the way to Grettisgata 

Ice #4 : Grettisgata

http://betterdaysradio.blogspot.com/

GRETTISGATA

It was a glorious four days at Snussa. We left the cabin
as clean and tidy as we found it, and under brightening
skies waved good-bye to the wide valley and the sweet
escape it offered.

Our last night at Snussa, a full day and good meal
behind us, we hooked up the television wires to watch
the national finals of the high school talent contest.
It is a competition they hold each year with one kid
from each school across Iceland, and they get up
and sing with backing from the show´s house band.
It's broadcast live, nationwide, and is a big deal.

Disa wanted to see the girl from her school in 101,
One of the boys stood out, and four of the girls
had good voices, but Bjork needn´t lose any sleep
over these young ones. Disa pointed out that all
schools had to send someone, that in a few cases
kids with little talent were sent as a kind of joke.
That explains the Goth-looking girl in the neon green
leotards and Elvira makeup who sang a composition
consisting of variations on two four-letter words
we all know and love, one beginning with S and one
with F. It was a kind of scat-cuss Yoko thing, her
tongue firmly in her cheek.

The drive back to Reykjavik. Disa chose a route
to the south coast of Iceland. I said my good-byes
to the Icelandic ponies en route. Near the turn for
Skalholt, we pulled off into a farm to visit an elderly
woman Disa knows, recently widowed. The two of them
shared hugs, held a lively discussion. I could see how
much Disa´s visit meant to this woman. I had the sense
that she could pull into any driveway in Iceland, walk
in the door and be welcomed.

Off we drove. The sun came out. We stopped in at
Selfoss to fill the tank with gas. From there, on to
Eyrarbakki, an old town on the coast looking out to
the Vestman Islands and the open Atlantic. Eyrarbakki
is the national prison. It must hold a maximum of 40
convicts. The houses here are old, brightly-painted.
Children ride bicycles and skateboards through narrow
winding streets with what appears to be a kind of
idyllic and carefree joy. We park and walk along the
sea´s edge, reading a sign that says from this point
you have unobstructed sailing directly south to the
South Pole. Build me a boat that can carry two...

A breathtaking drive over a mountain pass between
Eyrarbakki and Reykjavik. This is where Disa´s claim
that Iceland and Greenland were mistakenly named
appears to hold water. The hillsides are covered with
a mossy green. Some travelers have even scaled a
few of them to carve their names, thirty feet high.
At the summit there´s a little coffee house. Inside,
the walls are covered with photos of Iceland´s soccer
teams, including one photo of a scoreboard at the end
of a match between France and Iceland, the score
reading 1-1. This result was a source of great pride
for Icelanders, as France were reigning World Cup
champions at the time of the exhibition match.

I ask Disa if she´s ever seen baseball played here.
She looks at me like I´ve taken LSD. "Baseboy..."
and she doesn´t even finish her answer. They do
have two ice arenas, though, and hockey is on the
rise here. A team went to Canada last year for
exhibitions, she informs me. I don´t need to ask the
scores. Maybe Elvira girl in the electric neon leotards
has inadvertently written the Icelandic hockey team´s
theme song...

We come down out of the mountains into Reykjavik.
I am driving as the road widens to three lanes each
way. The sun blesses the city with afternoon gold.
The spire of Hallgrimskirkje, the great church and
city landmark, rises above the town. It is a few blocks
from Grettisgata, Disa´s home street. "Gata" is street.
"Grettir" is a character from The Sagas, the most
famous book in Iceland, a collection of mythological
stories upon which the country´s folklore is founded.

Disa is talking about trolls, giants of low intelligence
who live in the mountains and come out only at night.
She tells me also of the twelve Santa Clauses who
tease children in the days leading up to Christmas.
They don´t wear red, but instead are dressed in
ancient Icelandic apparel. One of them, Skyr, has
his name on the delicious yogurt-like drink they love
here. Gryla, the mother of all the Santas, is nothing
like dear old Mrs. Claus of North American mythology.
Gryla is the feared enemy of children. Misbehave?
She catches you and eats you for supper.

Reykjavik. Rake-yaw-vik. I like this city, its secret
avenues, the many cafes, cars parked at all angles,
kids running in and out of doorways, bright-eyed and
clear-skinned women, men all with a certain elan and
seriousness hiding subtle mischiefs. They love writers
here, appreicate literature.

We pack belongings and leftover goodies up three
flights to Disa´s flat and, after unpacking, decide to
go walking in the chilly winds of this sunny April day.
We go to the Thai restaurant near the waterfront,
near the police station (I roll up my collar and put on
my sunglasses, being, as I am, in the country illegally).
I am enchanted by the Thai girl who records our order,
listening to her speak fluent Icelandic with Disa. We
order two different curries, one hot for me, one milder
for Ms. Gudmundsdottir. Going back to Grettisgata,
we find a video store and choose a movie for later.
We pass her brother Sverrir´s place, but the house
is dark. "They have gone out to dinner, I think,"
Disa says. We stop in a corner shop for a newspaper.
I buy a pack of Camels. Disa gets a couple Icelandic
candy bars treats for later. "Don´t tell me the way
to Grettisgata," I say, wanting to see if I can find
my own way home without help. She is laughing as
we start walking again. I look up, and the very next
street, twenty paces away, is Grettisgata. "See," I
tell her, "I am a well-traveled man of the world...
I can find my way home from anywhere!"

This red-cheeked Icelandic woman, so filled with
girlhood spirit and energy, links her hand with mine.
The wind funnels along the street, ice-edged now
as damp-fisted night brawls in off the Atlantic.
We have food, wine, a movie to watch. We run
down Grettisgata to #151, and turn the key.

Love from Iceland,

DL

the cat loved the work even more than i did 

Visiting Gideon

http://betterdaysradio.blogspot.com/

VISITING GIDEON

I went to visit my old friend
We meet for contradictions
Leave our footprints on the wind
And fly our latest fictions
There's no early, there's no late
There's no deliberation
It's all aboard a southbound freight
The sun our destination

Bewilderment is where we live
The grace of never knowing
We like what cups of coffee give
And wonder where we're going
The more one lives, the more one grieves
It’s such a slow sad dance
Who moves beyond what he believes
Gives happiness a chance

It’s only when we’re falling down
That we are given wings
Those who fix a broken crown
Are those who would be kings
The soul goes out and then comes back
A ritual so strange
Light goes looking for a crack
To help the darkness change

The mourning dove is in her cage
The hawk is in the sky
The thunder drowns the whisper sage
The sun is a black eye
The wine God loves is honesty
The purest form of prayer
He’s thirsty for a drink, you see
Have you some wine to spare

I went to visit Gideon
We angled for the beauty
That gypsy spirits stumble on
When tired enough for duty
We left our footprints on the wind
Flew our latest fictions
Gideon, he is my friend
We drink our contradictions

DL

Reminds Me

better days @ www.coopradio.org

Reminds me of
that fella who sat
at the very back
of the class for
the criminally
insane, convinced
in his madness
he was a cut above
the rest of those
serial killers

DL

a few hours southwest of moose jaw 

The Garden

http://betterdaysradio.blogspot.com/

I said to my soul, "What have you done
with the garden entrusted to you?"

-Antonio Machado

Do you have those days, my friend, when no matter
what you find to do, in your heart it doesn't feel as though
this is what the day truly calls for?

As a man who writes, I wrestle with this feeling.
It used to be that it came with a vague sense of
guilt or failure, as if something grand was awaiting me
if only I could find the gate and pass through.

The artist is granted little respect in our culture,
and amid these purposeful disorderings of the senses --
so necessary in finding and hearing and writing down
the voices which rise from the bed below -- one's left
disoriented and adrift, open to ridicule,
an easy victim of judgment and prejudice.

Then the phone rings and it's someone dear
wondering how you could've forgotten to call them
as you promised, wondering how you happened to
miss the meeting that was planned.

Sometimes, I'll admit, I don't remember
promising anything to anyone. Meetings
Why don't you just come over for a coffee?

I am interested in memory under memory,
skins lifting away, blood becoming louder,
the voices of the dead and invisible singing again.
This kind of remembering requires
permission to forget.

Then a song comes, slowly, forcing open
the skin, and you feel something waking inside,
pushing. So you go walking in the rusted kingdom
of the April sun, certain that it's okay again,
yes, even if no one understands.

It suffices, this calling, and is the humble way
you tend the garden entrusted to you.

DL

If The Moon

better days @ www.coopradio.org

IF THE MOON WOULD ONLY SIT STILL

If the moon would only sit still
And leaves didn't blow in the wind
If a wish could marry a will
And summer did not have to end
If roads didn't stop at the shore
And our lives never ended until
We knew what living was for
Lover, I'd be with you still

Woman, the years are swift
I've lost count of the moons
Still I would not trade the gift
That brought me to these rooms
The roots in the garden they drink
The stones are too heavy to lift
I'm blind every moment I blink
Memory is all I have left

Lover, how long has it been
Since I made your body shine
Since I laid my hands on your skin
And you put your own hands to mine
Love, I'm still drunk on your scent
Of the perfume you carry within
Meanings you may not have meant
The moon has gone missing again

If the moon would only sit still
And leaves didn't blow in the wind
If a wish could marry a will
And summer did not have to end
If roads didn't stop at the shore
And a kiss never ended until
We knew the secrets and more
Lover, I'd be with you still

DL

Disa and the Icelandic ponies 

Ice #3 : Snussa

BETTER DAYS @ www.coopradio.org

ICELAND #3 : SNUSSA

Needless to say after my shark 'n' schnapps adventures at her
father´s, Disa took the wheel and drove us through the mountains
to Snussa. She burst out laughing when she looked sideways at
my weak smile, then said that her father was probably taking a
nap by now, too. The little red Renault Twingo sped out of the
city in the rain, and soon we were engulfed in a dense fog at
the higher elevations. The roads are black and narrow in Iceland
and, as mentioned earlier, drivers like to test one another´s nerve.
Many hug or straddle the center line, only shifting a little toward
the shoulder at the last moment to avoid sudden death head-on
collisions. This is even more fun in dense fog.

Snussa is the summer cabin of Ingibjorg and Gardar, Disa's friends.
The rain so thick this first day on the road, my recollections
of the Icelandic countryside are of cloud, the rhythm of wipers,
and narrow black roads that vanish fifty yards ahead. I was
glad when we reached Snussa, a lovely cabin, rust-orange with
red doors and trim. Outside on the sundeck was the hot tub.
Inside, we had everything we needed: bedding, towels, cooking
utensils, heat, coffee maker and grinder, small stereo player.

When it´s clear, Snussa overlooks a wide flat plain, leading
across to a row of mountain peaks which include, to the east,
Hekla, one of the more famous volcanos on the island. At night,
from the front deck, there is a view of the lights of the town
of Fludir on one side and Skalholt on the other, with its tall
church lit up in gold. As we unpacked I realized how much time
and money Thordis had put into this getaway. She´d brought
enough food and refreshments for two weeks, including many
things unique to Iceland. The first evening we had cod breaded
with pistachio, purchased fresh en route. This was delicious.
Later, we ran through the chill night air to relax in the
steaming hot tub. The water in Iceland comes from underground
geothermal stores. You smell a moment´s sulphur when you turn
on the hot water tap. Home heating is achieved via radiators
using the same subterranean hot water, one of the benefits of
living on a volcanic island.

A sweetness, to be together with Disa again, after all these
months apart, floating in a hot tub at Snussa at midnight
with Icelandic jazz wafting from the open cabin window, the
waxing moon fighting through swift-moving clouds to spill a
chalk light on the deck. Laying back, I took the deepest
breath I´ve taken in a long while… and could not help but
cry. We´d gone a long time since seeing one another and,
though we´d spoken on the phone many times and shared web
chats and e-mails, physical distance takes its toll. To hold
her, to hear her laugh, see how her smile lights up her face,
and witness again in person the brilliant dance of her mind…
these combined to slow my heart to a kind of peace I haven´t
known since she flew away last summer to work in Reykjavik
as a counselling psychologist in the school system.

The next morning we rose early and hit the road. Disa had
things to show me. As we bounced down the potholed backroads,
me at the wheel now, we saw a small herd of Icelandic ponies
in the field to the left. I pulled over. Disa unlatched the
farm´s gate and we walked inside, latching it behind us. A
half-dozen of these adorable, multi-colored, pint-sized ponies
with their long rock-star manes came nuzzling up to us.
They´re native to Iceland, shorter than typical horses, which
means you can have rather intense and up-close eye contact
with them. Their gentle nature impressed me, along with the
experience of being licked and nudged and bumped by so many
of these creatures at once. Their eyes, peering at you from
behind the thick mops of their manes, gleamed with the
unpredictability of the moment. I felt such love for them
and their rebel-wild looks.

Next up were the falls at Gullfoss. Their sound alone is
humbling, frightening. I could imagine the earth giving
way and caving underfoot, as the vibrations from this
wide waterfall were felt through my boot soles. The spray
soaked us as we got within a few meters of the final
descent of water. I had never heard of these falls, but
they are every bit as magnificent as Niagara´s. From
Gullfoss we drove on to Geysir, so named because of its
geysers. If they haven´t filmed a war movie here, they
easily could, as they'd save a lot on special effects.
The steam rises like devil´s breath from dozens of openings
in the earth and envelops the whole area. The most active
geyser at the moment is Strokkur, and true to its reputation
it erupted moments after we stood near it, first producing
a rising torquoise blue bubble, then blowing an eighty-foot
plume of water and steam into the sky.

We stopped in Fludir on the way back to Snussa for a few
items. Disa bought me some Skyr, a thick and creamy yogurt-
like treat that is unique here. I found a pair of reading
glasses very cheap, and a few things for the curry I was
making for the evening meal. Disa knew of a man in Fludir
who cultivated roses. Magnus was his name. We looked along
the narrow streets for his glowing greenhouses. We went
into the greenhouses, but Magnus wasn´t to be found.
Knocking on the door of the nearby house, we were greeted
by a white-blond and clear-eyed eleven year old Icelandic
boy, Jonas, grandson to Magnus. He said hello, and reached
to shake my hand. He had a red t-shirt on with St. Louis
Cardinals scripted across the front of it. I asked him
where in the world he got this t-shirt, and he said an uncle
in Norway who liked baseball gave it to him. For him to have
the same name as my son and be wearing a baseball t-shirt
8,000 miles from America made the scene surreal. I noticed
in this boy, as I had in other Icelanders whose doors we
knocked upon or in some cases just walked through, that
there is no fear of strangers in rural Iceland. There is
a respectful fear of active volcanos, yes, earthquakes too,
storms off the sea during fishing season, of course... but
not of other human beings. Perhaps in Reykjavik I will see
a little of it, but outside the main city there was no fear,
not in the ponies, not in the children, not in the people in
the village streets.

That evening I treated Disa to my recipe-less curry, served
on a table with a few roses and red wine, as outside under
the almost-full moon it began to snow lightly. If you want
to feel as though you have travelled outside of the circle,
to a place where the plug of stress has been pulled from
the wall, then Iceland is a place to consider.

You may remember Disa´s explanation of how children are named
here. Her brother, Sverrir, is Sverrir Gudmundsson, taking
Gudmundur´s first name as his son. Sverrir runs a musical
instrument repair shop out of his basement in Reykjavik, a
block from Disa´s. Gudmundur´s last name is Halldorsson. Disa
is Thordis Gudmundsdottir. In the phone book, people are listed
by their first name. In the case of a Magnus, for example,
there are something like 1350 such Magnuses listed in the
Reykjavik phone directory… meaning that you need to know what
Magnus does for a living and find him by word-of-mouth, unless
you want to dial 1350 numbers. The Magnus who grows roses
(blomasolumadur, i.e. bloom maker) would be found this way
if Disa did not already know of him. In the graveyard, under
the person´s name and dates of birth and death, it lists their
profession or gift. This is how people are distinguished, then,
by father and by what they offer to the community. I would be
Douglas Jamesson, songmadur, the guy relaxing in the hot tub
at midnight catching snowflakes in his mouth, sipping a glass
of Jack Danielsson.

Disa remembers when she was the same age as that boy at the
greenhouses, Jonas Magnusson (his father had the same name
as the grandfather, i.e. he was Magnus Magnusson), and the
island of Heimaey, one of the Vestman islands off the south
coast of Iceland, had a massive volcanic eruption. She watched
in awe on television as another Magnus Magnusson and a few of
his fellow Icelanders sprayed water on the molten flow of lava
as it headed toward the main town. This had never been done
before and it was the subject of much ridicule initially,
referred to as pissa a hraunid (hraunid meant on the lava,
you can figure out the rest). Well, with help from better
and better hoses, including some from the U.S. Army Air Corps,
the lava was diverted in this way and thousands of lives and
homes were saved. How strange, then, that I should read to
Disa in bed later from the John McPhee book that I'd brought
from Canada and, unknown to me, in that book this very event,
from the 1970´s, forms a main essay. Disa remembers, through
the eyes of a young Icelandic girl, wondering at the courage
or stupidity of these men standing in their boots on the very
lava they had just cooled with their water hoses, two inches
separating the soles of their feet from the molten lava. “It
is very Icelandic, that…” she says, referring to the defending
of a community against the incandescent fires of the mountain
in any way possible, and at any risk.

The third night, after a day visiting the site of the island´s
most ancient church at Skalholt – they´ve built a grand new
one, but the remains of the old are being excavated next door
by the graveyard – we have barbecued lamb. Disa arranges
everything this time, including the roast potatoes and carrots,
the broccoli, with the hjirmjolk (rice pudding) for
dessert. It is outstandingly delicious, this meal. We follow it
with a rich black coffee with brown foam, and look out as the
twilight skyline to the west glows with pinks. I am reminded
of the Icelandic girl, four years old, Ingunnjulia, whom I met
in Vancouver at Disa´s UBC graduation party. After I had
announced and played a blues for the gathered guests, little
Ingunnjulia leaned over and whispered to me, “Mr. Doug, can
we play a pinks now?”

Tomorrow, the forecast is for sunshine. We are headed back
to Reykjavik, this time via the south coast road through a town
called Eyrarbakki from which we may, if the weatherman is
correct, be able to see the Vestman Islands. These islands
are where, some thirty years ago this fine woman at my side
saw the miracle of men performing the pissa a hrautnid.
All I ask is that, one more time, on our way down out of the
mountains, we stop by a farm and stand among those Icelandic
ponies. I want to hug one, let him lick the salt from my face.

Love from Iceland,

DL

with Ramblin' Jack Elliott, Ft Worth TX 

Meet Me Outside

better days

Only the mediocre are always at their best...
This song is far from finished. It has gone
from sixteen verses to six. I feel as though I'm
drunk in a bar in Ireland with Shane MacGowan
singing this with me. It's a nasty business.

There is no such thing as religion over-riding
morality. Man, for instance,cannot be untruthful,
cruel or incontinent and claim to have God on his side.

Mahatma Gandhi

Where is the justice of political power if it
executes the murderer and jails the plunderer,
and then itself marches upon neighbouring lands,
killing thousands and pillaging the very hills?

Kahlil Gibran

He who rules his spirit has won greater victory
than the taking of a city.

Jesus Christ


MEET ME OUTSIDE

I want to run with the rebels
Want to carry the old woman's heart
Want the gods to sit down with their devils
And the teachings to all tear apart
I want doubt to return to the righteous
Want shadows to leap on the fire
What we disown to come back and bite us
I want to keen in the Sunday choir

I want no more amens for money
I'm done with the lies that we tell
I want the bees to be paid for their honey
And heaven to marry with hell
I want leaders to rise from the masses
Want people to stop being scared
I want shepherds to get off their asses
I want burning bridges repaired

I want water to come out of granite
Want the air to be poisoned no more
Want wisdom to govern the planet
The rich to give back to the poor
I want music to come back and teach us
There's more than one note in a chord
I want the rockets to turn into peaches
And kindness take over the world

I want the poets' dissent and defiance
I want grief to catch up to the crime
I want a bomb that will blow up the violence
And clocks that tell all of the time
I want women to come from the shadows
Their cycles have so much to say
Want men to come out of their bottles
And make a pronouncement today

I want the courage of Mahatma Gandhi
And the wisdom of Kahlil Gibran
I want buttetholes filled up with candy
And mercy to make a new plan
Johnny come back, we hardly knew ya
It's time that you found better work
I want Jesus to live in Falluja
And Mohammed to live in New York

We've got enough pain now to guide us
We're apart and the water is wide
I want no beliefs to divide us
I want you to meet me outside
Let’s start a new country tomorrow
One that has no borderline
I want loving to gather the sorrow
The water turned back into wine

DL

Gudmundur and me

Ice #2 : The Test

better days

ICELAND JOURNAL #2 : THE TEST

The drive from Reykjavik to Snussa, the summer home,
is about two hours eastward over a mountain pass. First,
we stopped to visit Disa´s father, Gudmundur, at his place
outside Reykjavik. Aagot, Disa's mother, was at work this
day, so Gudmundur had us all to himself. He was ready
and waiting for me.

After looking at some photos and paintings of boats he´d
worked on in his days as a fisherman, and explaining how
he came to have a Salvador Dali painting on his living room
wall, Gudmundur began bringing these little bowls of food
to the table in the living room. There were also glasses,
and bottles of beer and schnapps. To eat from the secret
delicacies in the little china bowls, we were to use two-pronged
miniature forks. Napkins at hand, very formal ceremony...

No beating around the bush here, I could tell that I was
being asked to walk the gauntlet. This was a good-natured
test of my ability to be a good guest and a worthy companion
for daughter, Thordis. In the first bowl was the putrefied shark,
the whole idea being, if the Canadian can´t handle the shark,
we´ll just stop right there. This shark had been buried in the
ground in tin foil for six weeks. It was explained to me, as my
tall glass was being filled with beer and my tiny shot glass with
schnapps, that the longer you chewed the shark the more flavor
it released. This was said with a thinly-veiled chuckle. I chewed
four or five times and, as the so-called flavor hit the roof of my
sinuses like a geyser of poisonous horse radish distilled in piss
and rattlesnake venom, I near-fainted. A rifle shot of lager beer,
an assaultive throatwash of schnapps, a tissue to the eyes, and
I was ready to continue.

Second up, as Disa translated, was the sheep faces. Faces?, I asked,
wanting to be sure of the spelling. Yes, faces. These morsels tasted
like roast lamb in comparison. I had another hit of beer and schnapps
to clear the palate for phase three. The third delicacy was, if I
understood correctly, made from the innards of the sheep, an
intestinal pate of sorts, very sour and with bits that didn´t seem to
break down with chewing. More beer, more schnapps, my head now
seesawing and the Dali painting beginning to take on extra dimensions
and reaching its twisted hands toward me.

Gudmundur, I said through Disa, what else have you got for
me? Why, of course, the testicles of the ram. Give me a spoon, Disa,
I said, as Gudmundur filled my glasses once again. While we paused,
I quietly placed the lid on the bowl with the shark in it. The scent,
if you can call it that, was beginning to activate my schnappiness.
In a soup spoon, I took three of four of these tender ram bits
and threw them like chunks of coal into the furnace of my mouth.
With each bite they exploded with flavor. Friends, it could have
been the beer and schnapps - and also the previous items the
ram testicle tidbits had to be compared against - but I found
them delicious. My rosy-cheeked face was lit up now, and dear
Gudmundur raised his glass, skol!, and we downed another
half-glass of beer and full shot of schnapps as I realized that
I´d passed this test of Viking manhood.

Gudmundur sat back now, pulled a slim pack of Icelandic
cigarettes from his shirtpocket and offered me one. They
were thin as wire, these cigarettes, reminiscent of Indian
ones, and more decorative than tobacco-related. Gudmundur
spoke to Disa and she translated to me, then I´d answer and
she´d relay back to Gudmundur. Seems that I´d impressed
the old man a little at least, and that he could now allow us
to carry on into the mountains together. We finished up the
cigarettes and, just as we were about to rise to go, he brought
out a jar with pieces of something floating in a white goo.

Oh, God, Disa...what pray tell are these?
"He is saying that the shark you ate was kindergarten shark,"
she tells me. "If you eat what is in this jar, you will have gone
to university and gotten your degree."

Gudmundur opens the final jar and, deftly, spears two morsels
with his fork, then buries them in his fisherman´s mouth,
shrugging as he chews, as though to say, it´s nothing, nothing at
all. He then lifts the jar and waves it under my nose. I almost
pass out from the fumes. "How long was this buried?," I ask,
figuring for sure they´d misplaced this shark for years, maybe
they´d dug it out from the last volcanic eruption, maybe even
from the time of the Sagas. "Eighteen months," Gudmundur
says, with a wink.

Okay, let´s do her! Get the beer and schnapps! Squinting, I
fork my masters thesis of shark and jam it into my tonsils,
quickly flooding the area with stinging lager beer and then
another detonation of schnapps. Mucous is coming out of my
eyes! Or, is it lava? Tears are pouring from my ears. My mentor,
Gudmundur, is slapping his knees, laughing so hard that his eyes
have disappeared like raisins into the happy wrinkled porridge
of his face. Disa is beside me, appearing ready to apply artificial
respiration at any moment. I take another liberal honk of beer,
let loose with a whooping word or two not printable here, then
take another wash of lager, and I am through to the other side,
I´ve made it! Disa kisses me on the cheek, uttering something
in Icelandic and, the weird part is, being so drunk on Icelandic
spirits, I undertand every single word.

Gudmundur gives me a mighty hug as we leave, his eyes slivers
of delight as he waves goodbye to us. We pull out of his driveway
and head into the mountains where the threats to human life
-- earthquakes, volcanoes, glacier avalanches -- will seem
minor by comparison.

DL

Ice #1 : Velkominn

better days

ICELAND JOURNAL #1 : VELKOMINN

I landed at Keflavik at 6:05 a.m. on March 31st.
An old jet plane set its tiny wheels down on the world´s
shortest airstrip, on Iceland´s southwestern tip.
For most of the night, from the plane´s tiny window,
I marvelled at the odd-shaped moon that followed me
all the way from Boston to this North Atlantic destination.
Overcome with this lunar beauty, I finally pointed it out
to the young Finnish woman seated adjacent to me.
She laughed. "It is only the light at the end of the wing,"
she explained, blushing on my behalf.

The airport was larger than I expected and I walked
forever looking for a baggage carousel. Others picked up
their suitcases and headed off, until I was the only one left
by the carousel. Not again, I was thinking...remembering
Austin last June. Then one of the flight attendants came
by, recognized me and said, "Your carousel is the next
one, there!" and pointed farther down the way to where
another merry-go-round was in motion with nothing on it
but one lonely black suitcase. I thanked her and as I went
to grab my bag, she had that look in her eyes that said,
fondly, "Oh my, another dimwit from the Americas."

I looked for the Customs line. Some of the signs are in
English and some are not. Where did everybody go? There
was a turnstile of sorts near a duty-free store the size of
a Wal-Mart, and I went through it noisily, my suitcase
banging and my carry-on bag getting caught in the gears.
Once through, I walked down a hallway and saw only a
young man in a doorway and I said, "I go here?". (Why is
it that, when we are in a country where they speak a foreign
language, we speak English as though it were our second
language? Do you do this?) The fellow motioned me through
the doorway and, to my amazement, I was standing outside
in the crisp morning air just as a woman I care so much about
came up to me from the side and, sliding her arms tightly
around me, said, "Baseboy..." My Disa. Our cheeks stuck
together with tears. When we stopped kissing and hugging
and were walking toward her red car, I looked around furtively,
then leaned and whispered to her, "I am in your country illegally."

The 45-minute drive to Reykjavik was the equal of a grand prix.
A narrow two-lane highway across what appeared to be the
desolate surface of the moon, covered with freshly-fallen snow,
and no one slowing below 80km, Disa showed her Shirley
Muldowney side. We got into Reykjavik in record time and
slithered her red Renault Twingo into a tight parking spot on
Grettisgatta, the narrow street outside her apartment, named
after one of the heroes of the sagas. Her place, which she
owns, is magnificent, three floors above the street and looking
out across Europe's northernmost capital city and the sleeping
volcanic mouth of the snow-crowned Esja. Disa easily pinned me
like a butterfly to the frozen ground of the Valkyries.

After coffee, a walk through the city. Narrow streets with cars
parked facing both directions, schoolchildren with lively red faces
throwing snowballs across at one another, and the silence of
snow. "Spring makes an attempt," Disa tells me, "and then winter
takes back the world until spring tries again." Today, winter has
taken Reykjavik back. Those children...they seemed to me to have
a kind of strength in their eyes, perhaps educated and tested by
the trials of living in the far northern Atlantic, and richer for it.

We stop at the record store, an old house run by a hepcat with
spectacles and his hair all loved off. He brings us an espresso as
we look through the limited selection, the average cd going for
$35 if my math is correct. There are local jazz artists, some
classical discs, a table of Jamaican discs including Jackie Mittoo,
even one Hank Williams cd. From there, we visit the city´s tallest
building, Hallgrimskirkje, a church named after Hallgrim, a poet
and a priest. Across the streeet is a statue of Leif Eiriksson.
This enormous church would be a great place to hear a vocal
concert, the acoustics so fine, like ancient hands holding sounds.
I sailed a few notes into the tall spire...

Later, we peruse the waterfront and the old hotel ballroom
where I´ll perform next week, then stop in the Grey Cat, a
small street-level artists´ cafe where they have bookshelves
by every table. They read here, are extremely hip that way.
We have tuna with cucumber, a hommus and pita dish, and more
of the rich black coffee. Across the way by the harbor there is
a small shack with a big sign that says TAXI, like it´s a novel
concept, and in the windows there are large color posters of
Humphrey Bogart, Gary Cooper, and Montgomery Clift. All the
cars going by make a clatter, their tires spiked with traction nails.

Coming back up from the waterfront, through charming one-lane
streets, Disa diverts me to the Icelandic Phallological Museum.
Any idea what this is? Reading from the city guide, "the museum
brings together the penises of all the country´s mammals so that
they can stand up and be counted (and yes, a human sample
has been organized courtesty of an elderly patriot). Be sure to
take pictures so the people back home will believe you..." I am
quoting from the tourist literature, honestly. I notice this all day,
the somewhat stoic and serious demeanor of people, only to find
this playful mischief lurking at every step. It is no wonder why
they choose to hold chess championships here...so much of the
play is in silhouette, once abstracted.

Tomorrow we head up to the cabin two hours east into the
mountains past Hveragerdi and Selfoss and near the little town
of Fludir. There is a hot tub there. We will be staying for three
days. Disa has all kinds of delicacies packed for us to eat. I am
taking my guitar. There is wine, a bottle of Jack Daniels, some
romantic music. This lovely Icelandic princess has plans for me.
I don´t think they involve others. I will make time to post again
when we come back down out of the mountains to Reykjavik.

That bit about the Phallological Museum... they do seem to have
a unique definition of "patriot," wouldn´t you say?

I feel at home anywhere, but most of all in Europe.

Takk, bless.

DL

Blues For Disa

better days

for Þórdís Guðmundsdóttir in 101 Reykjavik

A BLUES FOR DISA

Miss you
Miss you so
So sad you had to go
No sweeter one under the sun
Miss you so

You went north
I went south
No more kisses on my mouth
No hand to hold
Mine’s getting cold
Miss you so

You took a plane
I took a train
You took the sun
Left me the rain
Blue moon
Come back soon
Miss you so

They say absence makes the heart grow fonder
Today I understand those words
Gypsy souls were born to wander
Makes us free and lonesome as the birds

Come back soon
Bring the moon
Set it down above this town
I’m not looking for another
Miss you so

DL

Summer Of St Augustine +mp3

better days

this song may be heard in mp3 form at
http://www3.telus.net/billybob/dougCDs

THE SUMMER OF ST. AUGUSTINE

The boat south from Piraeus
Sky a deeper blue
Put in at all the islands
Paros, Santorini too
Later on, south to Crete
The old port, Heraklion
Sun gold on the blue Aegean
And all our troubles gone

Take it with you when you go
Take your soul with you when you go
Love is light, love is clean
Heed St. Augustine
Take it with you when you go

On rented motorcycles
Over red clay hills we flew
Drank retsina, nibbled feta
Sampled saganiki too
A boy who spoke some English
Said once or twice a year
You can see the lights of Africa
When the night is clear

chorus

Nescafe for breakfast
Wine after sundown
Ancient eyes, so sad and wise
The bottle passed around
And the monastery shining
Caiques on the bay
It was the summer of St. Augustine
I kissed you every day

chorus

Here’s to you, bonita
Here’s to living life
Here’s to the spell of love
Kalehnichta, my sweet wife
Islands rising to the sky
Like new loaves of bread
The sun pours down its butter
Come, let’s go to bed

chorus

DL

Take Care Of Your Soul

better days

BETTER TAKE CARE OF YOUR SOUL

Know you can’t hoodwink
The taunt of your instinct
Is stronger than you think
Blacker than black ink
A mystery you can’t control
Nature’s got forces
For spookin’ your horses
Rivers change courses
Ol’ Thomas Moore says
Your bones’ll end up in a hole
Better take care of your soul, boy
Better take care of your soul

Sky King and Roy Rogers
The old trolley Dodgers
Curmudgeons and codgers
Even the odd years
Add to what you can’t postpone
From plateaux to canyons
Birch trees to banyens
Cry over onions
My dear companions
A long road don't always lead home
Look down and you end up alone

Elvis, The Killer
John Cash, Roger Miller
Mickey and Billy
Waylon and Willie
I filled up until I was full
Still I keep turnin'
A pirouette, learnin’
The beast and the burden
I can't get a word in
I push and they tell me to pull
Better take care of your soul, boy
Better take care of your soul

Six o’clock lunches
No pullin’ punches
Playing your hunches
The best come in bunches
Bet what you’re ready to lose
It only gets funny
When you’re out of money
Lemon and honey
And keep on the sunny
You’ll live, boy, it’s only a bruise
And suffering never was news

That ol' cucaracha
Jumped up and gotcha
Soda and scotcha
Ain't askin' a lotcha
Got hot and went out of control
God never praised you
He saw you and raised you
The hand that he draws to
Has given you cause to
Pause and remember your goal
Better take of your soul, boy
Better take care of your soul

Ants on a jam jar
Zeus juice and black tar
Asleep in an old car
A girl on a guitar
Catgut and what did you say?
Hound dogs and great balls
Heaven, hello walls
Road kings and long talls
Hit songs and pitfalls
I can't find the station today
There's a tune I was hoping they'd play

No, you can't hoodwink
The wisdom of instinct
Is stronger than you think
Blacker than black ink
A mystery you can’t control
Nature’s got forces
For spookin’ your horses
Rivers change courses
And ol’ Thomas Moore says
Your bones’ll end up in a hole
Better take care of your soul, boy
Better take care of your soul

DL

Only When We Fall

better days

ONLY WHEN WE FALL

It's only when we fall we find our wings
It's only when we fall we need to fly
In the falling is the knowing
That we are going to die
It's only when we fall we find your wings

It's when we're empty tears begin to fall
It's when we're empty we invite the good
We begin to sing our blood
The songs of brotherhood
It's when we're empty tears begin to fall

Stay awake, my friends, don't go to sleep
Stay awake, for there is no watch dog
Tonight no church nor temple
No mosque nor synagogue
Stay awake, my friends, don't go to sleep

Strip away our pride, wear simple clothes
Strip away our pride, don't hide our love
In the center of the night
There is a light that doesn't move
Strip away our pride, wear simple clothes

The moth beats his wings against the light
The moth beats his wings until he dies
He couldn't get inside
No matter how he tried
He died by going too close to the light

Stay awake, my friends, don't fall asleep
Stay awake, for there is no watch dog
No church nor temple
No mosque nor synagogue
Stay awake, my friends, don't fall asleep

It's when we're empty tears begin to fall
It's when we're empty we invite the good
And begin to rhyme our blood
With the beat of brotherhood
It's when we're empty tears begin to fall

And it's only when we fall we find our wings
It's only when we fall we learn to fly
In the falling is the knowing
That we are going to die
It's only when we fall we find our wings

DL

Troubadour

better days

TROUBADOUR

Nine years of workin' the B-rooms
An agent who don't give a damn
The 2 a.m. chicks, 4 a.m. fix
The 6 a.m. poached eggs and ham
The drive from Nanaimo to Duncan
Worry-lines creasin' my brow
Sick to my gut I ask myself what
In hell am I gonna do now

I don't even know if they were B-rooms. That's what my
agent called them. I called them toilets, because that's what
they smelled like. I worked up and down Vancouver Island
in all kinds of bars, lounges. Some where they listened, some
where they didn't. Most places had a dozen or so regulars,
which is a nice way of saying alcoholics. The kind of folks who,
five minutes after you rocked out on Hey Goodlookin' would
stagger up to the stage and say, "Hey, buddy, could you play
Hey Goodlookin' for me?" It took about that long for the echo
of your performance to reach their brain. They'd buy you a drink.
I always said rum & coke, and had a deal with the bartender
where he'd save the rum and give me the drink money later.

I could've been a contender
I had the songs and the voice
But I stepped on the toes of a couple of those
Who could've offered a choice
I never could bide by the system
The gig it seemed rigged from the start
Every dollar you make is a dollar they take
And they tell you to sing from the heart

I was going pretty good there for a while. Playing six
nights, even putting on Sunday night concerts in smaller
places where folks were willing to pay a higher pop for a
show. I lugged my own sound system around. My agent
would ask me every week if I'd learned how to use that
Rhythm Ace yet, but I didn't want to use that metronomic
gadgetry. Stubborn, I suppose. Of course, the agent got
his cut no matter what. Seemed like just when I had the
rent together, I needed to get the car fixed or something
went wrong with the P.A. or a friend was selling his guitar
and I had to have it.

I quit on a cold Sunday morning
Packed my suitcase and P.A.
Broke the hinge on the door of Room 234
Spit gravel as I drove away
Threw the room-key out of the window
Lit a joint on the Malahat route
Inhaled to the core, drove ten miles before
I let any of it back out

I did quit the business on a bitterly cold Sunday morning
in Duncan, after finishing out at a hotel there that went by
a rude nickname. They had a guy playing in the pub and
me in the lounge. Late on Saturday night, around 2:00 a.m.,
we both had to find the hotel manager in order to get paid.
He was drunk, upstairs somewhere putting a move on a
hotel guest. We finally got him downstairs into his office,
and he told us he'd give us half of what we were due. He
said we both let him down. I told him I was going to separate
his head from his neck if he didn't pay me right now, and he
got my drift. The other guy? The manager asked him if he'd
perform a certain sexual favour to make up for his lacklustre
performance in the lounge. We both grabbed the guy and
flipped open the cashbox, taking what was owed. We split.
I'd already loaded my car with all my stuff, and I spun out
of there knowing I was done, kaput.

A broken E-string on a guitar
Didn't we shake, sugaree
Think of my boy in Sointula
Wonder if he thinks of me
What's it for, why do we do it
What is the scene comin' to
Ain't got a cent, don't know where it went
And the rent is a week overdue

It's true, you know, you can go out on the road for two
weeks, come home somehow without enough money for
the rent. There is a kind of loneliness to living in hotel rooms
that gets expensive. People make mistakes out of loneliness.
You abuse your body some, and you definitely run your soul
down to empty at times. When I got home, I got sick. It was
bronchial pneumonia. Anti-biotics didn't help, so I eventually
went on a lemon juice and cayenne pepper fast. Musicians
don't have medical plans, so you need to find help somehow.
My friend Annie from the racetrack used to come by and visit
after the horseraces were done for the night at the track nearby.
It got so she'd place some bets for me, too. Won $240 once on
a quinella. When I was all done the fast, Annie made me garlic
soup. I think she saved my life that time with that awful soup.
Didn't we shake, sugaree? That's a straight borrow of a line in
a Freddie Neil song I used to sing in those days.

Adios to all the toilets
The people who don't give a damn
The 2 a.m. chicks, the 4 a.m. fix
The 6 a.m. poached eggs and ham
Drivin' the pass south of Duncan
Worry lines deep in my brow
Lighting a butt, I ask myself what
In hell am I gonna do now

It took me a while, but eventually I realized it was the business
that I was allergic to, not the music. A little over two years ago
now, I started playing again, writing again. On my own terms,
for people who love music enough to listen to it. Sometimes, I
break into a song on the radio show, live on the air. That's fun.

DL

Receiving Signals

better days

RECEIVING SIGNALS

You read it all the time, in response to a question about the
creative process, a writer saying, "I don't know how it happens,"
and "It's as if I am a channel." Susie Newbury, Mickey's wife,
said Mick used to talk about there being a radio station out in
space that he tuned into. Mick's biographer, Joe Zeimer, sent
me a video of Mickey talking about songwriting. Mick said no
matter what hour of the day or night, when an idea calls, you
have to answer. Seeing that video has cost me a lot of sleep.

Visiting Disa in Iceland last year it seemed that many people
came from a sort of two-fold consciousness, the surface mind
and the deeper mind. The island itself has steam rising from
geysers everywhere. Their hot water comes from geo-thermal
streams. They heat their houses from these same subterranean
springs. There are something like 16 active volcanoes down inside
their land. Iceland is situated on the faultline where the plates
divide under the Atlantic, half toward Europe, half toward North
America. There are earthquakes all the time offshore, as much
activity below the surface as above. I think it's that way, too,
with the way Icelanders see things. They have more clairvoyants
there than anywhere else on earth. Disa says, "Icelanders dream
differently." I believe that's true.

Some of my songs come from my dreams. The Summer of St.
Augustine is one example. The chorus to that song came out
of a dream, singing itself whole. These experiences carry over
more and more now into my waking hours. I might be driving
in traffic and a line will come singing out of my mouth. Next thing
you know, I've pulled into a parking lot and I'm dragging a pen
across paper. I feel very connected to my Icelandic companion
in this whole process. She is almost halfway around the blue
marble, often awake while I sleep, as I am awake while she
sleeps. The whole experience borders on madness at times.
I've got to be careful to get enough sleep, people tell me.
Sometimes, I think it's the opposite: I've got to be careful
to stay awake longer.

In talking with other songwriters, whether they feel like
they're "channeling" or picking up the "radio station playing
from out in space," it's usually an interesting discusssion. I
think there are songs just waiting for you to find them, be
quiet enough to hear them and invite them in. The Summer
of St. Augustine can be heard in an mp3 format over at http://www3.telus.net/billybob/dougCDs and features my
friend Jonmark Stone on guitar, Marie Rhines on violin, and
Mickey's daughter, Laura Shayne Newbury on harmony vocals
which seem to these ears to come right out of a dream.

DL

River

better days

I shall remain anonymous. I wouldn't feel free
to write otherwise. I think Salam and Gee are incredibly
brave. Who knows, maybe one day I will be too.
You know me as Riverbend, you share a small part
of my daily reality. I hope that will suffice.

RIVER

River called me up, the line was bad
Static ate half of what she said
10 a.m., she was still in bed
In the old part of Baghdad
She said, I hope the street will open soon
Mom needs her seizure medicine
The power's come back on again
Glass man is supposed to come at noon

Ten days without water in the town
A neighbour dug a well in his backyard
You can't go anywhere without your card
Dangerous just to walk around
Once a week I ride off on my bike
To a cafe with a patio
I can show my face there now, you know
It's the best part of the week

River asks me how I'm doing here
I can't complain, I say I'm fine
Another wave of static on the line
I wish her well, in case we disappear
I ask what she needs but she won't say
Foreign parcels rarely make it here
She said something else that wasn't clear
A sentence ending with today

River called me up, we talked a while
Two years today, she said, nothing more
Pieces of the ceiling on the floor
I'm amazed she finds a way to smile
River called me up, the line was bad
Static ate half of what she said
10 a.m., she was still in bed
Morning in Baghdad

DL

This song is a work of recognition, but
also one of imagination. If interested,
you can find Riverbend on the web at
http://riverbendblog.blogspot.com/

Forgetting Takes So Long

better days

FORGETTING TAKES SO LONG

for Henry

He lives out in Pomona, in the shadow of New York
The traffic drives him crazy on the long drive home from work
His habits hang their laundry on the long branch of his skill
Momentum is a foe the day you start to go downhill
A man should never trust a church that uses folding chairs
Your elbows take a beating when you’re falling down the stairs
The boats out on the Hudson, their lights grow awful dim
And the telephone’s not ringing, that’s how I know it’s him

It was only last December when the angels took his love
He hears her raindrop fingers tap the window up above
The coffee on the table and the pack of cigarettes
The spirit humming softly next the roar of his regrets
Come to me, sweet sorrow, keep my body in your clutch
My skin is almost shining and I’m lonely for your touch
He’s walking by the shore now where the bears of memory swim
The telephone’s not ringing, that’s how I know it’s him

The long night is an appetite, it waits for us with knives
The body falls, the spirit calls, the lonely heart survives
The winter light is sullen, those damn summers never last
The days are run by errands done, the sun goes down so fast
John Stewart on the stereo, the knives cut to the bone
July, you’re a woman more than any one I’ve known
The bottle from the pocket clinks against the goblet’s rim
The telephone’s not ringing, that’s how I know it’s him

He kept the nightly vigil, found the mercy after sin
A shaman came to share a drink, a poet named Ailinn
In an old saloon the silver moon still spills its healing light
The jar, the seal, the rock, the wheel, the feeling of the night
Then the awful silence and the banging of the door
Cinderella sweeps the bones from off the hardwood floor
He cannot find the music, but he still recalls the song
Love so briefly finds us, and forgetting takes so long

It was only last December when the angels took his love
He hears the raindrop fingers tap the window up above
The coffee on the table and the pack of cigarettes
The spirit humming softly next the roar of his regrets
Come to me, sweet sorrow, keep my body in your clutch
My skin is almost shining and I’m lonely for your touch
He’s walking by the shore now where the bears of memory swim
The telephone’s not ringing, that’s how I know it’s him

DL

Better Days Episode 162

better days

BETTER DAYS : EPISODE 162

Thursday, April 7th 10pm-12am PDT
CFRO 102.7 FM www.coopradio.org

I'll be updating this in the next few days,
but so far all I know is that episode 162
will contain traces of bagpipes... and there'll
be music from a number of Scottish artists.

More as it develops...

DL

http://www.coopradio.org
http://www3.telus.net/billybob/betterdays

Buddha & The Boy

better days

BUDDHA & THE BOY

The moon fits through a needle’s eye
There’s a town beneath the town
The Buddha gambles at the track
He lays a thousand down
When he remembers love he weeps
He's not a face that lies
He picks a horse called Teacher
Remembers love and cries
A boy picked up a piece of wood
It became his neighborhood

Who taught the sun to sit so still,
Put freckles on that girl
Said “gold bricks for Solomon”
Who made the dervish whirl
Who made the earth so slowly turn
Buddha lights a camel
The body hides its sad tattoos
The smile is worn enamel
A boy picked up a two-by-four
It became the corner store

Death will kiss your father’s mouth
Close your mother’s eyes
Your grief will be a messenger
Your wisdom a surprise
Buddha throws his ticket
Like confetti in the sun
The ticket that he ripped to shreds
It was the winning one
A boy picked up a dried-out rose
It became a garden hose

God’s alive, but he sleeps a lot
The full moon is a cake
Each death becomes a birthday
Doves lift up the lake
There's syrup in the maple tree
Sunset in every plum
The Buddha’s at the stable now
With sugar in his palm
A boy opened his mother’s eyes
Reclaimed his father’s words so wise

To find a love become a love
A friend, become a friend
How simple and how troubling
Surrender and descend
The Buddha loves his ice cream
He gives the boy a spoon
So tiny is the needle’s eye
Enormous is the moon
The boy picked up a piece of wood
It became his neighborhood

DL

If One Of Us Gets Lost

better days

IF ONE OF US GETS LOST

I have learned to love the night
My blind girl loves the sun
She can see the dark and feel the light
And hear my spirit run
There's a shortcut through old Hekla's field
The quickest way across
To a ration shack that's well-concealed
If one of us gets lost, love
If one of us gets lost

No way to dance on fishes
No drinking but you're drunk
There's a wine-skin full of wishes
Locked inside my leaving trunk
There's a jar contains the medicine
So old it's sealed with moss
And mercy rains to meet your needs
If one of us gets lost, love
If one of us gets lost

What wisdom gave the rose a thorn
The night rider his cape
Some leave and never do return
In any human shape
There's a little boat we pray comes home
On a mighty storm it's tossed
Use a creature's coat to keep you warm
If one of us gets lost, love
If one of us gets lost

I have learned to love the night
My blind girl loves the sun
She can see the dark and feel the light
And hear my furies run
There's a shortcut through old Hekla's field
The quickest way across
Go, kiss the wound that won't be healed
If one of us gets lost, love
If one of us gets lost

DL

Saint Augustine

better days

SAINT AUGUSTINE

He was a sinner who became a priest
And from his hunger made a feast
The eternal quest, the old complaint
The humbled soul become a saint
From Africa to an old Greek cell
Where Phoenix and Ulysses fell
He said unto the victor's guns
You must spare the vanquished ones
His words so old and clean
Saint Augustine

He bade them spare the temple's grace
Drag no man from his worship place
Are we to punish each offense
And leave no fate to providence
Then ridiculed as merciful
He whispered yet of miracle
Said mercy brings no blasphemy
But cruel acts ever cleave to thee
His words so old and clean
Saint Augustine

We owe it to the God we're with
To drive no man outside his faith
So the ones we deem as wicked see
Our purpose is not cruelty
Some live in fear of every breath
While others die embracing death
The flesh of a saint what's it worth
To those who make graves of the earth
His love so old and clean
Saint Augustine

It is death that builds the road
To the human heart of God
For those who have no tomb exalt
The sky entire becomes their vault
To a father's cloth the son will cling
The daughter weep and rub his ring
Where now is consolation found
Spare a man his holy ground
The prayer so old and clean
Saint Augustine

He was a sinner who became a priest
And from his hunger made a feast
The eternal quest, the old complaint
The humbled soul become a saint
From Africa to an old Greek cell
Where Phoenix and Ulysses fell
He said unto the victor's guns
You must spare the vanquished ones
His words so old and clean
Saint Augustine

DL

Northern Boy

better days

NORTHERN BOY

He grew up in the shadow of an old red barn
He wasn’t good at much but knowing what rang true
He always paid folks back when they did him a turn
Do unto others as they do unto you

He lived within a stone’s throw of the Minnesota line
A big thing was driving south, gettin’ drunk in old Duluth
He went to live in Hibbing, workin’ at the Hull-Rust mine
That black dust the closest thing he ever knew to truth

He tried to live without a star to follow
Had a cheap guitar but never learned to chord
He tried to find the fullness on the other side of hollow
He found a church but never found the Lord

He grew up without family except his Uncle John
Didn’t finish high school and he never had a prayer
He liked the midnight hour a lot more than the dawn
Until his uncle kicked him out of there

He stole a car and headed southward into Minnesota
Found work on the Mesabi Iron Range
He worked fast and went from wage to quota
Learned to make a dollar but never learned to change

He tried to live without a star to follow
Had a cheap guitar but never learned to chord
He tried to find a fullness on the other side of hollow
He found a church but never found the Lord

They gave him a Bible but he couldn’t read the print
Gave him a prayer book that he didn’t understand
He still had a shadow with him everywhere he went
But Jesus never came to take his hand

It was in the cold of winter when the news came in
Ten-word telegram saying Uncle John had died
He packed a change of clothes, headed north again
Things felt a little different when he cried

He couldn’t live without a star to follow
He needed help to make a major chord
He drove north to find a fullness on the other side of hollow
You don’t need a church to know the Lord

DL

The Last Picture Show

better days

THE LAST PICTURE SHOW

In the lane behind the pool hall
Two cigarette-ends glow
The town tonight is black and white
The Last Picture Show
There’s commotion in the shadows
Behind the old high school
Articles of clothing hang
Beside the swimming pool
In the church they sing the gospel
Oil for dried out skin
In the motel off the highway
The traveling salesman
Is with a woman half his age
One he’s never met
She undresses while he sits there
Pulling on a cigarette

A man is filled with distance
Feels more than he can say
By the time he reaches for the words
The feeling’s passed away
It’s work to be that honest
What he’d rather do is play
Talk about his day all night
About his night all day
In the church they reach crescendo
The spirit comin' in
In the motel off the highway
He's where he’s always been
With a woman half his age
In each town, the same
He remembers every body, forgets every name

The wind wrestles with Main Street
Tin signs creak and sway
Sam the Lion locks the pool hall
At the dark end of the day
The voices of the revelers
Are muted now and die
The neon reads No Vacancy
The trucks go wheezing by
At the church they turn the lights out
Echoes of a hymn
Shadow boys retrieve their clothes
Baptized by their swim
In the motel off the highway
He shivers in his bed
A bible sleeps unopened
In the drawer beside his head

The Last Picture Show is over
Salesman turns the tv off
The rooms are full of other travelers
In the dark he hears them cough
He hears the wind outside the pool hall
How it slams the old screen door
He thinks about that young boy sweeping
What the hell’s he sweeping for?
In the morning bells will wake him
People singing to their God
The road is waiting now to take him
There is always one more road
For a man is filled with distance
Feeling more than he can say
By the time he comes to find the words
The feeling’s passed away

DL

Another Sky

better days

ANOTHER SKY

The stores have little left to sell
That isn't old and doesn't smell
No trucks bring supplies
A mother walks in Haifa Street
Searching for some food to eat
Veiled but for her eyes

The birds have emptied all their nests
Hearts so loud in tiny breasts
Gone to another sky
You can scare them just so long
Before they go and take their song
To another sky

They won't come back in the spring
Gone the song they used to sing
Before the war
Each tree hides an empty nest
Leaves are choking on the dust
That wasn't here before

Smoking metal makes us cough
Another car bomb just went off
In the Haifa market
The longest summer now is done
Her children never saw the sun
Safer in the darkness

No one knows when this will end
Who is enemy or friend
Who is wrong or right
Electric wires we use as wicks
To heat the inside of old bricks
To keep us warm at night

At dawn there is no singing heard
Where are you, my little bird
Who used to sing so sweet?
Engines grind, horns they blow
Who is who, we do not know
Today in Haifa Street

The birds have emptied all their nests
Hearts so loud in tiny breasts
Gone to another sky
You can scare them just so long
Before they go and take their song
To another sky

DL

Long Dying Year

better days

THE LONG DYING YEAR

The lies of a long-dying year
Trickle like blood from my ear
Are you hearing what you want to hear?
Meanwhile, the murder goes on
Bankrupted country, battered bald eagle
Spin doctors selling a war that’s illegal
Evil proclaiming its own shadows evil
Meanwhile, the murder goes on

The pattern repeats, it's the business of war
The greedy drop bombs on the backs of the poor
Mothers of soldiers ask why and what for
Meanwhile, the murder goes on
Puppet leaders installed by the CIA
They get upset when he goes his own way
And democracy’s more of a lie every day
Meanwhile, the murder goes on

I love my country, not those in control
With everyday people I share my soul
Do I say what I feel or hide in my hole?
Meanwhile, the murder goes on
I don't want my son as a soldier to toil
Shattering lives on some foreign soil
Spilling young blood for procurement of oil
Meanwhile, the murder goes on

The protection of freedoms, the right to dissent
The great Constitution, who knows where it went
Sold out to business by the President
Meanwhile, the murder goes on
The United Nations has been thrown away
The strength of its voice is silent today
Silent as night in Guantanamo Bay
Meanwhile, the murder goes on

Staged celebrations on network tv
Chant for the cameras, we’ll pay you a fee
It’s mighty expensive pretending you’re free
Meanwhile, the murder goes on
From 9/11 what has been learned
Terror breeds terror, the fire returned
Iraq and Afghanistan bombed out and burned
Meanwhile, the murder goes on

Pity the leaders, how they have lied
Grieve for the mothers whose children have died
If you are killing I’m not on your side
Meanwhile, the murder goes on
We’ve heard the same lies repeated before
In Viet Nam and the Persian Gulf War
Do you think we shall overcome anymore?
Meanwhile, the murder goes on

The lies of a long-dying year
Trickle like blood from my ear
Are you hearing what you want to hear?
Meanwhile, the murder goes on
Bankrupted country, battered bald eagle
Speeches defending a war that’s illegal
Evil proclaiming its own shadows evil
Meanwhile, the murder goes on

DL

A Hundred Mercies

better days

A HUNDRED MERCIES

You work on the heavy bag
Knuckles wrapped in tape
Caught up in the web of youth
Fighting to escape
I watched you eat the darkness
And spit the stars back out
It seemed to me that certainty
Was clouding you with doubt
Open up your hand, my son
There’s something you have missed
A hundred mercies sleep inside
Your solitary fist

You come to me with longing, girl
Your mouth a lonesome bruise
Standing on the stairwell
In your San Francisco shoes
Your father hailed from Athinai
By way of Kingston gates
You listen to the Wailers now
Dance on broken plates
Open your hand, Larisa
I know you hide a rose
The petals fall like bandages
To wrap your bleeding toes

I looked for you in the Bible
I looked in the Qu’ran
Found a handkerchief in Mecca
In Ankor Wat, a fan
At the wall in old Jerusalem
I threw my hat away
Slept at the shrine of Hypnos
Bleeding from the knees
The monks, I heard them giggle in
The Amaravati night
Everywhere your shadow was
The evidence of light

I took the journey backward
Went back beyond my birth
To the oldest written stories
The gods still walked the earth
Gilgamesh and Enkidu
Osiris and Zeus
To the hundred mercies
The first saint of the blues
Sharing tea with Augustine
Anansi came as well
Seems to me that heaven’s just
A tea garden in hell

My son follows the footsteps
Larisa follows, too
Ahead to the beginning
The best that we can do
Is wrap our knuckles deep in tape
Make partner with the blues
Dance with a hundred mercies
In our San Francisco shoes
Open up your hand, my friend
There’s something we have missed
Tomorrow’s map may hide inside
The solitary fist

DL

Storyteller

better days

STORYTELLER

Accept what is beyond belief
Welcome all that's lost
His bag of dreams still wet from streams
The storyteller crossed
He speaks to us of ancient trust
The sea, the sky, the land
The north and south, the east and west
The crossroads in his hand

The stones we gather 'round us
Their mysteries held tight
The sun, the sky, the nest, the eye
The circles turn at night
The growing herd, the rounded word
The curve that tames the line
The wand, the stave, the wind, the wave
The circles, yours and mine

I would not lie, I could not lie
Each face is medicine
The eyebrows and, beneath, the eyes
The lakes of light, the skin
The tribes that travel with us now
Their wheels of fire are blest
By fairy mounds we know the sounds
That ring within our breast

To love as though our love is woe
To share and not to save
The bed and still the bed below
A song beyond the grave
To sing so clear and need no prayer
This is a pagan song
Time so short, the love we court
Is all that makes time long

Wheel of fire, wheel of desire
It burns and never dims
The gods come down and need no crown
Forever are their hymns
A crane bag and a guiding star
For all the souls who sail
Calculations lead to where we are
And mysteries prevail

Accept what is beyond belief
Welcome all that's lost
His bag of dreams still wet from streams
The storyteller crossed
He speaks to us of ancient trust
The sea, the sky, the land
The north and south, the east and west
The crossroads in his hand

DL

Necklace

better days

NECKLACE

I met her when her lovely eyes were clouding darker blue
I'd been lifted by her courage all my life
That day she looked as wise as where hard wisdom takes you to
The road alone had known her as a wife
She said I'm turning sixty soon, and laughed just like a girl
If I were not a stranger I'd have hugged her then and there
Some live their lives in friction and never find a pearl
Conviction is the necklace that they wear
Conviction is the necklace that they wear

I drove her from the airport to the old Barclay Hotel
A truck had lost its cargo and the traffic was a crawl
So I sang a song she'd written, one that served me well
When I was young and half out of control
I told her how that song had been a doctor and a nurse
When my soul was sick, in need of poetry
She said when I recorded that I left out a verse
Then she sang the missing words for me
Then she sang the missing words for me

The police were on the highway waving people by
A flatbed truck was halted in the rain
She said, I wrote that in the Chelsea back in '65
And asked if me if I'd sing the words again
God, I haven't sung that now for almost thirty years
I asked her why, she said it made her sad
We sang the words together then, a necklace made of tears
We never do forget the loves we've had
We never do forget the loves we've had

I dropped her at the Barclay, took her things upstairs
These old hotels, they never change you know
The concert hall half-empty, songs can be like prayers
For those who come and those who do not show
The dressing room was crowded after so I didn't stay
We shared a hug and said our soft good-byes
Some people never show and others never go away
Some feelings always come as a surprise
Some feelings always come as a surprise

I met her when her lovely eyes were clouding darker blue
I'd been lifted by her courage all my life
That night she looked as tired as where hard livin' takes you to
And time alone had known her as a wife
She was turning sixty soon, she laughed just like a girl
The silver had replaced her long dark hair
Some live their lives in friction and never find a pearl
Conviction is the necklace that they wear
Conviction is the necklace that they wear

DL

Parikia

better days

PARIKIA

The road to Parikia
It winds down to the bay
The sun inside the torquoise
The middle of the day
The bike is overheating
The wind is in your hair
We stop into the cafe
The two men sitting there
Breathe out when they see you
Your beauty makes them weep
The place is almost empty
The town is half asleep
A pitcher of ice water
A box of cigarettes
A fisherman's young daughter
Untangling the nets

The hour of siesta
The bouzouki playing low
The speaker by the harbor
Athens radio
The men are playing checkers
The smell of cinammon
Clothesline hung with octopi
The stillness of the sun
Another kind of time here
It's June or it's July
It's loving one another
It's knowing we may die
The hand under the table
Resting on the knee
The old caiques rocking
The rhythm of the sea

A cafe in Parikia
The harbor of the town
The sun upon your forehead
Legs so long and brown
You laugh about Lamia
The women at the feast
If a man is bearded here
They think he is a priest
You clap your hands together
Almost spill my drink
Now you're laughing louder
The checker players wink
I am not a priest of God
I'm not done sinning yet
We order up a bottle
I light your cigarette

The road to Parikia
It winds down by the bay
The sun inside the torquoise
The middle of the day
We rode in from Marpissa
The wind was in your hair
We took an outdoor table
The two men sitting there
We're sighing when they saw you
Your beauty made them weep
The place was almost empty
Parikia half asleep
A pitcher of ice water
A box of cigarettes
A fisherman's young daughter
Untangling the nets

DL