The gadabout letters

If you walk up along Sanitas Valley trail, look down to the right—to the east

and see Boulder, full of people,

some of the wrong kind of people,

or maybe the right people if over–priced housing is your game.

Boulder is weekend warrior mecca of our USA,

over–priced nine–to–fiver's in over–priced pads eating over–priced meals

and when Saturday comes, dig out two–thousand dollar bikes

and ride to man–made trails

take no skill or brain power to navigate,

landscape paths make em tired more than a mile or so.

Boulder is stark–new assembly line four–wheel–drives,

shiny and jeweled, with jet black luggage racks on top,

or ski racks all summer long so your neighbors know you exist,

and part of the clan.

Boulder is rich spoiled youth, go to college in an effort to dodge real schools

and real work—mom and dad pay the bill,

so no matter there.

Boulder is traffic–jammed like the Lincoln Tunnel,

or route 64, no room to move in Taos, New Mexico tourist season.

and the trees and daffodils in Boulder need it.

In Boulder I sit in the back'ard and type out poems,

tonight I don't want this grey and white computer to get rained on—

drips dripping down and leaking under keypad

short–circuting my thoughts about where I live.

right–minded people for right–minded reasons.

We need to build up the archives!—we say,

and the chronicle of higher education says four thousand hours of audio literacy

the Holy Spoken Word makes me wanna cry—

stacked on the shelves

decaying in the years waiting for digital relief to last on till next millennium.
Boulder has Right–minded people doing right–minded deeds,

like MSU paying 3.6 million for spoken word network, available world–wide,

in Streamwood, IL public schools hearing Robert Creeley at Naropa,

or Frank O'Hara, John Ashbery and James Schuyler hollaring wine–twisted metrics

in the Cedar Bar nineteen–sixty–one,

or Kurt Vonnegut at ISU, praising new graduates from all across the states,

confused where they are,

confused where they're going—

they like beer they say, but not a clue more.

Like Jim Carroll one–man–show at University of Montana,

raising caine small room across from the Gallery,

singing acapello rock star lyrics outta NYC basketball hollywood blues,

giggling and harw–ling up in hot white stage lights

at olden–day crab lice, the bum motels, and the band that were not there—

Boulder needs a bar like the Top Hat in Missoula.

Boulder needs an art scene like Wicker Park or Bucktown, Chicago.

Boulder hasn't the old world culture to make neighborhoods what neighborhoods should be.

Boulder likes bubble gum in fantastic and new, trendy rocky mountain fashion flavors.

Boulder's hip in these here parts of Oregon, b'cause maybe right now Hollywood ain't.

If the new NBC blockbuster hit TV sit–com hits, they'll make it in Boulder—
cause they don't make em like they used to,

they don't make em like M*A*S*H*,

they don't make em like BJ and the Bear,

they don't make em like The Courtship of Eddie's Father,

or Mr. Cot–ter,

or Good Times, with the real–world automatic fast–laugh machines—

wholesome and cozy in velour, grade school picture–day dress–shirts, layed–out and fascinated—

blue–light glowing faces, hypnotized by the tube, A–OK, broccolli's on the stove,

when Mom's cookin' dinner—

one more night,

at home, in America.

o9.o8.o1 Boulderado, USA

actually, amigo, im seriously considering a move back to that good–ole place. i have to ride out a lease (or put this place up for sublease) here in boulder.

hows the job scene there these days? i could use a nice chill html or interactive graphics situation that gives me time to float about carefree on the blackfoot from time to time.

take care, tell the familia hello.

be up there soon,
g

first, i wake up to Amia Diorio crying saying this: "that was your brother, said they've bombed New York...." shits going down, i thought, guess we were on full alert.

Amia Diorio tells them "yeah. and they moved out two months ago."

so they go away say thanks and creep all five of them around the fence across the parkinglot.
wondering whats going down.
so, Amia Diorios off to work with backpack across'er back packin one stale piece of pizza from two nights ago and a sweater for the walk home— later, she says "I love you and see you later..." two minutes pass and rapprapp on the door and she's back saying LET ME IN SOMEONE'S GOTTA GUN out here... beat police scanning the area, hands on revolvers looking around sketchy and uncomfortable. five blue uniforms looking up at next door neighbors window.
for some reason after a while then they all went home.

that was it. no explanation at all to anyone looking on.

they just went away.
and wouldnt say anything to anyone.

then the electricity went out on this place THREE times today and finally its back on.

crazy blasted day—

hope things are good there on cornelia. sometimes i wish i was there.

g
good to read your writing again. in the thick of it all, that was wonderful. the writing that is. i havent heard or seen any fighters overhead, but im sure closer to Portland there are. we're only 35 mi or so from DIA so i dont understand WHY i havent seen any. you should get that letter to the daily herald or the tribune, and fast. people need to read more like this now, and less of the regurgitated facts and opinions that continue to cross the airwaves and newspapers once the bulk of the initial facts are known. like now.
i cant stop watching it all either, and been having strange dreams since it all started. one last night of two strangers, older man and younger girl building a small prop plane, a cessna, in our back yard.
the horror i find in all this (aside from whats already happened) is whats going to happen. whoever did this is obvioulsly smart enough, skilled and prepared enough, and has the capabilities to successfully pull off the worst attack on the US in history, murdering possibly 10,000 citizens, within our borders, using our planes and our people as their weapons, that is, of course, aside from their X–acto knives and 'box–cutters'—
they arent sitting around, now, slapping eachother on the back drinking beer awaiting retaliation. no one even knows where these people are, and if it is osama bin laden, he's been at the top of EVERYONES hit list since 1980, and no ones killed him yet, not the Soviets not even Israel whos been shooting from right next door. whos to say these crazy bastards DONT have bombs planted all over OHare, and at the base of the sears tower, or disney world, and downtown seattle? we hit "them", they give the word— no more OHare, and the sears tower, or disney world, and downtown seattle.
this 'snowball' effect is what concerns me. i guess its been a concern of mine for a while. this is from Smokey Mountain Breakdown, written in july—
I drive on words over the radio

and the BBC coming in over the airwaves

old english accents talking of Ireland and the IRA

and the peacetalks in June.

I drive on Middle East newscasts

floating over the ocean to these southeast states

about Palastinian terrorist groups,

the Jirah,

and the conflicts and controversies leading to world war three.

––––––––––––––

no worries about naropa, its a great writing program, maybe for some. but not for me. ill get the MFA thats for sure, but from a more worthwhile institution—like maybe u of montana where i can do multimedia and PAINT as well...not just one of the three. not that naropa isnt worthwhile, just not for me. besides, ive been painting a lot again and a want to do just that.
i dont have a job and running outta money fast. this is another concern right now. its ok, though, like everything else its a temporary situation and soon will pass as well.

more later, going to look for a job.

submit your letter to the papers, email it, itll take you five minutes.
g

hello right back at you... tell me what happened with your bike trip?...

we're stayin in boulder for a while, but not for too long...
oh sail awayyyy old coyoteeee

set sail and sing this soooooong,

im going baaaaaaack to old montanaaaaaa,

to the plaaaace where i belong...

g

Milton Dennison,

Lauren tells them "yeah. and they moved out two months ago."

so they go away say thanks and creep all five of them around the fence across the parkinglot, wondering whats going down.
so, laurens off to work with backpack across'er back packin one stale piece of pizza from two nights ago and a sweater for the walk homeÑ "OK", she says, "I love you and see you later..." two minutes pass and rapprapp on the door and she's back saying LET ME IN SOMEONE'S GOTTA GUN out here... beat police scanning the area, hands on revolvers looking around sketchy and uncomfortable. five blue uniforms looking up at next door neighbors window.
for some reason after a while then they all went home.

that was it. no explanation at all to anyone looking on.

they just went away.
and wouldnt say anything to anyone.

then the electricity went out on this place THREE times today and finally its back on.

not much more to say

right now until morning.
hey kiddo, good to hear from you, im happy you are happy in Chicago. i do love that city but cant seem to get comfortable there lately. when i was at the art institute fully enveloped that was one thing, but....not since. i miss it tho. i miss wicker park, bucktown (NOT "West"-bucktown...heehee), and being close to my family, and that blasted lake too.
i will get the details of your bike trip from portland ME back home when i see you next. i always imagined that long distance biking would be a BIT easier than long-D hiking (and secretly would love to try) but i've been told my ass is too boney and i like the slow mind slow body pace of b-pack on foot path...as you are familiar with as well. im planning a PCT long haul within the next ....hmmm...ahhh hard to say...along with Alaska and all... both within a few years i guess... .....well here's the thing@#$%--- naropa didnt come through as the school i thought it was.... so i dropped the classes and wont be going back... but U of montana in missoula SEEMS to be the one, so we should be going there HOWEVER i have no job right now and we are in a BLASTED lease in BOULDER which as you very well may know is not the cheapest place to live. so we're getting outta here asap and going "Back montana...to the place where i beeeeelong..." (i sung that song to you last letter i believe!" Heehee...)
here's a bit from the book im aworkin on entitled "the String Cheese Diaries— american stories, dharma notes, gadabout letters, highway ramblings and poems from above the tree line"—

(ficticious names have been installed, as an example: "Amia" is Amia Diorio, and so on and so on..)

also, you may prefer to print the following as its a bit lengthy, as well: theres some wierd punctuation due to computer software translations but have no fear,
enjoy—

07.11.01 Stillwater, MN

I planned on getting to a campsite and having a place to sleep at

least one night before the shows which I thought started today, I

was off by a day and now have two full nights to kick around this

river town (right off the St. Croix) and keep myself occupied. Stillwater

is a quiet and very picture-esque kind of town, the kind of town

that could have some wonderful postcards just by standing dead in

the middle of main street and snapping the trusty old 35mm, or going

up on the hill over the bridge coming into town. For some reason,

however, there are none too many to be found, and the ones Amia

picked out for her family look as if they‚ve been sitting in that

wire spindle rack at the corner drug store since 1976. Perhaps they

have, most everything else around here has been sitting for at least

that long.

Croix River and directly across is the west edge of the state of

Wisconsin. I sit on the banks in rocky sand and olden worn lawn chair

near Pappy‚s Music Bar in the marina holding thirty some yachts,

fishers, and row boats. The rolling hills climbing above either side

and framing the river valley hide quaint sandy enclaves dwarfed by

the trees and spotted retiree houses above.
Pappy‚s has a porch full of deck furniture and brightly colored striped

umbrellas near the shady side of the marina, but no one is there.

An inflatable plastic arch reaching perhaps twenty feet at the apex

is significant of a Red Bull beverage promotion of some kind. A street

size banner hangs over main street like inner city New York laundry

lines announcing "Lumberjack Days July 22-27" in commemoration of

the historic pride of this one-time lumber town, or maybe of all

the clear-cutting destruction they‚ve done in this part of the Midwest

alone over the years, a reminder, maybe, to conserve, not destroy.

Car traffic on the iron bridge over to and from Wisconsin is at a

stop. A string of autos, family vans, eighteen-wheelers, and buses

runs end to end and disappears up into the trees. As I was sitting

here a short while ago a cargo rig stacked to the gills with crushed

and compacted automobiles from the wrecking yard, or going to the

wrecking yard, synched to the flat bed came barreling down the hill

out of Somerset headed toward the river. The maximum height on the

bridge‚s cross-supports was obviously much lower than the top crushed

automobile on the front stack of the truck, the driver nearly tore

down the bridge in one crashing effort, but sent twisted mangled

metal soaring through the air at 50 mph, sliding across the concrete,

and splashing into the river with a supersonic audible blast that

knocked me outta my chair, sent the blackbirds fluttering outta the

trees by the hundreds, and must‚ve rattled the St. Louis Arch far

far down the old Mississip. Wondrously, the bridge itself seems undamaged

as I can see it from here, but four or five cars worth of rusty bent

steel is now strewn across the two lane road and no one can get through,

several strolling confused civilians take careful, bashful steps

near the accident site along with the driver of the truck who stands

alone looking down scratching his head. The Stillwater police are

arriving now.

07.12.01 William O‚Brien State Park, MN

guys leaving today?‰ he questioned˜„No‰, I shot back grinning, „we

just got here and we‚re staying for a while...‰ He appeared momentarily

confused and informed me some other folks had just left the same

site Amia and I were now in˜ The smoldering ashes in the fire ring

told me this already, just out of conversation I told him so. „I

didn‚t know they were going to switch teams on me so fast,‰ said

Carl. He told me again he was the campground host and to find him

Œover there‚ if there was anything we needed˜ I laughed ŒOK‚, told

him my name and walked on.

07.13.01 Stillwater, MN (on the St. Croix)
I was thinking last night˜ on the drive up through Eau Claire, Wisconsin

in an attempt to find Somerset˜ about the fire in the camp village

in Lester, Missouri on night three of the shows down there earlier

this summer, and how it easily could have destroyed the entire Mark

Twain National Forest had the ground and trees not been thoroughly

dampened by the constant rains in the days prior to the accident.

I had been sitting on the tailgate of the truck talking and joking˜

laughing mostly with Arendo, a mandolin and harmonica blower up from

Arkansas who was camped out next to us along with some young couple

under their tarpaulin lean-to shanty. It was late into the night

and folks were getting back from the show around then. We were already

there sitting contentedly back in camp village and could feel things

start to stir˜ Before most people got back to their tents and campfires

the village was quiet and serene, a calming place hung thick with

midnight fog. The full moon shone heavily through the rain soaked

haze that caused these tree covered hills, just north of the Ozarks

to appear as if in costume for a short spell, parading as the Great

Smokey Mountains of southern Tennessee, eerie and spooked with the

blue-ness and all.
Arendo finished a sentence something like „∑ and I was so drunk then

I couldn‚t roll a cigarette to save my holy head, so what I did then

was∑‰ and as if on queue a low pitched rumbling explosion filled

the silent night˜ and there was silence no more. I craned my neck

around the back end of the truck to find the entire campsite illuminated

in a hellish red-orange heat. The group of campers next to us˜ kids

really who knew not the first thing about surviving out of doors,

away from their Midwestern suburban nightlife beer cases and state

college fraternity socials˜ panicked, let out piercing caterwauls,

jumping back shouting in confusion about water buckets and what

now to do. The flames reached higher, devouring the thick oxygen

and growing to over twenty-five feet. The base of the flames quickly

spanned twenty-two feet across and showed no signs of slowing, feeding

itself on leaves and fallen twigs that covered the ground beneath

it and reaching to the trees above that at first seemed so high up

and safely out of range.

was now completely engulfed in flames and would surely blow any second.

One of the fools in a dim-witted fit of frustration had used the

gasoline as fuel, pouring it straight from the red metal can onto

open flame, most likely since his rain-drenched firewood would not

burn to his satisfaction˜ and now these were the same fools that

stood around watching, looking at each other then back at the flames

as the entire forest stood in jeopardy.

bucket of water˜ a bucket full of water for a gasoline fire. It seems

most of our third grade teachers were right when explaining never

to throw water on a gas or oil fire (water and oil DON‚T MIX), since

it only causes the flames to spread, ultimately making your situation

that much worse! (This grown man who came running with the bucket

of water and threw it into the base of the flames, I found out later,

is a fire safety manager of some sort on a commercial shipping barge

off the coast of Cape Cod.) Now this beast raged over thirty-five

feet high, and they all just backed up and stared.

the ignition of this fire, it was started un-naturally with a chemical

liquid that has no place in the woods in the first place˜ I was not

going to let it destroy the trees˜ or any of the thousands of people

in it. I picked up the longest, flattest splint of firewood within

arms reach and started digging and throwing wet soil into the base

of the flames. Steve had the same idea at the same moment and as

twenty or so foolish campers˜ most of them from the group that caused

the explosion˜ stood by in horror with hot orange faces glowing guilty

expressions in the night˜ Steve and I kept digging up dirt and throwing

as much as possible over and over until the fire began to slow. Digging

dirt, flinging dirt. Then shrink. Flinging dirt. Then slowly˜ very

slowly, it died.


07.27.01 Lyons, CO
"They're prayer flags, man, Tibetan prayer flags and they blow

strong up in the wind. The five colors alternate (blue— longevity,

white—purification, red—wish fulfilling, green—tara, and yellow—wind

horse) —In the center of each of the flags is the Wind Horse, the

uplifting energy that carries good fortune to all beings—¨


07.28.01 Lyons, CO
I was thinking back on the trip when Rob Voulliard and I were out

for two months—from October through almost Christmas back in ninety-

six—and about how ethereal a season it is to be out and traveling

down through the south and southwest and finally to the Pacific Ocean.

we¡œve set up camp again for three days of bluegrass. The tarpaulins

are up to provide some hot shade and the prayer flags blowing in

the breeze remind me once more of the Himalayas and the mystic possibilities

of the trip to Nepal and Tibet, and trekking through the mountains

there.

solo trip with not much going on but burning concrete highways and

the cornfields of the Midwest. Amia and I tossed our packs and a

tent into his trunk and left my truck in Boulder.

We came across this blessed little town with the Burdene River rushing

along through the valley. The timber is thick here around this old

town, mostly civilized with old, gray hippies, maybe out of San Fran

before it swelled with newcomers and tourists and Fortune 500 corporation

Robots—