's most loving teacher, our devoted guide, Rinpoche of the wild west. He is more or less responsible for any main-stream modern interest in eastern philosophy and religion in Europe or America. I love him for his untamed lucidity, his majik-mind-compass... he could begin on the distinct trail of one thought or question, then wander way off-road following seemingly disconnected and vague paths, and then quite naturally arrive at a conclusion both profound and simple... often deceptively simple. He wrote with such clarity that his words seem to form in my mind before I read them on the page... I could go on and on...

Below is an audio clip of a lecture he gave (in the 70's, maybe). This is ripped from a longer podcast from alanwattspodcast.com a site run by his son that posts posthumous lectures weekly. The pseudo-oriental music at the beginning of this clip was their mistake not mine, try to forget about it fast and focus on his majik.

Gary Snyder's Voice (2 poems)

Here we have two poems written and read by Mr. Universe Gary Snyder. Such is his clarity of mind that he effortlessly reveals the cosmic nature of eating. And (against all odds) Snyder makes his relationship to his computer feel wild and beautiful! Hear is his voice.

"The Song of the Taste" & "Why I Take Good Care of my Macintosh Computer"

Forever Wild Above Us, Pt. 2 & 3

The Canyon (Financial) District

The Rock-Dove is a remarkable flier. She can adjust her short wings and tail within a fraction of a second to account for a strong and sudden gust of wind. Evolution insists on these precise adjustments and movements when you nest and fly and feed near the walls of cliffs and in canyons... These Doves must change with the wind that is channeled through the canyon, or bounce off the rock walls themselves. The city offers many of the same challenges, and the Rock Dove thrives here too, living under its urban nickname the Pigeon. The wind that blows down the canyon floor of the financial district is a force to reckon with, especially considering the way traffic enhances the danger and unpredictabilty. Yet a sudden blast of air from a bus speeding by is taken in stride, and the Rock Dove simply flaps on.

Eternally Bonded

The Rock Dove, although magnificent, is not the top of the canyon (city) food chain. Indeed they are (and have always been) culled by the Falcon; bonded eternally as bio-regional foes. I sat reading in Dolores Park (my surrogate wilderness) sometime last year, I looked up from my book coincidentally at a beautiful moment; the timeless wild was revealing twenty feet in front of me... I watched as a Falcon struck a pigeon from above. The force of the blow pushed the Pigeon into the grass, where it fought for its life, trying to get out from under the Falcon, as it in turn tried to hold on tearing feathers from the Pigeon's back, leaving little grey clouds behind them. Somehow the Pigeon managed to get out from under the Falcon and back into the air, it joined its fellows there, falling into evasive formation flying, confusing and frustrating the Falcon. The Falcon settled in a tree, quite close to me and rested for nearly an hour, I watched it the whole time in wonder. No doubt it was exhausted, and even more hungry.

(photo notes: from the internet)

Forever Wild Above Us, Pt. 1

Ravens and Red-Tail

Ravens amassed above a gas station on Divisadero (San Francisco). Construction meant traffic, so I got to watch with my friend Rob, speculating on the kerfuffle... "A cat on the roof, near a nest?" Unlikely, but "surely some predator, a raptor maybe?" Sure enough a Red-Tailed Hawk rose up from the canopy of the Shell Station and flew a few feet to rest on a street-light right in our sight-line. The other birds followed and resumed their pained shouting and molestation, dive-bombing and croaking ceaselessly. One enraged Raven pulled a feather from the crouching Hawks head, startling him. A small something, a Raven chick, fell to the street faster than the feather. And the hawk took off, and the ravens flew away, and grieved together.

(photo notes: from the internet)

Yugen Movie II (anti-viral video)

Yugen Movies. Short videos of boring things... a.k.a Anti-viral Videos. Actual locations of little importance.

Lofoten Story

“Let’s walk around that lake.” I said, or Dan said, or we both said. It was early evening in the endless arctic summer day on Å (pronounced: Oohah) an island in the Lofoten chain of islands/mountains in the Norwegian Sea. These mountains peak out of the ocean then run along its floor and don’t come up for air until Scotland. They are crumbling, and considered by some to be the oldest mountains in the world.

Å is an exotic vowel meaning “creek” in Norwegian, and there was indeed a tiny creek flowing out of the lake. I had a Nalgene™ water bottle 1/3^rd full, Dan had nothing, and we walked. No camera, how strange, no lens or screen to capture the world, instead it captured us, and nearly killed us twice. We tromped through marsh, mud, bog, and giant wet sponge moss, and so our shoes were soaked through. Four waterfalls fell around the lake, high and thin and misting. They seemed to say: “be wet with us,” and smiled, so we were, and did.

Our rations were depleted already, the water drunk, I filled my bottle with water seeping through a rock face, percolating there for centuries, the world’s most effective Brita ™. It was very cold and very good. The mud became a giant sinkhole, impassible. We hiked up above it, and walked a cliff’s edge, nearly fell (both of us) and crawled the remainder.

Beyond the cliff a stand of stunted pine trees stopped us for a while, we rested and went back to the lake-shore. There was a rock-pile like a castle there, we climbed inside and cannon fire seemed to ring out from an enemy fortress, in reality it was the sound of an enormous boulder trundling off a cliff, rolling faster than anything and splashing down in the lake. Enormous sounds! Enormous splash! Enormous boulder, rolling right through the place where we stopped to fill my water bottle… twenty minutes between certain death by rogue crushing stone, and play in an imaginary fort.

Four hours later the stroll we took on whim was complete... lake looped. The sun was up, as always, but the only restaurant was closed, so we bought slices of cake from a glass display and drank beers on the pier™ for dinner.