BACK TO BLANDFORD
1
The winter storms that hammered us in February
are barely noticeable now, thanks to the
string of 40-50-degree days that comrade
Climate Change has seen fit to bless us
Michiganders with in March.
On Wednesday, I went to the East Grand Rapids
library to write.
I had a great view of Reeds Lake.
It was still frozen over, though there was no one
on it skating or ice fishing.
On Saturday, I went back to the library to write.
I had the same view of the lake, and all the ice
was completely gone.
I then noticed three boats tooling about.
The Climate Apocalypse is going on right in
front of us, and this is how the bourgeoisie
of East Grand Rapids responds.
With that thought in mind, I finish my creative
writing session, and decide it's time to
return to the Blandford Nature Center.
2
There’re still pieces of ice floating atop the swamps,
and they're joined by a few ducks and geese, who
bump into the pieces, sending them floating along
from one set of shadows into the next.
And there's people, as always, jogging solo,
walking, not picking up after their dogs, and the
parents either telling their kids not to do something,
or they try to repeat facts off of the trail signs in
between telling them not to do something.
I pass by a family, and one other kid points at me
and yells “WHAT'S THAT MAN DOING?”
The dad pushes the kid out of the way and says,
“He's just out here exploring, like we all are.”
Semi-Correction to this dad: I've visited this
place so much that I'm pretty sure I've explored
everything—but it would be nice if I was wrong.
3
I visit Blandford's outdoor animals on my way
down to the trail.
Quillber, the porcupine, who's more active than
usual around its pen,
Buddy, the red-tailed hawk, who's facing in such
a way that you can perfectly see the injury on his
wing that has incapacitated him for life,
Luna, the barn owl, who has ALL of this mock,
miniature barn enclosure to hang out in, but who
sits stone-still in her favorite spot, and can either
be seen up front, or through a dirty window on the
side. (There’re also two wildcats, but I never see
them out and about, and for all I know, they might
not be here anymore.)
Spring is coming, and the temps are tying to imitate
summer, and I still see no frogs or minnows in the
stream.
Makes sense, hibernation patterns and other stuff I
know nothing about, but what's up with these flies?
Or any of the other bugs that are just swaggering
about?
Guess we better enjoy or hate them now, before the
Climate Apocalypse turns them into Fallout-size
monstrosities we all live in fear of.
4
I'm trying to stop hating seeing people on these
trails,
especially popular ones they're going to be at year-
around.
Even if it means having to put up with kids
trampling around the fragile brush and waters,
which have signs telling people NOT to trample
on them.
Even if it means accepting the idiots letting their
dogs run wild on everything (though those animals
definitely have more of a right to be here that we
ever will).
Even if it means having to pick up whatever
garbage they leave behind, and gritting my teeth at
the ones who seem to have gone out of their way
to make sure you can't get it without a struggle (the
plastic bag dangling high on a dead tree, or a
Gatorade bottle sticking up in the middle of some
muck).
It would be easier if it was like this rock that’s
jammed into a stump crack, with “I'M STUMPED!”
written on it.
Or the rock sticking out of a busted tree limb
that has “JOY” painted on it.
Or the rock that's painted half red, half green, and
proclaims “ACCEPT DIFFERENCES”.
Just paint rocks, people—I’m cool with seeing that
shit around the forests.
Oh, and benches with personalized decorations and
inscriptions always tug at my heart too (my favorite
at Blandford: one that says “Still Daylight in the
Swamp. My Randy Joe”).
5
I walk up to the entrance to my favorite spot.
With no one in front or behind me, I dash onto
the trail.
I immediately sidestep the thorn bush, which
almost seems like it was placed there specifically
to discourage people from continuing.
The rest of the trail is pretty rough, and would
probably make most people think it was just a
dead-end which they thought was an opening.
Not me, though—I know better, thanks to my
curiosity and my burning desire to escape from
humanity for a quick sec.
I follow the trail and come upon a ridge.
Nothing spectacular—a normal forest setting—
but the bench in front of it is spectacular—finely
crafted, badly weather-worn, and, based on the
location, set up so that only Blandford staff would
know of its existence.
Oh, and me.
I set up my stadium seat, get out my writing
materials, sit down, and stare off into the woods.
All the snow back here is gone, despite the cover
the trees provide.
The wind blows, forcing the skinnier, weaker trees
to bend and snap back.
Some type of small bugs hover about.
I sit there and just forget myself, just be something.
Just sit there and vibe.
Eventually, I get out my notebook, and start writing.
Because I have an awful sense of concentration,
and an overall trash work ethic, I start looking
around again.
In some nearby moss, I spy a lady bug!
A giant lady bug!
Oh, wait, that's obviously a painted rock.
I poke it with a stick to make sure, then pick it up
and admire it.
I put it back in place, and notice an empty package
of Black and Milds among the winter-ravaged
leaves, in perfect condition.
When the Climate Apocalypse occurs, and wipes
us all out and floods these lands, this crap will still
remain, just floating along with the rest of the
debris.
Maybe the rocks will remain, but the art on them
will be long gone.
I put the wrapper in my side pants pocket.
I look around one more time, and spot another
rock.
This one has “FAITH” written on it.
I feel better, and get back to work.
6
I hear crunching behind me.
I turn around, and see a guy coming around the
corner.
“Hey,” I say, going back to my notebook.
“Hi,” he replies.
He looks out across the ridge.
My usual annoyance doesn't surface, and I'm
proud of myself for not giving into those harsh
feelings.
For all I know, he's just like me: out in the woods,
trying to enjoy the world, trying to find some
peace before the Climate Apocalypse.
(He could also be slightly nervous, and hoping I
won't attack him in this isolated, forested area.)
“See ya,” he says, turning around and leaving.
“Later,” I reply, as I continue writing.
7
I don't finish what I was working on.
I pack up, stand, breathe, look around one more
time, and head out.
I pass by a group of deer on my way out of the
woods—eight, possibly ten of them if you count
some shadowy figures.
I wave at them, as if doing so would soothe their
anxiety, or mine.
—Photo Courtesy of Garret Schuelke
LET ME BE FREE ALREADY
Your rent is
$400 per month,
and will likely
increase substantially when
the lease renews.
&
The type of
savings account you
have requires a
deposit of at
least two grand
a month or
you'll be penalized.
&
You handle the
electrical and garbage
bills, which your
housemates do contribute
to, though it's
not guaranteed they'll
pay their share
next month.
&
You know those
rear brake pads
will need to
be replaced next
time you go
in for an
oil change.
&
You need to
keep slamming a
grand every month
onto your credit
card so that
your latest expenses
and past indulgences
don't drown you
in shit.
BUT
When that job is done well before the shift is over—
1, 2, 3pm—, and that supervisor offers you an
opportunity to either continue working in an area
of the warehouse you hate, with people you wish
would swallow fiery shit, all while your stamina
is shot and your blood pressure is making you gasp,
or go home early...
You know you'll
snap that Last
Job scan off
right out of
his hand without
a second thought,
and enjoy the
euphoria and relief
that comes when
the fresh air
hits you as
you walk out
the front doors.
_____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
Writing is a socially acceptable form of schizophrenia.
—E.L. Doctorow
______________________
Garret Schuelke is the author of the GODAN series (Bakunin Incorporated); Whup Jamboree: Stories (Elmblad Media Group); and Anamakee (Riot Forge Studios). He hosts The Garret Schuelke Podcast, and makes music under the moniker Neobeatglory. He currently resides in Grand Rapids, Michigan, and can be found on Twitter at @garretschuelke/. Welcome to the Kitchen, Garret, and don’t be a stranger!
First Church of Poetry meets today at noon in Sacramento at McKinley Park’s rose garden; Poetry of the Sierra Foothills features William O’Daly and Louis P. Jones this afternoon at 2pm; and it’s Open Mic Sunday at the Poets Club of Lincoln, also this afternoon, 3pm. Click on Medusa's UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS (http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html) for details about these and other future poetry events in the NorCal area—and keep an eye on this link and on the Kitchen for happenings that might pop up during the week.
Here is the Mountain Democrat article about today’s reading in Camino:
https://www.mtdemocrat.com/prospecting/poets-to-converge-at-camino-winery/.
______________________
—Medusa
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