Follow the Lighted Promenade

Having read every novel by William Faulkner (whom I believe to be the greatest writer ever, by a rather wide margin), I decided to rank them, not from best to worst (for that would be arrogant and pretentious to assume such powers of judgment) but rather from my least favorite to favorite (i.e. utterly subjectively).     I know that this list may well make some Faulkner aficionados (if, indeed, anyone fitting this description happens to read this post) react vehemently, perhaps violently, but such is the subjective nature of Faulkner’s   oeuvre , so to them I say TS, and I don’t mean Eliot. I have always been frustrated by the snooty, dry, collegiate attitude most “intellectuals” have about Mr. Faulkner’s work, and this post is, in some ways, my attempt to reach those who may not have read much of his writing before they are subjected to this.  Having been introduced to WF in college, I went into reading his writing with the idea that he was dry, incomprehen...

    ~ Winter Night in the Mountains ~ The Confusion Range, an obscure mountain range in obscure west-central Utah, is so named for its rugged isolation and confusing topography.  It is surrounded by Snake Valley (to the west), Tule Valley (east), the Great Salt Desert (north) and the Ferguson Desert (south).  The nearest town is Petra, a near ghost town some twenty miles away. Christmas Eve and the wind blowing like pure hell, driving snow before it like pellets from a riot gun.  I light my lantern, exhale hugely for the small thrill of seeing the thick plume my breath makes.  I know that the lantern and my breathing will warm my small A-frame tent soon.  I’m not sure if I’m glad about this or not. I listen.  Is it only the wind that I hear moaning, or is it something else?  Christmas Eve, and I’m not sure of anything anymore, not sure if I hope it is only the wind…or the something else I came here either to flee, or to face he...

I. Autumn falls, silver, in tune Breaking the soporific spell that held us You smell it first on the seaways Then inland, on currents of air On gusts, on plumes – You see it first on the face of the moon A new warmth even as we go cold in its light A new warmth that lasts through myriad cold and dreaming nights My love, I need you to warm me As I, reciprocally, warm you Gaze benevolently down from your heights upon me Cold and sad and missing you Wondering why I shy away when you, in your warmth, come to me A lantern in my frost-breath loneliness To warm me, to hold me Knowing I am alone, regardless, when the ghosts sleep. And. Wondering. Alone. But why?   II.   The mysterious north comes down With smell of ghosts in passageways Stealing inward with a glance I view, afar, the downwind summer days Knowing that I must accept That the season of clouds has gone That the season of light has come It’s the season when days ...

[In honor of the nap I just took in my 18 th floor, air-conned hotel room (and the strange, vaguely terrifying backpacking-related nightmare that accompanied it) I thought it time to put down my thoughts on hiking the Knobstone Trail, Indiana’s longest footpath at over 50 miles.  Usually I’d write 20+ pages on such a trip, but I will endeavor, in the interest of readership, to keep it to one semi-lengthy blog.  Enjoy at thy discretion.] When I met the older couple, late on my fifth day out, I was resting, tired after a brief climb but by no means as physically devastated as I’d been.  I’d just had a great lunch stop and had been able to air out my reeking, aching feet, filter water, eat a packet of Saag Paneer with tortillas (beyond delicious) and linger over my map and a cup of mint hot cocoa.  Unlike the previous three afternoons, no thunderstorms were looming.  And, judging by the isobars on my topographic map, the absolute worst of my climbs and dips w...