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Hello everyone, sorry for my long absence, although to a certain extent I plead innocence.  I usually post something about once a week, which I have slightly behind pace on so far but in my defense I did write out and hit the “post” button for two entries during that time and they never showed on the website.  I’m not sure exactly what the deal is there, but hopefully this post actually makes it out to readers.    The past 3+ weeks have been pretty eventful.  I threw very well throughout minor league camp but am frustrated to once again be back in AA, taking up residence in Midland, TX.  Obviously it is not a situation that I am pleased with, but it cannot be changed and I have resolved to be unflinchingly positive about the experience and not let it ruin my enjoyment of the game.  As if to test my resolve on this point right out of the gates, the shortage of housing caused by a large influx of oilfield workers has left me without a long-term housing solution as opening day dawns.  The process has been agonizing so far, not aided by the fact that a couple times I thought I had resolved the issue only to have plans fall through.  Hopefully something snaps into place soon so I don’t have to go to super-secret option #456: commuting back and forth to my apartment in Phoenix.

In the past this would be the area where I would write about what I have been doing to occupy myself away from the field, but I have precious little to report on that front at the moment.  By the time I wrap things up at the complex, battle rush hour traffic all the way home, and attend to whatever other miscellaneous items need doing I consider myself lucky to sneak in a few pages of reading.  Anyhow, I will call that good for now with the promise to keep you updated throughout the spring, and leave you with the customary poem.

The Uniform

By Marvin Bell

Of the sleeves, I remember their weight, like wet wool,

on my arms, and the empty ends which hung past my hands.  

Of the body of the shirt, I remember the large buttons  

and larger buttonholes, which made a rack of wheels  

down my chest and could not be quickly unbuttoned.  

Of the collar, I remember its thickness without starch,

by which it lay against my clavicle without moving.  

Of my trousers, the same–heavy, bulky, slow to give  

for a leg, a crowded feeling, a molasses to walk in.  

Of my boots, I remember the brittle soles, of a material  

that had not been made love to by any natural substance,  

and the laces: ropes to make prisoners of my feet.  

Of the helmet, I remember the webbed, inner liner,  

a brittle plastic underwear on which wobbled

the crushing steel pot then strapped at the chin.  

Of the mortar, I remember the mortar plate,

heavy enough to kill by weight, which I carried by rope.  

Of the machine gun, I remember the way it fit

behind my head and across my shoulder blades  

as I carried it, or, to be precise, as it rode me.

Of tactics, I remember the likelihood of shooting

the wrong man, the weight of the rifle bolt, the difficulty  

of loading while prone, the shock of noise.

For earplugs, some used cigarette filters or toilet paper.  

I don’t hear well now, for a man of my age,

and the doctor says my ears were damaged and asks  

if I was in the Army, and of course I was but then  

a wounded eardrum wasn’t much in the scheme.

America

by Walt Whitman

Centre of equal daughters, equal sons,

All, all alike endear’d, grown, ungrown, young or old,

Strong, ample, fair, enduring, capable, rich,

Perennial with the Earth, with Freedom, Law and Love,

A grand, sane, towering, seated Mother,

Chair’d in the adamant of Time.

Away from the field much of my time has been spent studying for my two classes, doing some light reading and planning for an offseason trip to Costa Rica with my fiancé.  It really wasn’t a very eventful seven days, but there was one event of note from the past week: I managed to sell another of my paintings.  I am still amazed that anyone has any interest in purchasing anything I produce, but it is kind of cool and provides me the incentive to continue painting from time to time.  Well, that is about all I have for you so I’ll call that good for now and post a playoff update sometime in the near future.

Days

by Ralph Waldo Emerson

Daughters of Time, the hypocritic Days,

Muffled and dumb like barefoot dervishes,

And marching single in an endless file,

Bring diadems and fagots in their hands.

To each they offer gifts after his will,

Bread, kingdom, stars, and sky that holds them all.

I, in my pleached garden, watched the pomp,

Forgot my morning wishes, hastily

Took a few herbs and apples, and the Day

Turned and departed silent. I, too late,

Under her solemn fillet saw the scorn.

I really wish that I had more to report in the way of exciting off-field adventures, but unfortunately I have had a fairly nondescript week.  The most notable event of the past week was packing up and moving out of my apartment and into the team hotel for the duration of my time in Midland, which was exactly as exciting as it sounds.  In the process I did manage to find a number of things I misplaced in the course of my previous cross-country move and sloppy unpacking job, but really there is no part of the experience that I can imagine anyone wanting to read about so I’ll spare you any further details.  Otherwise, I have spent most of my time on buses, studying for one or the other of the two classes I am enrolled in this semester, hop scotching through a library copy of Walt Whitman’s Leaves of Grass (the book that made poetry a relevant part of my daily life), and sketching out what promises to be a painting utterly beyond my technical capabilities and which will have to wait until I get home and unpack my painting stuff.  After stretching myself a little bit for my last painting and having it turn out much better than I had expected (a comment on my expectations rather than my artistic proficiency) I decided to try something even a little more ambitious, but given my overall shortcomings in most areas artistic it promises to be an adventure.  I guess I’ll see once I have the opportunity to try it, but until then I’ll fight the impulse to bore you with more details and sign off until next week.  Until then I will leave you with a few selections from old Walt and hope you enjoy them as I do.

A Noiseless Patient Spider

by Walt Whitman

A noiseless patient spider,

I mark’d where on a little promontory it stood isolated,

Mark’d how to explore the vacant vast surrounding,

It launch’d forth filament, filament, filament, out of itself,

Ever unreeling them, ever tirelessly speeding them.

And you O my soul where you stand,

Surrounded, detached, in measureless oceans of space,

Ceaselessly musing, venturing, throwing, seeking the spheres to connect them,

Till the bridge you will need be form’d, till the ductile anchor hold,

Till the gossamer thread you fling catch somewhere, O my soul.

Among the Multitude

by Walt Whitman

Among the men and women, the multitude,  

I perceive one picking me out by secret and divine signs,  

Acknowledging none else–not parent, wife, husband, brother, child,

     any nearer than I am;  

Some are baffled–But that one is not–that one knows me.  

Ah, lover and perfect equal!

I meant that you should discover me so, by my faint indirections;  

And I, when I meet you, mean to discover you by the like in you.

Clear Midnight

by Walt Whitman

This is thy hour O Soul, thy free flight into the wordless,

Away from books, away from art, the day erased, the lesson

            done,

Thee fully forth emerging, silent, gazing, pondering the

            themes thou lovest best,

Night, sleep, death and the stars.

Away from the field I have been dedicating a lot of time to searching for a job to occupy my time during the offseason.  I have also started working on the two classes I will be taking during the fall semester, but which unfortunately will overlap the end of the season and eat up most of my free time until then.  I have had the opportunity to do quite a bit of reading in Norton’s Anthology of Modern Poetry and a couple of Stephen Dunn books that I picked up recently.  In the interest of being prepared, I have been spending some time planning out my trip home at the end of the season so I can have it done and out of the way and just focus on baseball for now.  I’m trying (mostly unsuccessfully) to work a return trip to Guadalupe Mountains National Park into my drive home so I can hike the Devil’s Hall trail, which I missed out on last time and really want to see.  Hopefully I’ll be able to work it in, but I am not hopeful.  Anyhow, I’ll call that good for now since I don’t have a whole lot to write about and leave you with a couple poems for your trouble.  Enjoy.

Temper

by Beth Bachmann

Some things are damned to erupt like wildfire,

windblown, like wild lupine, like wings, one after

another leaving the stone-hole in the greenhouse glass.

Peak bloom, a brood of blue before firebrand.

And though it is late in the season, the bathers, also,

obey. One after another, they breathe in and butterfly

the surface: mimic white, harvester, spot-celled sister,

fed by the spring, the water beneath is cold.

Graves We Filled Before the Fire

by Gabrielle Calvocoressi

Some lose children in lonelier ways:

tetanus, hard falls, stubborn fevers

that soak the bedclothes five nights running.

Our two boys went out to skate, broke

through the ice like battleships, came back

to us in canvas bags: curled

fossils held fast in ancient stone,

four hands reaching. Then two

sad beds wide enough for planting

wheat or summer-squash but filled

with boys, a barren crop. Our lives

stripped clean as oxen bones.

Away from the field, I have spent the better portion of my time during this homestand putting my affairs in Midland in order in preparation for the end of the season.  While the main focus certainly remains firmly on winning games and making a push towards the playoffs, it is inevitable that we as players face situations in which we also have to plan against a premature end to the season.  Because we have to set up residences in the same way we would have to if we expected them to be permanent–despite the extremely temporary nature of our actual habitation–at the end of the season we as players are left trying to tie off the loose ends of our housing arrangements while still leaving us a roof over our heads.  So with that in mind, I have been making all of the final arrangements for our current apartment and setting us up at the hotel for the duration of our stay in Midland, which will hopefully include a long run through the playoffs.  In addition to mundane tasks such as this, I finally got to take my trip to Carlsbad Caverns and Guadalupe Mountains National Parks on our off day this past Tuesday.  I love being out in the middle of nature with no sounds but those of nature filling my ears and nobody to intrude upon my solitude, which is exactly what I got from this trip.  I started off early enough Tuesday morning to arrive at the Slaughter Canyon trailhead in Carlsbad Caverns N.P. at dawn and spent about three hours hiking Slaughter Canyon trail–encountering two rattlesnakes, various insects, a multitude of spiders and seeing numerous deer and elk prints–before making the strenuous ˝ mile hike up to the entrance of Slaughter Canyon Cave.  The cave itself was an amazing experience.  While it lacks for some of Carlsbad’s grandeur, the lack of trails or lighting made for an amazing experience, especially once we got into the pristine portion of the cave.  After finishing the cave tour, I hiked back to my car, drove 25 miles down the highway to Guadalupe Mountains N.P. and spent the remainder of my afternoon hiking the El Capitan trail, sweating profusely and taking in the beautiful scenery.  The most interesting wildlife experience I took in on the day was on this trail and wasn’t even an encounter with an actual animal (although I did see a couple more rattlesnakes and a few deer), but instead was seeing some mountain lion tracks in dried mud a few feet off the trail.  Pretty cool and a definite incentive to be back before dark.  In any event, it was a much needed break and I would strongly recommend both parks, but I’ll stop myself there before I bore everyone to death.  Until next time, please enjoy the customary poem.

Wood’s Edge

by Brenda Hillman

Infinity lifted:

a gasp of emeralds.

I thought I felt

the tall night trees

between them,

no exactitude,

a wait not even

known yet.

I held my violet up;

no smell.

It made a signal squeak

inside, bats,

lisps of pride;

ah, their little things,

their breath: lungs of a painting,

they swept me

in four ways, their square

plans, as I have made

a good square saying,

you I

you not-I

not-you I

not-you not-I,

ritual of hope

whose weight

has not been measured–

Greetings once again.  I am signing in on the morning of day two of a ten game, eleven day homestand.  The week and a half will be a welcome respite from the road as we make a push through the end of the season and hopefully into the playoffs.  The two upcoming days off will have to be cherished as well, as after this time at home we have 20 games in 20 days to wrap up the regular season, including a return trip from Northwest Arkansas to Midland with no day off for travel.  Anyhow, moving the focus from the future to the recent past, we at the RockHounds are coming off a forgettable road trip.  We pried one game each from Corpus Christi and Frisco, but in a week’s worth of hard fought games we would certainly have liked to take home a few more wins.  However, as it stands we are still in first place in our division with plenty of opportunities left to put space between ourselves and the res of the Texas League’s Southern Division.  Personally, I’ve had three outings since my last entry, running the gamut from poor to good.  The good news is that there are a few easily identifiable and correctable mistakes to be culled from my less stellar outings and some positive things to build on from my good outing.  I have also been throwing pretty well of late, which makes the occasional bump in the road a little easier to absorb.

Away from the field, there hasn’t been a whole lot to report of late.  Other than burying my nose into one of a couple textbooks I’ve been at work on and continuing to hop-scotch my way through the Norton Anthology of Modern Poetry, my main extracurricular has been tending to my plant collection.  I finally replaced my giant sequoia seedling and added a few pitcher plants as well.  Perhaps the development I am most happy about, however, is the germination of all but one of my monkey puzzle seeds while I was gone over the recent week-long road trip.  I also finally tied down the last couple loose ends of the plan for my trip to Slaughter Canyon Cave and Guadalupe Mountains in a few days.  Should be fun and hopefully I won’t get eaten by a mountain lion (just kidding, they are an extremely rare sight and I won’t be there at night when they’re active).  Anyhow, I suppose I should cut myself off there and leave you with the customary poetry (an old favorite of mine). Enjoy.

The Road Not Taken

by Robert Frost

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,

And sorry I could not travel both

And be one traveler, long I stood

And looked down one as far as I could

To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,

And having perhaps the better claim

Because it was grassy and wanted wear;

Though as for that, the passing there

Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay

In leaves no step had trodden black.

Oh, I marked the first for another day!

Yet knowing how way leads on to way

I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh

Somewhere ages and ages hence:

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I,

I took the one less traveled by,

And that has made all the difference.

Away from the field, I spent the past week with my parents and my brother, who drove down to Midland from Minnesota for the most recent string of home games.  I hadn’t seen my mom or my brother since January or my dad since March, highlighting one of the major drawbacks to the minor league lifestyle: the immense amount of time spent away from family and friends.  We managed to take in the Odessa Art Museum, which I was mildly impressed with, but other than that there wasn’t really much time for extracurricular activities unfortunately.  It did prompt me to plan a future visit to the Museum of the Southwest, which I ran into accidentally when I made a few wrong turns on the way to the library the other day.  Other than that I have just been chipping away here and there at the Norton Anthology of Modern Poetry and redirecting my reading time into MCAT study time on the off-chance I decide to take it this offseason to have in my back pocket for the future.  With that, I will leave you with the customary poetry, three short poems in lieu of the standard one, and bid you enjoy.

Because You Asked about the Line Between Prose and Poetry

by Howard Nemerov

Sparrows were feeding in a freezing drizzle

That while you watched turned to pieces of snow

Riding a gradient invisible

From silver aslant to random, white, and slow.

There came a moment that you couldn’t tell.

And then they clearly flew instead of fell.

Fog

by Carl Sandburg

The fog comes

on little cat feet.

It sits looking

over harbor and city

on silent haunches

and then moves on.

The Eagle

by Lord Alfred Tennyson

He clasps the crag with crooked hands;

Close to the sun in lonely lands,

Ringed with the azure world, he stands.

The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls;

He watches from his mountain walls,

And like a thunderbolt he falls.