Ironically, we each hand-held a copy of Gary Snyder's Riprap and Cold Mountain Poems, nothing physically Asian about the guy, nothing "cold mountain" about the sizzling lake shore either.
Hanging out in the pavilion to avoid the Florida afternoon sun, the young men, Ethan, Derek, his brother, Phil, Austin, seemed especially prone to perspiration. Was it the beard? Can't be. Being white? Probably. Made me think of Snowman from Atwood's Oryx and Crake somehow.
We shared from the quasi-Japanese/Chinese, Zen/Buddhist collection, mentioning here and there what would or would not be "beat-like." It's not our fault that we were attempting to get at something, while munching on pita or rice cracker smeared with or without peanut butter; and well, even that attempt, like the deliciously cold plastic-wrapped Koolaid packs, seemed awkward somehow. If there was a sandhill crane, I swear it would have made fun of us. But at any rate, a congregation of black birds flocked, with a particularly blue-feathered one we decided to be the lord of the harem (of crows of course).
I was relieved that we'd eventually found ourselves congregated near the water, even more so when I found myself in it, leaving the dry grass behind. Ethan and I barely said anything. Minutes of rowing went by, he kindly stopped at my noticing the bright red berries growing from some thick bushes. I plucked a sprig. And could already imagine it resting calmly in a bowl of clear water at home. I always do things like this, it's utterly irrational.
Then we saw a few alligators, paused in the glare and full heat of the day, basking in two distinctly contradicting elements. Made me want to go for a swim.
On second round, I went in a kayak, "accompanied" by the professor, which proved to be solitary and communal. I meandered on my own, cutting through bolts of silk, liquid. By the time we rejoined each other, I received some education on two astonishingly gorgeous hydro-plants. I had scooped up a few to sit on the helm so they'd be with me for the remainder of the trip. Picked up a plastic water bottle and glass beer bottle along the way as well, they tried hard to remain motionless at my feet.
I felt like being alone again, and was so on the way back. There were a certain water grass, its middle strand shot up into the air but ending with a graceful nod at the tip, the two strands left and right drooped over instead, creating mirrored half teardrops lying on the side, much like the sine graph squared, with the reflection in the water, the teardrops were completed.
The birds called to me, and while I had resisted them before, being solitary seemed fertile space for indulgence. What I entered, after about a few turns, following the calls, was hinga paradise. In the trees, in the air, resting, mid-flight, silence penetrated by shrill cries, mating calls? It was a massive party, and no one said anything to me.The scent of feathers mingled with excrement overwhelmed the lake and invigorated it.
I sang a song, as I rowed and rowed, similar to the farmers back at home in South China. Water grass here were taller, magnified versions of flooded rice paddy fields.
Hanging out in the pavilion to avoid the Florida afternoon sun, the young men, Ethan, Derek, his brother, Phil, Austin, seemed especially prone to perspiration. Was it the beard? Can't be. Being white? Probably. Made me think of Snowman from Atwood's Oryx and Crake somehow.
We shared from the quasi-Japanese/Chinese, Zen/Buddhist collection, mentioning here and there what would or would not be "beat-like." It's not our fault that we were attempting to get at something, while munching on pita or rice cracker smeared with or without peanut butter; and well, even that attempt, like the deliciously cold plastic-wrapped Koolaid packs, seemed awkward somehow. If there was a sandhill crane, I swear it would have made fun of us. But at any rate, a congregation of black birds flocked, with a particularly blue-feathered one we decided to be the lord of the harem (of crows of course).
I was relieved that we'd eventually found ourselves congregated near the water, even more so when I found myself in it, leaving the dry grass behind. Ethan and I barely said anything. Minutes of rowing went by, he kindly stopped at my noticing the bright red berries growing from some thick bushes. I plucked a sprig. And could already imagine it resting calmly in a bowl of clear water at home. I always do things like this, it's utterly irrational.
Then we saw a few alligators, paused in the glare and full heat of the day, basking in two distinctly contradicting elements. Made me want to go for a swim.
On second round, I went in a kayak, "accompanied" by the professor, which proved to be solitary and communal. I meandered on my own, cutting through bolts of silk, liquid. By the time we rejoined each other, I received some education on two astonishingly gorgeous hydro-plants. I had scooped up a few to sit on the helm so they'd be with me for the remainder of the trip. Picked up a plastic water bottle and glass beer bottle along the way as well, they tried hard to remain motionless at my feet.
I felt like being alone again, and was so on the way back. There were a certain water grass, its middle strand shot up into the air but ending with a graceful nod at the tip, the two strands left and right drooped over instead, creating mirrored half teardrops lying on the side, much like the sine graph squared, with the reflection in the water, the teardrops were completed.
The birds called to me, and while I had resisted them before, being solitary seemed fertile space for indulgence. What I entered, after about a few turns, following the calls, was hinga paradise. In the trees, in the air, resting, mid-flight, silence penetrated by shrill cries, mating calls? It was a massive party, and no one said anything to me.The scent of feathers mingled with excrement overwhelmed the lake and invigorated it.
I sang a song, as I rowed and rowed, similar to the farmers back at home in South China. Water grass here were taller, magnified versions of flooded rice paddy fields.
I wondered what songs grandmother sang when she was a young woman, working in those fields at day.啊啊啊 啊啊啊 Ah ah ah, ah ah ah鸟儿飞 在水面上 Bird fly, on water surface啊啊啊 啊啊啊 Ah ah ah, ah ah ah草儿长 在水面上 Grass grow, on water surface啊啊啊 啊啊啊 Ah ah ah, ah ah ah蓝天浮 在水面上 Blue sky float, on water surface啊啊啊 啊啊啊 Ah ah ah, ah ah ah姑娘划 在水面上 Girl row, on water surface
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