Ripple

If my words did glow with the gold of sunshine
And my tunes were played on the harp unstrung,
Would you hear my voice come thru the music,
Would you hold it near as it were your own?

It's a hand-me-down, the thoughts are broken,
Perhaps they're better left unsung.
I don't know, don't really care
Let there be songs to fill the air.

Ripple in still water,
When there is no pebble tossed,
Nor wind to blow.

Reach out your hand if your cup be empty,
If your cup is full may it be again,
Let it be known there is a fountain,
That was not made by the hands of men.

There is a road, no simple highway,
Between the dawn and the dark of night,
And if you go no one may follow,
That path is for your steps alone.

Ripple in still water,
When there is no pebble tossed,
Nor wind to blow.

You who choose to lead must follow
But if you fall you fall alone,
If you should stand then whos to guide you?
If I knew the way I would take you home.

Written & Performed by the
Grateful Dead

To Maine

To Maine:

A land to which a name has said it all

belying truth as it lies at our feet

and loyal like the hound or baying dog

we strive to act and honor with our feats

As brothers bound by slowly passing time

which leaves so little trace upon this place

and seeking something lost so long ago

escape one moment the endless human race

Water runs forever in decline

yet hope springs eternal in our cheers

life stops its rushing for a while

as jokes and laughs scare off the native deer

Tomorrow we will rest upon the grass

and throw the sacred die into the air

but never will we lay our beers to rest

nor stop the games for rabbits nor a bear.

Worry free and whimsy is the way

the MAINEly brews will surely find their end

when exiting our corpus in a stream

ne'er to be forgot just like a dream...

Camp Relief 2011

Andrew Hicks

Back to Earth

As the plane circled high above Boston's Logan International, the universe was modeled by a vast expanse of clouds. This grey scaled whirling world, full of smooth undulating valleys and the sharp towers of billowing thunderheads which rose, silhouetted against an endless, depthless field of infinite white revealing inside an emptiness from which flicker hints of another universe, much like our own, wherin lives the sun.

Winding around and down into the evolving physics of that vaporous realm, all traces of the sun were spun away and the once glimmering rivulets of rain turned to shade and blocked all meaningful perception of space. Time too was swayed by the ever tightening spirals of the descending plane.

The Boston he returned to was a colder, damper vision of the humidity drenched city from the sticky days of summer. This was his home away from home while away from home. Home resembling now more of a state of mind, a comfortable envelope of relaxation, a healthy active respite from the endlessly revolving carousel that was "routine." Home was the place where spinning ceased and the sun appeared and was appreciated, where the phases of the moon were more than passing glimpses of a far off sphere and seasons were allowed to flourish in all their wild variety.

Light exists at home - and love. Humanity with all its joy and suffering is born at home.

Through the wisps of condensing molecules and in the roar of the jet engines, the suddenly appearing runway lights, through washed out streets, under awnings and umbrellas, it was home he sought more than anything else.

Avalon Pt 3 - Man about town...

Avalon Part 2 - The Present

Avalon Part ! - The History

Smoke filled visions of Lexington, SC

They woke me up with a startling shock which featured the sharp ringing of an emergency bell. Without a fire to attend to, the cops and firemen searched the building and found the culprit to be an over heated piece of toast. The rest of the night, worthless for sleep, leaves only the opportunity to write and reflect in a half conscious state upon the moment that was shared between us all...

Under a cloud of toxic smoke and with the lingering threat of atmospheric thunder claps, the sharp elbowed lances of lightning ring forth across the valley as he stands, silhouetted, holding still despite the gaping eyes of the local rumour mill.

Full of honor and an inflated sense of self destiny, watching desire burn into a distant, steaming pile of shit, he finally grasps that the moment for which he waits is more obscure than those ripened fruits he had held so tightly in his nervous palms as a child.

Sincerely ignoring the way he should stand alone among the masses as they wander the various barrios leaving a trail of sorrowful misconceptions, he laughs at the remaining fog of war...

That being said, distinct carvings have come to define a class of furtive totems (in museums), revealing the passions of sheltered animals and exposing the sacred temples which exist within the shadows of his darkening paws.

We have brought you here and now, today, to find the very values and ideals which have been so close and yet so far from our grasp. I have confronted the ruined remnants of the unforgiving toast and found only blackened truths under an electric web.

We are happy to find ourselves here - happy to look into a neighbors eye and see the tranquil peace blow away the shadows of these long forgotten memories. Happy to ignore the smokey tears which drip ever so slowly from my eyes into the gathering puddle at my feet.

There is no escape from this nuclear event. Here we are as we are:

Tho much is taken, much abides; and tho'

We are not now that strength which in old days

Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are,

One eual temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.

-Alfred Lord Tennyson

While the feathers flutter and scripts are written, as bubbles rise and grass grows greener, we assert a true sense of ourselves. Alas poor Urick, I knew him well, Horatio, a man of infinite jest.

Paz afurea. Hicks 2011.

Princeton

I had the pleasure of spending an afternoon in Princeton, NJ and its environs. Having spent decades taking the piss out of my Jersey-born friends, based on both cultural tradition and the fact that anyone who has driven up the NJ Turnpike knows that it is not only a horrendous P in the A, but it also smells of paper mills and is polluted by the various toxic industries that continue to produce thneeds and other profitable eccentricities.

That, however, is not the case within the township of Princeton. A community of starched collars, khaki shorts and docksiders, of professorial whiskers and giggling coeds, of bourgeois decadence and intellectual intensity, I wandered the streets and arched alleyways for hours.

I also visited the old Canal and learned how it was dug by hand by Irish immigrant workers and at its peak carried more cargo than any other canal in existence. Canals seem to have been a bubble all of their own. An investor bought this one for a price based on total tonnage during its peak year which it never achieved again.

But the true highlight of the night was the opportunity to hear about the tragic life of a local man. Grabbing some grub at Triumph Brewery on the "happening" Nassau Street after speaking with Matty about the farcical state of our media and the rotten financial realities which have weakened our very ability to sustain the society which so many of our ancestors spilled blood for - the home of the free and the brave no more. Still lamenting our transition from a society by the people and for the people into a mechanical, interest perpetuating, consumption driven conglomerate of obedient automatons, I wandered down the long entryway and into the rowdy brew-pub. Seating myself heavily on an available corner stool, my spirits lifted significantly when a simple smiling beauty glided up to me to take my order. With a knowing glint in her eye, she filled a fresh pint and took my order.

Her eyes darted quickly over my shoulder as I felt a hand on my back and the slurred words of another patron. This turned out to be Nick. Nick knew the names of all the cute bartendresses and they knew his. Nick was drunk and irritated because a group of guys had made fun of him and changed the channel from the Bulls game to the hockey playoffs. She consoled him, and he cooed under her caring eye. Carolina, he said, they were mean to me. I know, she said, I know. Don't let them bother you. Do you want another beer? OK. Thank you... Hey, why are you leaving for Barcelona? I'm studying abroad. When? In June, you know that.

This caught my interest, so I cut in, oh, you're moving to Barcelona? I'm going there this summer too. She left to fill his beer.

Turning to Nick, I introduced myself.

She liked you, he said. Do you know her? Why was she looking at you like that?

Taken aback, I laughed, no, no, I just heard her say Barcelona.

She's beautiful, he said.

Yep. I said.

Nick was not only drunk but somewhat developmentally challenged, and despite wanting to be very social, he would get stuck on certain topics and preoccupations - most often relating to Caroline. He was unable to make direct eye contact. He jumped from topic to topic when nervous and always wanted to know where she was. At one point, he said to me in confidence, I have sad stories. Another nervous twitch and searching the bar for Caroline, he downed his beer.

My curiosity peaked, I offered to buy him a beer and asked him to tell me about his life. He perked up, sullenly. Really? you want to know? Of course, i love to hear about people's lives, and you seem like an interesting guy. Are you making fun of me? No. No. I'm just sitting here next to you and you said you have tragic stories and I'm by myself and thought you might want to share. You'll buy me a beer? Sure.

As it turns out, he grew up the son of a wealthy man. Attended Rutgers and went to law school but dropped out as he found it too challenging, but he convinced his father to buy him a beautiful car. Then, his father and mother died. They left him a small fortune. He went to Atlantic city. He lost it all, but not before becoming a man about town with comped everything and playing the high roller tables with Charles Barkley.

At a low moment, the would not let him back on the elevator to his room, and when he went to another casino, they told him to settle up his debts with the first. Having nothing left, he slinked home to his extended family. He tried to work and live a simple life but it was a struggle, and then lost his uncle who left him another fortune. Which he swiftly lost in the same manner.

He has been reduced to taking a train to Princeton to flirt with a girl half his age, getting drunk and being made fun of for his difficulties and then trying to find his way home. He told me a story of being arrested off a park bench and then driven home by the local cops.

I met some other people too, birthday parties, a beautiful Italian grad student on her way to start walking culinary tours of Cinque Terre and the patron of the place whose bushy beard was too stereotypical to be real.

At the end of the night, I saw nick, stumbling down the street to the train station, asking direction from every passing pedestrian, only to forget and ask again. As he wandered into the distance, approaching every gathering along the way, I wondered if he would make it.

I found out, on my way home an hour later, that the train had closed hours ago and that the station was a mile away. He must have known. Like a man speaking of a friend who might jump the bridge, he knew what lay ahead. As he told me, he would probably be sleeping on a bench somewhere before the greasy wheels rode down the rusted rails and took him home along the muddy canal and into the foggy morning, leaving him somewhere out of sight and mind. A soft shadow lingers on our minds, a fading voice from a foggy memory - stifled by his own tragedy, he may never emerge from beneath the eaves of his own experience. We will never see each other again, but we saw each other for a moment, shared a drink and then moved on. I wish him well.

On the way home, the moon shone on open fields and resisted my searching lens, but I was there, and the moment, inescapable, will exist forever.

Golf'in Kentucky Blues

After a Friday meeting with a few hours to spare before my flight back to the Bean, I found myself driving by the entrance to a local golf course. It had been a while since I had played, so I turned in the winding driveway on a whim and spent the next hour walking through the picturesque Kentuckian countryside. Ambling amongst the ponds, creeks and geese which flock to them. I played "Hicks Style" which meant that I wasn't keeping regulation score and was out there to enjoy the great outdoors as manipulated by the human designer. I shot fairly well, but my score would not hold up under rigorous official scrutiny, so I will not post it here.

I located AJ Jolly's course in Alexandria, KY by calling a driving range and asking for recommendations. The structure on the left hand side is the Jolly's house. A family run operation, they knew everyone else by name, and were slightly taken aback when I walked in wearing loafers and asking to rent clubs. That being said, I got sorted out and hit the back 9 in my docksiders and suit. Not my best idea as the whole region has been inundated by record breaking rainfall which resulted in a bit of mud being speckled across every visible surface.
It was a beautiful day to be out there, especially because I was able to walk the course alone and really enjoy the sun, birds and variety of trees and vistas which spread out in KY style around every hole.
It was not crowded which allowed me to do a little self-portraiture and relish every simple stroke (except the two which ended up in the drink...).

FORE!

The course is located about 30 minutes from Cincinnati, on the KY side of the border and is surrounded by a state park of the same name. The major feature is a large lake, which on this particular day, was the color of a twix bar due to the runoff from the incessant rain.
All in all a winner of an afternoon.... Not the Derby, but fun none the less...

Louisville, KY - Underground.

At the Brekinridge Inn just outside of Louisville, there is a hidden secret.
After entering this classic stopover of a bygone era, with its own spa and sauna and long winding corridors, take a sharp right and look for a staircase leading down past some intricate stained glass paneling into...

...the subterranian club of the owner, Jerry Green.

Jerry is a class act who has been performing nightly for over 30 years. I have been to the Brekinridge Inn three times now, and on my most recent visit, I actually had the pleasure of meeting this local celebrity in between sets. Having grown tired of performing for pennies in a dive south-east of the city -the same place for decades- Jerry made the move to invest in himself and in this aging yet ageless classic on the edge of St Matthews, across from the original location of Ruth Chris Steakhouse on top of the tallest building in Louisville.

Every night he lets it rip, and he puts on a great show of mostly covers with his own style and flair. There is no advertising for this clubs existance. There is no fanfare before he walks out. He does not have a trademark gimmick, and yet, night after night he pours out a sweltering mix of funk and blues, stirring the regulars and his transient visitors to their feet in a style reminsant of the greats like Maceo Parker and James Brown. Having seen both of those performers, I feel that I am not using hyperbole. He is solid.

The place is also an offbeat gem. Not withstanding its hidden locale beneath an obscure Inn, far away from any other draws, it manages to charm with its extensive preserved collection of kitch and nostalgia. From boats to signed liquor bottles to old Mickie and Minnie dolls, this place has it all...

And the locals dance the night away as Jerry and his band sweat out the grooves like it was the day the music died...

A highly recommended stop if you are in town. It is an affordable place to stay with affable people and aggressive cocktails which, by the time you are done cutting the rug, will leave you delighted to rediscover that your room is right upstairs.

And who knows, you might be lucky, as I was, to share a cup of joe with Jerry himself as he is going over the capacity and operations with his staff. Just don't ask him to sing outside of the magical realm of his underground speakeasy.

From Atlanta with Luck...

I decided to stay downtown in Atlanta a few weeks ago. It was the beginining of Spring and there were weddings, proms and sports events in the air.
I was looking down from above.
Hearing that there was a Hawks NBA Playoff game in town, I decided to walk to a nearby brew-pub (thanks google!), upon my arrival, I was less than overwhelmed, finding nary a soul, and myself seated next to an overly talky manager...

However, it was a good thing my ears were functioning, beacause they perked right up upon hearing that she had two tickets to raffle. Noticing no one else present, I asked if I might have a chance.

"If no one else shows up, babe. You win."

I ordered a beer and fifteen minutes later I had two NBA playoff tickets.

After changing at the hotel, I made my way down Peachtree to the stadium, sold one ticket and walked into my first NBA game in two decades for free!

It was a blast, and the hawks sealed their entry into the second round. Since then they have been eliminated, but I still have my Hawks towel to wave if I ever come back. Needless to say that all my excitment was erased when the Lakers perished at the hands of the Devlish Dallas Mavericks, but at the very least I have a playoff game under my belt.

Alas poor Lakers, we knew them well, Jackson, a team of infinate skill!

Up to Germantown

I took the train from Philly to Penn Station and then rode the Empire Line up the Hudson Valley from there, arriving in Hudson around 6:30pm. Picked up by the groom and his bride with her father in a big red truck. It was great to see Mike and Caroline as 5 months had passed since they wished me well as I returned to the East Coast from SF after NYE. Hugs all around and then straight to work - a theme of the weekend. One of the best in my life.

After stopping off at Lowe's for some concrete, it was back to the house in Germantown at sunset, where we/they proceeded to finish off the foundations of the tower of love/ marriage gazebo.

Mike was an intrepid site manager and yet retained an incredibly upbeat demeanor despite the constant mistakes of his crew of unskilled laborers which at this point consisted of me and his cousin (cooper), and brother (Ben). Jim, his uncle, an older, more experienced architect, worked under Mike's command with true appreciation for Mike's vision, which for me, at this point, was hard to envision.

Here is mike engraving the foundation with a big "M+C" as a shout out to his phenomenal bride.

From there it was a fun dinner with another cousin (Gates) rolling in late while I was getting to know Caroline's father, Chris as he shared his plethora of sailing stories and some great tips on becoming a more active and better sailor. The night ended with Coop, Gates, Donahue and I all laughing around the fireplace. As I went to bed, I saw a Traveling Willburys cassette and stereo next to my bed. As I used to listen to this same album, day after day, during eighth grade, I put it on. Oddly enough, I couldn't hear it, so I turned it up until I could. This was met with a resounding "HICKS!", opening my door and walking out, I heard a cacophony of sound, as Bob and Tom Petty railed out in their distinctive off-key way... "CONGRATULATIONS!" Everyone else in the house told me to shut up.

At least it was an appropriate word.

This was my bed.

The next day was 12 hours of work - with the corner posts being attached, flooring started and finished, scaffolding being raised and roof attached. During this time, the Bronxsville crew arrived and took care of the banister. Not much was spoken except for advice and commands, questions and answers given. We did our jobs to the best of our abilities. Only a few moments of note beyond the hard work and solid comeraderie. Mike fell of a wet ladder giving us all a scare, and Joey zipped the power line of the router, sending his NY compatriots fleeing to their cars out of fear of death and of Joms wrath. Jim, as always, gave a sardonic quip, and then revealed he had done as much about 10 times throughout his carear as a builder...

After a last minute rigging of a tarp over the tower to prevent rain from disrupting our ability to finish the roof on Sunday, we ate a delicious meal of Caroline's tri-flavored Ribs and despite our food coma, we launched into and aggressive two-hand touch, football game in the lights of the cars in the front lawn - a local tradition dating back decades.

By the time I was forced to leave the next day, we had the general components of the structure complete and some details finished. The rest, alas, was up to Mike...

However it ends up, we love Mike and Caroline and wish them all the best. Many of us will have the opportunity to show this support on Saturday when they are married in a, hopefully, finished version of what you see above. They rock!