My Addiction

I admit, I am addicted. There is nothing like the sound of a fast-paced Celtic tune to get the blood pumping! I have always loved listening to Bluegrass, but when you hear the original version of the tunes of the motherland it really stirs something in you. I am talking about listening to a song that makes you want to run, dance and fight at the same time. There are very few songs that are able to strike that chord. The two that I know best come from the Irish and Scottish traditions. One is about rambling and life in general, while the other is of the Jacobite repertoire.

If you need a bit of energy in your day may I present to you the best kick possible:

Rocky Road to Dublin, The Dubliners


Donald McGillavry, Silly Wizard

Neither Fish nor Fowl: Well, Maybe Fowl

As part of my Advanced Composition class today we were supposed to write a Villanelle poem. An excellent example of a Villanelle is Dylan Thomas' "Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night": http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/15377 That poem was always one of my favorites! While my work certainly isn't of that caliber I enjoyed writing it. It may not even be a Villanelle, but it's about duck hunting, so it has to be good! :)

The steel grey skies are dark with wings.
A weather-worn barrel with bird-shot sings.
Chopped ice, cork blocks, gun dogs, cold socks.

A drake swings wide and circles the pool.
My hands are cracked; the wind bitterly stings.
The steel grey skies are dark with wings.

I squawk into the call and sound like a fool.
Snow falls downward like heavenly rings.
Chopped ice, cork blocks, gun dogs, cold socks.

I am coated in ice, pond scum and drool.
My fortune is great as fate rarely brings
the steel grey skies are dark with wings.

I sit here alone on this rickety stool.
I drop my shotgun and add to the dings.
Chopped ice, cork blocks, gun dogs, cold socks.

I sip at my coffee and gag 'cause its cool.
A shotgun shell bounces and pings.
The steel grey skies are dark with wings.
Chopped ice, cork blocks, gun dogs, cold socks.

Footsteps in the Darkness

Footsteps in the darkness,
how fondly I do recall them.
Guided by starlight, inspired by connection;
a conversation sung to the tune of the melody of the night.
Words. Emotions. Revelation.
The stony path unfolds before me,
but only in small strides.
Summer breeze provides refuge,
summer words relate experiences.
Darkness envelopes me;
I am not afraid.
What it hides I do not consider,
what it reveals I cannot deny.
A word here is worth a saga in the day.
Emotion is liberated,
anxiety is repressed.
Lapping waves absolve all troubles.
The potion of moonlight intoxicates my spirit.
Have I said too much?
A drunkard is always a drunkard,
whether be from moonlight or wine.
Words drift like cottonwood seeds in the dusk.
See them flutter, see them alight.
I cast them gaily,
but they always are given at a cost.
Pride.
Night is the slayer of pride.
May the darkness be eternal;
I have too much to say.

On Rifles & Women

One may ask how it has come about that men’s rifles, both sporting and combat, have been given feminine names. To me, to give them anything but a woman’s name would be absurd. Why is this? Because rifles embody women in every aspect. They come in all shapes and sizes, in differing worth, and in varying degrees of utility. But all of this doesn’t really mean anything. The real reason is that a man can fall in love with a rifle, just as he would a woman. This process (for either rifle or woman) very rarely makes any sense at all. I would contend that there exists not only a perfect female companion for each man, but a perfect arm for him as well. Obviously, tastes vary. Some men don’t mind the rough-edges of a woman who barks loudly, drinks too much, but is always there when the nightfall comes. These men buy Mosin-Nagants, or Kalashnikovs. Then again, there are men that don’t mind if a woman does anything but look stunning; even if she takes all that he has, won’t do anything he would like and stays at home more often than not—just as long as she is the hottest thing in the neighborhood. These are the men that purchase Blasers.

Women and rifles both evoke the most fundamental desires of men. To be free, to share experiences, to behold beauty, to connect. Who has more tales? The wife that lived through the Dust Bowl years and wears the sands of time like haggard jewelry or the Winchester 1894 that rode lovingly in the scabbard of some gaunt Texas Ranger? To be frank, it really doesn’t even matter about appearance, function or value. It is in the minutiae that we find rapture: a crooked smile, a shy glance, a wood-grain, the deep blue of polished steel (or her eyes). When a man ignites a rifle, the rifle ignites the man. The same goes for women. Even a painful retaliation (recoil or revenge) is received with open arms. Rifles, like women, are not always joyful though. Some are cold, distant, and impossible to relate to. These rifles (women) serve their own purpose, not to act at the behest of men. Far too often we love them anyways.

It is also true that most men do not know what they want or need in a companion. Perhaps it would be easier to decide on a rifle? Maybe that is the way to find your soul-mate in the first place. Decide on a rifle; then apply it to life! I sound pretty absurd, I admit. But, in this gun-nut/everything-is-interconnected mind of mine it actually makes sense. I personally have been trying to decide on a rifle for quite some time unsuccessfully. What does that say about me? I am getting better though. Let’s break my choice down to the fundamentals. Form over function, but not taken too far; I would like a rifle with good aesthetic appeal that still gets the job done, but it doesn’t have to be a tack-driver. Classic lines; I want something that bespeaks the days of yore, with taste, panache and a good degree of refinement. I can live without the modern contrivances that make everyone else’s head turn. Walnut and blued steel; again tradition reigns supreme (there is a reason why it is classic). Who needs stainless steel and synthetics when you can take care of a classic and it will look twice as good? High caliber; I want a rifle in a caliber that is powerful enough to do anything, whether it be taking down a Cape buffalo or grizzly, but not so powerful that it trounces me every time I set it off.

Much to the chagrin of my fellow gun-nut buddies I have pretty much decided on the Ruger No.1 Medium Sporter in 9.3 x 74R. This drives my buddy Andy crazy. Why? Because wearing a pink tutu to a job interview would be more practical. The rifle is a single-shot, which means you have to be absolutely certain of your first shot. It is also composed of walnut and blued steel; beautiful, but not necessarily resistant to adverse climes. But is so perfect! It is unbelievably handy and is light enough to go with you all day without it weighing you down. 9.3 x74R is an ancient caliber created by the Germans around 1910 to give their settlers something sufficient to deal with the fauna of the newly colonized African scene. The final world here is nostalgia. I am sucker for the whisperings of colonial Africa; of pith helmets, campfires, thorn-bush fences, and khaki. The Farquharson styling of the Ruger No. 1 and the Alexander Henry fore-end are simply too much for me to take!

I am reminded of the young British soldier sludging through the trenches of WWII, the American boy sweltering in heat of Vietnam, and the mujahideen hiding from a Hind behind a boulder. They all had girls, and they all had rifles. The Lee-Enfield named Mary. The AR-15 named Susan. The AK-47 named Badria. What shall I name my rifle and what adventures will we undertake? If I decide on your name I will let you shoot her!

Life in Creek County Oklahoma

Wishing I Were on the Hillside

The prairie grass dances and tickles my side. I sit on the hilltop and look out over the ranch. The increasingly crisp autumn breeze caresses my face as if to say that I am truly home. I pluck a stalk of Indian-grass and place it in my teeth—the flavor of grain and loam completes my sensory euphoria. I am relaxed in my natural haven, yet contemplative. Should there really be more to life than this? I turn and look towards my home. Smoke from the first fire of the year rises lazily from the chimney. Post-oak. I guess Mom is cold already. I’m not. I am perfect. In this moment my very spirit is satisfied. I see the garden, turned, and brimming with stubble. The fresh corn is gone now, but I can still taste it. An ear of corn, and a diminutive quail roasted over coals. Has anyone ever dined so fairly? My eyes shift; my contemplation broken by movement on the horizon. A nervous coyote steals down the hill and towards the timberline. Are he and I so different? He is better at the game of life than I am. No doubt. Coyotes don’t have to make excuses or meet deadlines; coyotes don’t worry about taxes or getting into grad school. Coyotes just exist. They eat, sleep, love, and live. He melds into the brush before we can connect too strongly and I miss him instantly. I have lost a brother. I want to call for him, but I don’t have the words. Do we ever? I howl anyways. I howl about who I am, how I feel, and what I lack. Whitman and I both sound our barbaric yawps over the rooftops of the world. Two doves afflicted by my wail cross hastily over the surface of our pond and alight on the dam. As they flee the sound of their wings makes my heart beat faster; I swing an imaginary shotgun to intersect them and then smile. From the brush I am taught in the linguistics of the wild; a howl emanates from behind a pecan tree. My brother hasn’t forgotten me. I am humbled by his consideration. I dust off my hat and amble towards the oil lamp in the distant window. Life goes on.

Drudgery: An Ailment of the Gravest Severity

"Only boring people get bored!"

How many times have you been told that? If you are like me, you've probably heard it on several occasions. Is it true? I hardly think so. Genuinely interesting people get bored due to circumstance---and that is exactly what is happening to me right now. Don't get me wrong, I like where I am right now in my life. Being a senior at Oklahoma State University has its perks; not to mention the fact that I have two great jobs and a passel of wonderful friends (it goes without saying that my family is amazing, though I don't say that openly enough). But, the reality is, I'm bored. I haven't been "home" in probably a month. That means no hunting, no hounds, no shooting, no archery and no home cooking. Yaarrrrrrggghh. [That was my Chewbacca sound] Because of my isolation, I have developed a short attention span, melancholy attitude and increasing apathetic demeanor. I know that what I am doing right now paves the way for my future, which because of a ever-loving and merciful God, I know will be bright. But, I get so bogged down in the everyday routine. I get up and clean my room, go to class, work and then get home and finish my studies. Then, when I want to socialize it is 12 p.m. That stinks. What's worse is the fact that I realize that once I venture into the "real" world (really, is this world any less real?) that things aren't going to change.

What to do about it? The obvious answer is to increase my social interaction. That's a sound idea. However, I am an unorthodox person. I don't drink and don't like to be around those that are drunk. That excludes from 85% of the social interaction within my environs. Another 10% of that interaction is prohibitively expensive. Another 2% of that interaction involves unreasonable commitments that I am in no position to make. The question is, what is the remaining 3%? I think 1% of that involves researching miscellanea online (Stumbleupon, thou art the devil). But there has to be 2%, a measly 2% somewhere/somehow that is not only available to me, but interesting, rewarding, and productive.

Do people today have deep, meaningful conversations?

That is what I really want. Conversations about the nature of good. About the natural rights of man. About beauty. Where have all the conversations of flavor and depth gone? Are they done only by philosophers in some cold, academic fashion? Is television, sports, celebrities, and decadence all we really have to talk about anymore? Can't we sing without synthesizers? Can't we write poetry to each other? Have we as society really become this shallow? How real are the people we interact with, and how meaningful are those interactions?

Those are tough questions. I don't think most of us are ready to answer them. They aren't comfortable topics---because they reveal something about who we truly are. What is the stuff of our character? Just for once, I want to see people inside-out. I want to know them when I speak to them, not just some silly facade that has resulted from the pressures of society. I would venture to say that we experience, perhaps 1/10th of the richness that is in the character of the people that we interact with every day. What lies beyond the depths? How do we get there?

I always thought that each and every person has a song to sing. They reveal it to very, very few people. But, I know that it is there because I have one in my heart too. Every person sings in a different language, in a different genre, in a different style all their own, but too rarely do we get to hear their words. I think that I have found the solution to my drudgery. I am going to try to get at the very marrow of the people I interact with; and if they don't want to talk about something of consequence, I'll probably just move on.