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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Apr 19, 2013 - 12:46am PT
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Way Above Camp 4
In the talus forest
The oaks repeat the wind’s words
Over and over
Across the valley
Sentinel’s water falls down
In deep recesses
Sentinel itself
Is screened by whispering oaks
Who speak of Half Dome
It’s icy up there
Now no trees grow on its head
They’ve mostly been burned
It wasn’t lightning
Sheltering man has done this
Please take a lesson
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Apr 20, 2013 - 10:37am PT
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EXPLODING MYTHS
Myth busters,
Cam busters,
Dam busters:
It’s all Grey Poupon.
To me.
Filibuster,
Attitude adjuster,
Blues by Duster:
Just sing The Beat Goes On.
For me.
La di dah di di,
Lad died dealing meth,
He asked for early death:
Inhaled from his dying breath, it's gone
In me.
Blonde climbers have more fun;
Only pansies climb five one;
It’s five seven now we’re done:
Let’s find a coffee shop.
On me.
--A. Crumbinallo
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Marlow
Sport climber
OSLO
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Apr 20, 2013 - 11:48am PT
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Benny Andersen in translation. Mouse from Merced will not like the poem The Time at 04:05 or Spirit at 24:50.
[Click to View YouTube Video]
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Marlow
Sport climber
OSLO
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Apr 20, 2013 - 11:55am PT
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Sailing To Byzantium
I
That is no country for old men. The young
In one another's arms, birds in the trees
---Those dying generations---at their song,
The salmon-falls, the mackerel-crowded seas,
Fish, flesh, or fowl commend all summer long
Whatever is begotten, born, and dies.
Caught in that sensual music all neglect
Monuments of unaging intellect.
II
An aged man is but a paltry thing,
A tattered coat upon a stick, unless
Soul clap its hands and sing, and louder sing
For every tatter in its mortal dress,
Nor is there singing school but studying
Monuments of its own magnificence;
And therefore I have sailed the seas and come
To the holy city of Byzantium.
III
O sages standing in God's holy fire
As in the gold mosaic of a wall,
Come from the holy fire, perne in a gyre,
And be the singing-masters of my soul.
Consume my heart away; sick with desire
And fastened to a dying animal
It knows not what it is; and gather me
Into the artifice of eternity.
IV
Once out of nature I shall never take
My bodily form from any natural thing,
But such a form as Grecian goldsmiths make
Of hammered gold and gold enamelling
To keep a drowsy Emperor awake;
Or set upon a golden bough to sing
To lords and ladies of Byzantium
Of what is past, or passing, or to come.
W B Yeats
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Apr 21, 2013 - 09:38pm PT
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BROKEN RADIO SIGNAL
I loved that little Sony-mine
and the sounds it had on offer.
It nearly died one day at T.I. in May 1968:
A near-fatal discharge under dishonorable conditions following a ground-fall.
Twelve feet to the ground left no doubt—that was all, it was gonna die.
I hope it didn’t suffer.
We were listening to some Zappa
when it got zapped.
It hung around, a one-antenna amputee,
mostly mute and seldom heard,
that later got lost in Yosemite.
Eventually.
If a radio signal dies in the forest and no one hears it, how does this affect the universe?
Heck of a question.
edit a Marlow: As a psa, the time is now officially gone. It was just a baby, too. This was reported in The Times. The time was when an obituary had more people who had time to read it. There is dead air on radio, which is the same as dead time.
I got no dime but I got some time to hear his story.--The Dead, one more time
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Fletcher
Trad climber
The great state of advaita
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Apr 24, 2013 - 11:50am PT
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Well, it's that time of the year:
Sumer is icumen in,
Lhude sing cuccu!
Groweþ sed and bloweþ med
And springþ þe wde nu,
Sing cuccu!
Awe bleteþ after lomb,
Lhouþ after calue cu.
Bulluc sterteþ, bucke uerteþ,
Murie sing cuccu!
Cuccu, cuccu, wel singes þu cuccu;
Ne swik þu nauer nu.
Sing cuccu nu. Sing cuccu.
Sing cuccu. Sing cuccu nu!
And for those of you not fluent in Middle English (where's a Hobbit when you need one?):
Summer has come in,
Loudly sing, Cuckoo!
The seed grows and the meadow
blooms
And the wood springs anew,
Sing, Cuckoo!
The ewe bleats after the lamb
The cow lows after the calf.
The bullock stirs, the stag farts,
Merrily sing, Cuckoo!
Cuckoo, cuckoo, well you sing,
cuckoo;
Don't ever you stop now,
Sing cuckoo now. Sing, Cuckoo.
Sing Cuckoo. Sing cuckoo now!
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Apr 25, 2013 - 08:15pm PT
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IT'S MORE THAN HAIKU
TO SAY HOW MUCH I LIKE YOU
i feel i o u
ALL u people
THANK u people
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Gary
Social climber
Desolation Basin, Calif.
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Apr 25, 2013 - 08:50pm PT
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More Brautigan for Mouse:
Death is a beautiful car parked only
to be stolen on a street lined with trees
whose branches are like the intestines
of an emerald.
You hotwire death, get in, and drive away
like a flag made from a thousand burning
funeral parlors.
You have stolen death because you're bored.
There's nothing good playing at the movies
in San Francisco.
You joyride around for a while listening
to the radio, and then abandon death, walk
away, and leave death for the police
to find.
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Fletcher
Trad climber
The great state of advaita
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Apr 25, 2013 - 11:58pm PT
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The Journey
One day you finally knew
what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you
kept shouting
their bad advice --
though the whole house
began to tremble
and you felt the old tug
at your ankles.
"Mend my life!"
each voice cried.
But you didn't stop.
You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
at the very foundations,
though their melancholy
was terrible.
It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen
branches and stones.
But little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice
which you slowly
recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world,
determined to do
the only thing you could do --
determined to save
the only life you could save.
~ Mary Oliver ~
(Dream Work)
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Apr 26, 2013 - 03:09am PT
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a tattoo haiku
tells you dot dot's the dotter
your daughter has wed
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Apr 26, 2013 - 03:31am PT
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Dead Car Found on Park Place
On a bench in Park Place
It sat
It radiated love
It had been joy-ridden
Obviously
The trunk was full of old comedy reels
Laurel and Hardwood
The Tree Stooges
The Light Comedy in the Forest
and so on through Hollywood
The cops stood around
Was there a moving violation
Or was it a parking violation
They felt it was moving
So they took out their tools
And they fixed that crate good
It never ever moved again
They hauled it away with a logging chain
It was put to rest in a pine box
Norwegian-crafted
And inlaid with emeralds
In oddly hexcentric shapes
And Bob Dylan sang
The car song
By Woody
Would he approve
The hearse was a woodie
Why certainly
Cried the baldest cypress stooge
The king of braut again has died
Long live the king
Auto the Magnificent
[Click to View YouTube Video] Thanks, Gary!
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Apr 26, 2013 - 03:48am PT
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He Wants to Tap a Keg at the Leap
I mean, He Wants to Leap on a Keg and Tap Dance on Dikes
why not go all the way
why not take all of me
why not a bunch of mes
why not hike your pants up
why not you satisfied
why not utter sweet nothings
why not fool around with me no more
why not u like me no more
I'm sorry if this offends.
I just up-chucked it.
The mouse-muse is full of moonshine tonight of all nights.
Chuck's twice the man
i am
after all
i am
just a mouse
hangin' nine
surfin' the rhyme
next time
i am
buyin'
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Apr 26, 2013 - 07:06am PT
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Nose In A Day Dream
Donini’s nostril
gospel
hostel
hospital
lost bell
liberty bell
go to hell
goat boy smell
Lafayette Bunnel
admiral
clam shell
wishing well
oh, do tell
William tell
no tell motel
‘ink well’
show ‘n tell
holding cell
farmer in the dell
and he finally fell
and on cloud nine they dwell
Little Nell
je m’apelle
set a spell
have a nail
eat a snail
cut up the handrail
belay them last three, varmint!
they all smell
just as well
couldn’t tell
better sell
Colgate gel
Cornell yell
more cowbell
Samuel Zell
all is well
sing Noel
Maroon Bell
run pell-mell
kiss n’ tell
Disney cel
“Life in the Salton Sea!?”
This here ain’t no Disney nature flick, ya varmint!!
Git back ta bizness, blast ya!
KA-BLOOEY!!!!!!
No more to tell, etc.
Dette er ikke en Disney film om natur, kjeltring, irriterende person eller dyr, forsomme.--Benny Anders Marlofsen
I may have butchered that, py yiminey.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Apr 26, 2013 - 03:59pm PT
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Hard Core Spondee
Dusting away on the dark side they hung
Not a hair out of place, nor even a tongue, among
White founts falling in the courts of the sun
And the Soldan of Byzantium is smiling as they run
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Fletcher
Trad climber
The great state of advaita
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Apr 30, 2013 - 03:38am PT
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"Poetry meets deep, essential, unremembered hungers. It is food and drink for the soul - memory of the soul."—Krista Tippett
Now I remember for whence here I came...
For lunch, natch!
Eric
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Apr 30, 2013 - 11:00am PT
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Nachos for lunch...
Sure It Could Always Be Verse
They say things should rhyme
But I haven’t the time
To babysit pronouns all day
If they want it so
I want them to know
We consider myself to be they
So f. them and the lamas
(And especially them commas)
They all rode in on today
Beck to verk, Fledger! Vite!
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Brilliant, rr!
And historically accurate, too!
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Insert photo RR,pensive pose back cover shot from My Life.
Me-did-tations Midst Rubble
Before I worked in Yosemite as a houseman I fried hamburgers and made chicken for a franchise in the Bay Area. The hamburger we sold was "The Big Barney." Fred Flintstone, Barney Rubble, OK?
I yearned for the mountains, back then, though I knew not what could possibly happen up there.
I found that in the mountains, Time passes slowly, hand-to-hand, until it is no longer legible.
It's then used for TP.
What I am resting on is the detritus of monoliths.
They are like the piles of dead skin cells which accumulated underneath my mattress.
If Sentinel sheds skin, this is it, and they have been laying here for, like, quien sabe?
It is a poor conceit for what has happened here in the side-hill oak forest.
I never notice skin flakes falling off me or the noise they must make if they do.
Let’s set that myth on its heels.
Everything makes noise but we all are not equipped or NEED to hear
the crash and boom (or their tiny-world equivalents--maybe whiff and poof?)
of dandruff or hairs hitting the deck.
Maybe the dust mites can detect the sound.
You’ll hear an oak leaf as it falls among its brothers.
You’ll hear the pine cones run away from their mothers.
You cannot hear the acorn when it is sprouting.
You sure can hear the mountain when it is shouting!
Why am I formalizing this rambling mental dialog?
Why ever not?
Have I not
spent many hours wishing that I were
here and not
somewhere that is more stressful
and far less enjoyable
like down there?
I am in danger from having too much fun, thinking about what possibly could go wrong on this...what...quest? OK. It sounds New Agey and corny but it is rather descriptive.
I am trying to find Sentinel Creek so tha I might have a unique view of a seldom-seen scene, Sentinel Falls.
It is a legitimate quest. Call me Sir Beansalot. And If I am not satisfied that I have completed the quest, I can always return, at least I can always want that.
Face it. It is what I want, to die up there.
I could back off a boulder trying to increase the depth or width of a shot.
I could put out another freaking eye if I do not wear glasses.
I could put out another freaking eye if I do wear glasses.
The fact is I have better coordination when I wear nothing on my nose.
This also eliminates sweat problems, not that I am moving so fast that I acutally break a sweat.
St. Galen sweated plenty for our sins--patron saint of talus runners andphotgraphers, y'know.
I have been comfortable all day in a T-shirt and a light sweat top.
My feet have room and it is because I removed the inner soles and left them at home. The peds tend to swell now, quien sabe? Take yer peds-meds and hush.
There is a huge difference in sound between the forest and the creekside.
Notorious as a waterless trail, the four mile only crossed one that I recall from my only other passage (downhill), but I have a whole half-gallon in my pack, a precautionary measure should I be so stupid as to get hurt in the Raucous.
my attentive audience
I also have a headlamp.
I recall lessons learned last fall near Dewey Point, a low point.
I believe I have redeemed myself in my eyes, which are the only ones which need to see this and the only ones really fit to judge, according to some.
But I'm generous, they tell me. It is nice of them to say.
Let them who refuse to ask for help get on their knees and pray.
I pray when I walk.
I worship when I shoot.
I listen to its talk.
It has shown me how to walk.
How could I not be a seeker?
How could I not be on a quest?
I have seen myself become meeker.
I think it seeks for me the best.
"Sun-lit meadows"
"forested slopes"
"cataracts plunging"
"topographical sculpture"
"another hit of fresh air"
All seem canned phrases describing my wish-life.
[Insert inane crudity about tuna and spouse if you dare...I don't care.]
5.1! Siesta time.
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Gary
Social climber
Desolation Basin, Calif.
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my sweet old etcetera
aunt lucy during the recent
war could and what
is more did tell you just
what everybody was fighting
for,
my sister
isabel created hundreds
(and
hundreds) of socks not to
mention shirts fleaproof earwarmers
etcetera wristers etcetera, my
mother hoped that
i would die etcetera
bravely of course my father used
to become hoarse talking about how it was
a privilege and if only he
could meanwhile my
self etcetera lay quietly
in the deep mud et
cetera
(dreaming,
et
cetera, of
Your smile
eyes knees and of your Etcetera)
e.e. cummings
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