tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-79989981054739888732024-03-13T21:01:13.813-07:00Gordon's StoriesGordon Bokhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04999159710745338801noreply@blogger.comBlogger6125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7998998105473988873.post-87793390594573026512021-12-02T08:12:00.003-08:002021-12-02T08:29:41.303-08:00<p> Journal Entry Brixham Trawler <i>Provident, </i>1964</p><p>The first transatlantic "Tall Ships Race" (which the US neglected to notice)</p><p>~ for Nick A, and Ulla S.</p><p><span> We came on the Spanish coast at Cabo Villano after a week of thrashing back and forth in the Bay of Biscay without sight of land.</span><br /></p><p><span><span> First, only the dropping breeze and our gear beginning to slat in the beam swell, and then from the murk ahead, a wild-sheered, yellow Spanish trawler swung fragrantly across our bows with happy shouts and, rolling hugely, made her way to the southard, leaving us staring at the calmly blinking eye of a lighthouse, dead ahead: Cabo Villano, off Ria de <span style="background-color: white;">Camari</span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Calibri, "sans-serif"; line-height: 20.7px;">ñ</span><span style="background-color: white;">as</span>.</span><br /></span></p><p><span><span><span> And then the long wallow for Finisterre, heavy sea and light wind, rolling like a tinker's whore (mythical beast, that) under the grim hills of Facho, Pedro Martir, Ortigal. Off Isla Onza we picked up the Group Flashing 2 of Isla Cies, off Vigo, and Cabo Sillero kept us guessing all the way down the black shore under the squall clouds to La Guardia. </span><br /></span></span></p>Gordon Bokhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04999159710745338801noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7998998105473988873.post-70353691012086920602021-03-25T07:14:00.001-07:002021-03-29T08:10:16.456-07:00Reflections on Our Lives During this Pandemic Year. <p> <span> There's a certain quiet to this season that feels calming, to me. People are driving less, for one thing, so there are times on the weekend when you can stand in the orchard and hear the hills behind the crow. That feels like it did when I was young. </span></p><p><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-O541OHtWpOc/YFyZmPAqh3I/AAAAAAAAFF8/UIWRwh6hi4MrTJI7yD6ZFx3U-ZB4d18MQCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/20210313_151908.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-O541OHtWpOc/YFyZmPAqh3I/AAAAAAAAFF8/UIWRwh6hi4MrTJI7yD6ZFx3U-ZB4d18MQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/20210313_151908.jpg" width="320" /></a></p><p></p><p><span><span> The witch hazel has been glowing dull gold since the beginning of March, and that can keep me entertained while doing nothing but looking - perhaps I've found the contemplative life after all...</span><br /></span></p><p><span><span><span> Over the year I've had time to design and build a little furniture, some things for Carol's house, and to further other projects like editing and transcribing. Walks, and a little careful music with friends, but Carol and I do the only singing together since the weather drove us all indoors.</span><br /></span></span></p><p><span><span></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-KuZgOwXr9K0/YFyZ6BEXkKI/AAAAAAAAFGE/vPSLiuJb3eouS5ulIB5zdJqaOHHPdwYhwCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/20210320_093827.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-KuZgOwXr9K0/YFyZ6BEXkKI/AAAAAAAAFGE/vPSLiuJb3eouS5ulIB5zdJqaOHHPdwYhwCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/20210320_093827.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span><br /></span><p></p><p><span><span><span><span> I've had a small flurry of requests for videos (music, stories) and Zoom-participation in musical events. Carol and I have been making music together far more regularly, too.</span><br /></span></span></span></p><p><span><span><span><span><span> We're also feeling even more connected to and grateful for all the friendships, earned or bestowed that the world has given us.</span><br /></span></span></span></span></p><p><span><span><span><span><span><span> Curiously, the carvings keep trickling out the door at a leisurely pace, even without any gallery showings. I've been finishing up a few long-stalled pieces, rescued a couple from "death row" and made some new ones.</span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></p><p><span><span><span><span><span><span><span> A year into sketches, research, drawings and studies (carvings in scrap wood) on a commission from a West coast family, I'm ready to put tool to a lovely piece of mahogany - (with all usual trepidation, prayers, and incantations, of course.)</span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><p><span> I feel hope, this season, too, that these lost years and months have shown us what we are and can do, both good and bad. </span><br /></p><p><span><span> I hope we can raise the energy to make the changes we need to, that we might live to deserve this lovely world. </span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><br /><p></p>Gordon Bokhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04999159710745338801noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7998998105473988873.post-21693290266186706272019-02-07T11:58:00.000-08:002019-02-07T11:58:06.033-08:00<h2 style="text-align: center;">
Soul's Crossing</h2>
<h4 style="text-align: right;">
For Gordon and Carol</h4>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I don't know how long</div>
<div>
I've been afloat,</div>
<div>
I just know that I'm far from home,</div>
<div>
facing backwards, lining up</div>
<div>
the landmarks I have already passed,</div>
<div>
as the sea lifts and drops</div>
<div>
and frantic gulls wheel overhead.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Tired, I want to set the oars amidships</div>
<div>
and drift for a few moments</div>
<div>
watching the waves gnaw</div>
<div>
against the bluffs,</div>
<div>
but I don't dare,</div>
<div>
for the swells and stones</div>
<div>
would splinter this dory</div>
<div>
as if we were falling </div>
<div>
inside that burning building</div>
<div>
I saw so many times on television.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I do not rest</div>
<div>
but I dip the oars,</div>
<div>
bending into them,</div>
<div>
again</div>
<div>
and again.</div>
<div>
"There is a kind land"</div>
<div>
I tell myself,</div>
<div>
"just beyond the next headland</div>
<div>
or surely the one after that."</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<i>John Straley</i></div>
<div>
<i>September 2005</i></div>
Gordon Bokhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04999159710745338801noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7998998105473988873.post-57964405363735011122018-12-17T09:24:00.000-08:002018-12-17T09:24:09.945-08:00<div style="text-align: center;">
"Back-Log" High School</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Thinking about high school, it seemed like one long slog of endless sitting still, wrestling with numbers in math and physics and dates in history - and then they let you out in the open air to do some thrashing around and clear your head - like, say football - they run you around a bit, and then they start stuffing a whole new set of numbers at you.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Numbers irritate me; always have. They're alien to healthy living and antithetical to good, clean, human mayhem.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
That's why I liked swimming as a sport. I got "my letter" (do they still do that?) all four years in swimming. It was simple: they'd point to the water and you'd go and do your body-water thing. You could work like hell, and you couldn't hear them yelling at you, none of all those numbers could penetrate the water, and you could do your breathe-sing-swim-dream thing as long as your strength held out or someone grabbed you by the hair when you made a turn.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
In high school years, two hours of peace and solitude a day was worth a lot. </div>
Gordon Bokhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04999159710745338801noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7998998105473988873.post-55770089460883763492017-11-28T08:56:00.001-08:002017-11-28T08:56:29.295-08:00<div class="MsoNormalCxSpFirst">
<b>Milwaukee
TMB Spring 2000</b> <b>“the final trawl”</b><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
It has
been good and warm, enjoying the feeling of rounding out a 26-year and 40-year
collaboration, with the audiences who have supported us all these years. We’re not making a big deal that this is our
last run, but folks seem very aware of it: standing ovations everywhere, long
and loud, a few tears and many personal thank-you-for-the-years, afterwards.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
And a
scare this afternoon. Annie caught her
heel in a track and fell down two stairs, piling into the audience-chairs,
during the sound-check.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
She pulled
a muscle in her thigh and whanged her head (not hard, she said) but it shook
her up. – Me too. She tried to swallow it and keep on going –
too quick: it kept on coming out – she’d burst into tears and have to stop
singing.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
The
lovely staff at this Audubon Center really supported her with cold packs and
aspirin – they even found some Epsom Salts for her bath tonight.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
She didn’t
seem worried. She’ll hurt tomorrow,
though, and we’ll deal with that.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
We
chose <i>Johnny Stewart, Drover</i> for our
encore. As we were coming through the
second verse (she played flute) I was thinking about how much I’d enjoy the way
our voices would feel/sound when we sang “Johnny doesn’t spend much time in
town/ Impatient for the Wet to be over” etc.
And we started it, and yes, it was that same warm feeling/sound; we all
knowing, loving Johnny, appreciating him…<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
And the
penny dropped and I heard a little voice in my head say: “No more, Robin, no more. After this year no-one will be here who can
make this feeling with you. No-one will
build their particular loving landscape with you again.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
And I
could barely sing the rest of the song – choked on some of it, blinked away
some, and while Ed and Ann (as always) carried me through, I finally began to
feel the loss.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
Gordon Bokhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04999159710745338801noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7998998105473988873.post-48482019627620960392017-11-13T12:15:00.001-08:002017-11-13T12:15:57.883-08:00<div class="MsoNormalCxSpFirst">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 4.0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: .5in;">
Excerpt from my notebooks<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
We ended up singing in the fo’c’s’le of the old
schooner most of that night.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
We had Mac’s sweet, soaring Tenor, John and Nellie
and their dates who had no fear of harmony at all, the boy, who knew all the
choruses, and a lot of verses he shouldn’t have, and one lonesome
mandolin-player off a yacht up the wharf.
We’d heard him in a lull and chased him down with the shipyard
skiff. He said that all our howling made
him want to play.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
We sang the moon up over the shipyard and across
the spring-stay of the schooner, down between the ketch’s masts and gone with
the rolling hump of tide down the bay.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
It might not have been Art to some, but it was
what we had and all we needed. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
I lay in my berth in the warm fo’c’s’le, thinking about
my friends in the islands. With the
isolation and the scarcity of paying work, it’s not hard to get depressed and
bitter. But wouldn’t that be true of any
rural area in a harsh land where you can get a glimpse of the way more
fortunate people live?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
But that doesn’t turn people into beer-guzzling
animals, like the preacher said. Casting
around among the folks I knew, I couldn’t think of many that would fit that
description.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
Ah, the
world is full of islands, oh my soul.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
And we’re
each a lonely island in a raving dread of sea,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
Carrying
our loneliness like a dark and windy hole<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
that the
glory of creation cannot fill.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
So each
of us will fill it as we can,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
With
friends or music, dreams or work or beer<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
Or even
God. There’s probably no single, perfect
way.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
I fell asleep, feeling grateful for the music, and
for the boy on the settee across from me where the last chorus flung him, and for the schooner in the going tide, and
the water round us all, and the water all around the world, always moving.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
First
thing I heard the next morning was the coffee pot, rolling above the mumble of
the schooner’s big wood stove. Then I
smelled the bacon, and I knew Mac was aboard, so I rolled out through the
curtain.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
Mac poured
me coffee, nodded toward the sleeping boy, and we went up on deck.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
We set
our mugs down on the forward house and stood on the frosty deck-planks warming
our hands at the stove-pipe.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
The
harbor was quiet around us.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
He said:
“Remember when I brought that sardine-carrier in here with the busted stem?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
“King
Fisher,” I said.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
“Yeah. You brought your little
buddy aboard. And you brought him along
when we made the first trip of fish after that… out of Sabbathday, wasn’t it?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
“Yeah,
that was a good time, Mac. He was about
seven, then,”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
“Remember
what he always called the carrier after that?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
“Yeah –
hah: he called her ‘the house of singing.’”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
“Uh
huh. You know, he and I had a big talk
about you on my boat over supper last night.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
I didn’t
say anything, and he went on:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
“He told
me that you and that preacher went thirteen rounds, and you got pretty stove
up.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
I said:
“Look, Mac, you and I know I’m a fool, but that bastard painted it all over
me. And the boy saw all of it.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
He
laughed.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
“Ah,
hell, we’re all fools in God’s garden.
But he told me that he was worried about your immortal soul – did you
know that?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
“Never,”
I said. He turned and faced me.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
“Well, he
was afraid you’d lose it – your immortal soul –- if you ever stopped singing. Now, how about that?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
He
watched me a moment, then he smiled and said “Let’s go down. I’m hungry.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
And we
went down into the house of singing. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
Gordon Bokhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04999159710745338801noreply@blogger.com2