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.